The morning train smelled like wet wool and someone's vanilla latte, oddly comforting. I got off two stops early, deciding to walk the last mile through the warehouse district—one of those spontaneous choices that usually ends up being the best part of my day.
The sidewalks here are a patchwork of old and new concrete. I noticed a corner bodega with hand-painted signs advertising "Best Empanadas in the City" and decided to test that claim. The owner, an older woman with reading glasses on a beaded chain, wrapped three empanadas in brown paper and said, "You come back, tell me if I lied." I promised I would.
Walking and eating is an underrated skill. Most people stop at crosswalks and fumble with their food, or walk too fast and end up with crumbs everywhere. I've developed a rhythm: small bites, steady pace, strategic pauses at shop windows. The empanadas were excellent, actually. She didn't lie.