welcome home

As I heaved my over-stuffed suitcases onto the sidewalk, zipped up the neck of my hideously ugly puffer coat, and pushed my manky 32-hour-plane-ride hair out of my face, a middle-aged man walking by me looked up and said cheerily, "welcome home!" I was warm with pride - was it, perhaps, that I exuded the confidence and ambition of a seasoned New Yorker? My chic plane outfit was on trend with the off-duty-model that New Yorkers so prefer? Maybe he thought my large sunglasses were hinting at my celebrity status, rather than my two days of sleep deprivation?

Even though, technically, when I arrived in New York yesterday I wasn't returning home but rather starting the terrifying task of building a new life here, in some ways it seemed fitting to be welcomed back to this city that I have loved for so long, even if only from afar. It felt right to be here, so it kind of was like coming home.

As I embark upon one terrifying task, I have decided to take on another - to write letters every day to this city which has occupied my heart and my imagination and my dreams for as long as I can remember. It is a daunting job - New York has been chronicled and re-imagined by writers, poets, historians, and film-makers for centuries. It has been a character in and provided the backdrop for some of the greatest stories ever told. How could my own story ever be enough?

Nevertheless, with my newfound New Yorker ambition and confidence, I dare to dream. To throw my story, my own potentially unoriginal thoughts into the mix of all the others out there. To make a home here.