I’m writing this from the sun-drenched patio of an Airbnb in Bend, Oregon. A beautiful place. Quiet. The kind of place you’re meant to unwind in. Hear yourself think. And I’m happy to report that I’m doing just that (well, sort of). I’ve been reading, enjoying long meals, and sleeping in. I’ve reminded myself, many times now, how lucky I am to be here.

But the strangest thing is happening.

I keep thinking about New York.

It’s an involuntary comparison. An invisible measuring stick. I’m inadvertently cataloging differences between my busy city and the idyllic landscape of this charming high desert town.

It’s a strange thing. I have everything I need right now. Hell, in a lot of ways, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be this week. And yet, part of me is just waiting to land at JFK. To reenter the noise, the rhythm, the feeling of forward motion. That undercurrent of urgency I have learned to rely on.

Why is that?

Why do I compare everything to New York, even in the middle of a relaxing week away? Doesn’t this defeat the whole notion of vacation?

Maybe it’s because New York reshapes the way a person moves through the world forever. It teaches you to carry only what you can hold.

When I’m away, I notice I use New York as my internal compass. A reference point for what feels alive. Which places pulse with energy, which ones lull you to sleep. And it’s not always fair. Plenty of places are beautiful and vibrant in ways New York could never be. But New York gets into your system like a song on repeat. It rewires your sense of enough.

The city is tricky like that, isn’t it? I mean, I remember feeling homesick for New York after my first visit. The audacity! As if I had any right to lay claim to such a sacred place.

Now that I’m on the other side of that (New York is my final destination, not a weekend escape or a dream deferred), I’ve adopted its internal clock. I think that’s what I’m noticing this week: how New York continues to move through me, even when I’m not there.

I’ve traveled enough to know this isn’t about superiority. It’s not that New York is better. It’s that it feels most like home to me. It’s the place that makes me feel most like myself.

So I’ll finish my trip. I’ll enjoy the quiet mornings and lazy afternoons. I’ll take the long walks and let myself slow down. But I’ll also keep an eye on my check-in instructions.

Because at some point next week, I’ll step out of the airport and be greeted by friction: the clang of a taxi door, the sharp edge of everything moving at once. And I’ll feel that click. That quiet, internal yes.

There you are.

Cheers,

Antonina