There’s a woman I see nearly every morning. She walks the same stretch of Amsterdam with a coffee in one hand and a paperback in the other (yes, walking and reading at the same time) and she always seems completely absorbed in whatever she’s reading. No phone. No urgency.

She fascinates me.

I’ve never spoken to her, but I’ve made up entire stories about her life. Isn’t that the norm around here?

Her contentment makes me wonder: What if she’s got it all figured out?

What if the dream isn’t the apartment with the terrace or the table at Via Carota? What if it’s the luxury of a morning routine worth waking up for?

I’ve spent years chasing some version of the New York dream. The one with more space. More time. But lately, I’m starting to wonder if the real magic is in the things I almost overlook:

• A hot cup of coffee at 8:13am

• A subway conversation with a stranger that can only happen when I’m not preoccupied with thoughts

• The quiet on Amsterdam before the shops open

That’s what today’s thoughts are about. A softer version of the city. One that feels like home, not necessarily the “dream” I imagined, but the life I’ve built.

I used to think the magic of New York was in the big moments. The rooftop nights. The skyline views. Or finally scoring an impossible restaurant reservation.

Those moments draw so many of us in. But lately I’ve been thinking about the parts of city life that used to slip right past me.

The rhythm of my block. The newspaper guy who nods in my direction every morning. The couple I pass daily walking their dog. The delivery guy who says “nice to see you” because we happen to loop the block at similar times.

I’ve started to notice how different the sidewalk feels depending on the hour. How you can tell it’s almost five without relying a clock, but by the slow shift in energy. Kids walking home, apartment lights flicking on, that quiet buildup before the evening begins.

These things are not dramatic. They wouldn’t make a highlight reel. But they’ve started to matter more.

Caroline is part of it now too. She doesn’t care about the skyline. She notices dogs, tree branches, cracks in the pavement. She watches people more than buildings. As anyone with kids will tell you, being with a baby slows everything down. It’s hard to rush when your walking partner is mesmerized by a pigeon.

And I’ve realized how much of my early New York life was spent chasing something. The version of the city I thought I needed to live. The glamorous version. The one that felt like proof I was doing it right. I made lists. I kept score. I stayed out later than I wanted. I treated New York like something to conquer.

Now I care more about the way the air shifts right before it rains. Or how the couple across the street started packing up the apartment two months before her growing belly made a debut (oddly enough, their departure from our block hit me hard — they moved in the same time we did).

I notice when the bodega guy changes the fruit in the front bins. When the crossing guard near the school waves at Caroline like she’s a regular.

None of it would impress my younger self. But I’ve stopped needing to be impressed all the time.

The version of New York I love right now isn’t flashy. It doesn’t care if I’m interesting. It just asks me to pay attention. To take the long way home.

That’s the version of New York I’m learning to love. Not the one I once imagined, but the one I actually get to live. What a privilege to call this place home.

Cheers,

Antonina