The Pizza

Diary Entry: September 8, 2024

I woke to the light pouring through the panoramic window, a view straight down one of Manhattan’s main arteries. The air-conditioned silence of the hotel room was a stark contrast to the roaring city just outside the glass. The high cost of the room felt almost justified by the view alone — a canyon of light and steel, flanked by massive, aggressive advertising screens. It was a space designed to make you feel like the world was yours, the kind of room where you almost expected a beautiful companion to be included in the package, a silent acknowledgment of the price of temporary luxury.

I knew this couldn’t last. The financial bleeding had to stop today. I checked out early, rolling the single yellow travel bag with its wheels running smoothly and headed straight back to Central Park. The previous day’s panic had taught me a harsh New York lesson: securing accommodation here is nothing like Chicago. Booking.com and Airbnb are useless; this city doesn’t seem to tolerate the casual, last-minute rental of private homes.

I walked the park’s perimeter, then cut straight through the green lung of the city, pulling the yellow bag behind me. It was the only genuinely natural thing I had seen in New York, a deliberate dose of nature injected into the hard concrete, perhaps to keep the rest of the city from complaining. Yet, even the park, with its central lake, felt oddly underwhelming. It was nice, but not impressive enough to balance the surrounding megalopolis.

Finally, on the far side, skirting the edge of Central Harlem, I found it: a place that promised an “international nature.” It was exactly what I dreaded, but what my budget demanded: a shared space with two-story bunk beds. I checked in, dropped my bag, and immediately felt the relief of a problem solved, even if the solution was a temporary descent into crowded, transient living.

The rest of the day was dedicated to correction and investigation. I set out to walk the city, determined to take its true measure. I started going back and forth, walking all the way down to Lower Manhattan and the Financial District. I was struck by a surprising realization: the place felt much smaller than its reputation suggests. The colossal, towering images I’d seen in movies and wallpapers made it seem gigantic, but in reality, I could traverse a significant portion of it in a 40-minute walk.

I stood near the shores of the financial district, where the twin towers once stood — a place where the violent history of the recent past felt strangely quiet. From these shores, the city is neatly separated from the canal, and you can clearly see New Jersey, that “lesser living area,” across the water. All along the water’s edge are small parks, where people were running, walking their dogs, and yes, openly smoking weed. It was bizarre. I had read that marijuana here was strictly regulated, and I’d even seen stores shut down for selling illegally, yet here it was, a casual, pungent presence on the waterfront.

I ate dinner tonight at a small corner pizza place. It was run by a chubby, Italian or perhaps Mexican-looking chief and his quick-moving sidekicks. He had every imaginable assortment of pizza, sold by the slice. For the first time, I understood what pizza is supposed to taste like. It was perfection. A simple, cheap luxury. It was so good, I know I will keep going back.

The day ended on a sobering note. As I walked home, navigating the city’s raw underbelly, I couldn’t shake the feeling that New York is an enormous, undercover operation. I never see anyone entering or leaving a house. I genuinely wonder if there are any natives here. It seems everyone is transient, here only to work, living in empty-feeling houses. It’s a city of performance, not domestic life.