patrícia furtado

When I saw Manhattan for the first time, I have to confess, my eyes teared up. As the Puerto Rican shuttle driver brought us out of the Lincoln Tunnel, I pinched myself. The wait was over, my heart was racing: what had been a lifetime long-distance romance was now a real love affair. Silly, I know.

And in fact, those two weeks were amazing. Fantastic, marvelous, awesome, superb, I’m-running-out-of-superlatives, spectacular… I enjoyed every second of walking up and down the big avenues, trigger-happy on my endless supply of camera gigabytes, never a bad moment to be experienced, never even being allowed to feel lonely. Just me and the city, what else did I need to make me happy?

I never suspected that parting would be so hard. Leaving New York broke my heart and left me sighing every time I glimpse that skyline on a film or tv show. I’m aching, I’m mourning, drowning in work and dull weather. And I’m not ready to go through all the photos and memories yet.

To make things worse, New York is everything but a faithful lover. So many return from there with this sickly heart disease, proclaiming their passion at any mention of the city, counting the days to go back for few more moments of adoration. So many return to write beautifully about it, and display photos of every skyscraper, every scene, from every angle.

What chance have I got to say something new? Being in love with New York is such a cliché, I might as well be wearing one of those two-dollar “I heart N Y” t-shirts, isn’t it?

Sure, I’ll get over it, and manage to write about it sooner or later. But hang on a bit. It may take a while before I kiss and tell.