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I was sticky in NYC. Continually.
Steam and exhaust and haze and overall mugginess. Sticking to me, attracting smoke from cigarettes and cigars, the occasional joint in the park. The air became thicker as the day went on, the thick sky lowering itself into the streets until it started to rain. The rain released the smell of urine and oil and garbage and pretzels.

It was beautiful.

Noise. So much of it, so many different sounds.
Taxis, buses, subways, feet. Engines revving, horns honking, tires screeching, people yelling, station announcements, babies crying, "Can you spare some change?", whistling, dueling boom-boxes, horses clopping, sirens blaring -- starting over ... blaring again, low boat horns, jet engines, helicopter above, traffic cop's whistle in the street.

It was beautiful.

And then there was the park.
Nestled in the middle of this bustling, moving, breathing animal of a city is a paradise. So green and cool, shaded from the muck hanging in the air. Children and dogs exercising themselves. A juggler, a fire-eater, a guy on a bench. Rollerblades, running shoes, and razor scotters. Sitting on a rock, eating a popsicle, looking up at the tops of the buildings above the tall trees, watching a dog chase a squirrel up a tree, watching the dog's owner chase him through the park, listening to far off city noise, and to a baby, babbling in another language near me.

It was beautiful.

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