Standing outside a dark, gothic church, on a granite sidewalk, staring into warmly lit brownstones across the way. A thick sandwich–fluffy white roll and a large chunk of meat, with just a sliver of lettuce and tomato. There are a multitude of small moments, sights, sounds, tastes–that are distinctly New York. The meat-heavy sandwich, the stone sidewalks, the silhouetted skyline, the people passing by, all of it, only here in this place. There will be new sounds, new faces, new smells that will stick to the insides of my nostrils and adhere themselves to my memories–creating with them a new sense of home, a new aura of self. But these things, these belong to New York City alone. These sensations and sights, these cobblestone streets and gas lamps. These are the romantic images of films, the backdrops of prom photo booths–this is the living, breathing snapshot of New York. No late-summer garbage reek can taint this image. No crowded subway car–hands groping, men preaching, women screaming, people begging–can erase this experience. No neighbors’ blaring talk show radio or NYU drunken frat boy, no snowy March day or shit-filled puddles can diminish this sparkle, this brightness, this feeling of belonging and centeredness.

There are two New Yorks: the one you live in and the one you dream of living in.

It’s the latter that breaks your heart. And, that’s the one you imagine you’ve always lived in, that’s the one you remember and mourn after you’ve gone. Even if that New York was really just a figment of your imagination.