All travels are different, and i think that all the trips you go on are supposed to teach you something, about the world or yourself.
I don't really know yet exactly what New York taught me.
Throughout the trip, i felt oddly disconnected with myself.
Almost a sense of unreality, or one long out of body experience.
My last trip had a clear purpose, work.
The one before that, however misguided, was for love.
This one was literally just because.
And because i didn't really know why i was there, at times, i almost felt like i wasn't.
We stayed in an apartment in Brooklyn that was very cold and extremely loud due to some batshit crazy neighbors, so we didn't spend much time there.
Actually the only good thing about that place was Andrew, the guy who lived there, and that was about it.
The area was nice enough, though, and we were within walking distance from our friends and good coffee.
I spent a lot of time just walking.
I'd go to Manhattan with Wendy in the morning and walk with her to the tattoo shop, and then set out to discover the city.
Some days with a destination in mind, mostly café's recommended to me by instagram followers, and some days just armed with my camera and google maps.
We went to clubs and bars, ate amazing food, met some cool people, hung out with old friends, took selfies with our selfie stick, danced, got sweet new tattoos, and generally had a shit ton of fun.
And the city blew me away.
The first day when we took the train from Brooklyn and crossed the bridge, seeing Manhattan from the train for the first time, i felt like i was in a movie.
It looked like a scene from Dark City or Blade Runner, something that couldn't possibly be a real place.
I think i've mentioned before that i love big cities and big buildings.
I like cities that overwhelm me, and New York sure as fuck did.
But i didn't fall in love.
I fell in some deep like, and i can think of a million reasons to go back and visit, but it didn't feel like home to me, the way Tokyo always does, or the way Mexico City did.
At times, the city even made me a bit uncomfortable.
Not in the sense that it scared me, i just didn't always know what to make of it.
It was kind of like hanging out with someone famous you've admired from afar for decades, and not really knowing what to talk to them about.
I felt thrilled to be in the same city as Paul Auster and Bill Murray and Sarah Jessica Parker and Method Man, and at the same time i felt nothing.
It wasn't the city, though, it was me.
Being in this weird stage in my life where i'm so unsure of what to do about myself and my future, traveling without a purpose, other than pure exploration, can feel a whole lot like running away.
When the trip came to an end, both me and Wendy were happy to be home.
Coming home to a place that actually feels like home, a place that's just ours and where we feel comfortable and safe, really minimizes the post travel blues that usually hits me like a ton of bricks the second i set foot in Europe.
Maybe some day i'll figure out what this trip was supposed to teach me, but for now it was just a fun experience, a place i needed to check off the list, and a chance to travel somewhere with my best friend.
And maybe i do travel to run away from reality, but it's a whole lot easier to feel lost out there, than it is to feel lost in your own home sometimes.
I have one more unfinished roll in my camera, but since i'm broke as fuck, i can't afford to just waste the rest of it on random Berlin shots, so it'll be a little longer before you'll see the rest of the New York photos.
Probably not super long though... i'm running away again this week.