I like New York, but we're just friends.
It's really nice, and it makes me smile. I feel exhilarated when I'm near it. It's gutsy, outgoing, loud - but in an endearing way. It's opinionated and unafraid to stand up for what it believes in. It's quick, constantly two steps ahead. Quirky. Creative beyond belief, humming with energy - and man, can it ever cook! It has its serious side too - smart, innovative. Sometimes it's a little sketchy, and it has its annoying habits. But I love it in spite of the downsides.
But New York, despite its history, and the secrets I know lay hidden just around that corner, or back in that alley, or in that building over there, and the many amazing things that have happened here - despite its many charms, my heart lies elsewhere.
Oh yes, I'll visit. We'll be chums. But I can't help but compare you to the love of my life, and every time you fall sadly short.
A city of layers, stories built upon stories. The air must be thick with ghosts, and yet it's crisp if the weather's nice, or a pleasant misty gloom in rain. I've had people posit that it's the way everyone talks, or that it's such a literary city (poppycock! New York can claim that just as well), or that it's because it's Somewhere Else and not in the good old US of A. These are all things I like about the place, but the reason I love it is something else.
Think about someone you love. Not like, truly LOVE. Now try to think why exactly you love them. You can make a list of attributes or actions, and that's endearing - the sort of thing you see in the dramatic moment at the end of romantic comedies - but that's only part of it. There's just something inside of you that's drawn to something inside of them: like a magnetic force. There's no stopping it, there's no escaping it. It's magic. No - better: it's LOVE.
I love London. It's in my blood. It's in my bones. I'm the steel to its magnet, being tugged at full force.
But for now, me and New York - we're good.