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The idea was simple: watch the sunrise from the Brooklyn Bridge.
Reality had other plans.
Single-digit cold turned our mile-and-a-half walk into an Uber ride.
Still sleepy, I didn’t stop the driver before he carried us clear to the far end of the bridge. We stepped out into the cold, alone, and began the unlit walk back.
About fifty yards ahead, there was a couple.
We had no idea who they were, but knowing they were there slowed my breath just enough for me to notice the first gleam of sunrise reflecting off the Freedom Tower.
The morning softened.
As we hurried across, we were met by a stream of Sephora-worthy folks posing for photos.
We joined in.
After a scrumptious egg-and-chicken-sausage sandwich on a poppy-seed roll (yum), and with hours to kill before the evening’s activities, we went exploring.
The J.P. Morgan Library first—opulent, decadent, red and black walls. Almost theatrical in its wealth. J.P. owned three of the forty-nine Gutenberg Bibles.
Why wasn’t one enough?
Later, at The Frick Collection, the same question hovered. Unbelievable artistic treasures—Vermeer, Rembrandt, Monet.
Accumulated by one.
Left behind.
Walking back, Manhattan Mini Storage signs seemed to flash everywhere.
That evening, I listened as new acquaintances introduced themselves the way we do—by jobs, children’s colleges, neighborhoods, and cars. But as the night deepened, layers were shed.
Titles slipped away.
What remained were parents and grandparents. Writers and artists. Childlike spirits remembering dance moves.
Delightful.
Disarmed.
Simply…divine.
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