New York used to thrill me. When I found out we were going to swap apartments with a friend of my cousin's on 67th and West End, (behind Lincoln Center)I didn't sleep all that night, I was so excited. But now we're here, the thrill has gone. The city is full of things that are familiar to me - The Gap, Starbucks, Borders books, you can find them all over the world. The streets, the fire hydrants, the metal fire escapes, I know them so well from Law&Order, from NYPD Blue, from all the other American shows I watch. The American accents are the same as those I hear around me in Jerusalem. Basically, it's not new, and it's not exotic. It's actually a little boring.
This also may be because since I was last here a few years ago, I have learned how to thrill myself. No sniggering, that's not what I mean. I'm talking about writing. I'm talking about the buzz I get, the enormous high, from spending an hour completely focused on writing a short story, or on editing a story to make it better. Nothing beats that all-body sensation, that utter satisfaction of the truly creative act, part meditation, part inspiration, part dedication. No wonder New York doesn't do it for me anymore - I have a portable thrill-generator that I can take anywhere. Me. Can't get any better than that.
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