The state of New York City, or perhaps the state itself, is one that is often times thought about in literature and books; inspiring art and thoughts. People come from around the world to land in NYC, with hopes and dreams.

I had these, and have them still. But for me, it takes awhile to feel at home, to get into a movement so to speak, a stream, a river, another metaphor for things moving. By the end of my time there a few weeks ago, I wasn’t really ready to stop eating, to stop riding the subway, but most of all I wasn’t ready to stop feeling anonymous. This is the best feeling in the world, and one, for which, I would move to a major city for. You don’t even need to move to one the size of New York, instead, I often take a day train ride to Turin, where I can indulge the side of me that needs some space, some time to reflect, or not; to drink coffee, sit in the sun, eat cous-cous and meander my way through the market, down Via Roma, or though the quadrilateral part of town.

I was thinking of this the other day when I was there. I thought to myself, why do I always follow the same routes through the city? I go to the same places all the time, I never deviate from normal pedestrian paths to anywhere I’m going, despite Turin being one of the most gridded cities in Italy, if not Europe (unbelievable really, its kind of like mini-Phoenix, all streets go north/south/east/west for the most part you can’t get lost). It obviously wasn’t a city that got attacked a lot, or if it did, it was ill-prepared.

Life moves in Italy, during the summer, at a pace that seems uncontrolled. So, next time I’m in Turin, I will walk, uncontrolled, to an unknown destination, just to see what is there, and what is on the way.