I’ve heard a lot about you. I’ve seen you before in all the movies I’d grown up with and all the news I’ve been told of. Apparently everything happens with you, and everyone in the world wants to be with you.

I first met you as a 12-year-old tourist. You impressed me then, but only because of the Disney shows I remember you in. Beyond Waverly Place and the Suite Life, you were just a combination of syllables with numbered/coloured subway symbols and mustard yellow taxi cabs.

Now, we meet again. I am now 22-turning-23 and I live with you. Well, I’m still figuring out how to live with you (and with myself, too). I left the only city that made me know what home is supposed to feel like (MONTREAL), to be here with you: with your big name and your big dreams.

Dear New York, here are my letters to you. Let me try to understand you while I try to understand myself, too.

Signed, R (1 of the 8,850,001)

r circa 2012 (1 of 52,000,001 tourists)

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letters to this city from a homesick writer who expects a lot from this city — and herself.


Rasha Lama

for the fun of it