The subway held no wonders for me and the Dunkin’ Donuts breakfast had started the day off on the wrong foot. I mean hash-brown. The wrong hash-brown. Perhaps if I had devoured deviled eggs at the tea room…

The bustle of the the city had vanished. There was no clear pollution in the air, there were crisp breaths in and out of my lungs as I saw middle aged couples jog down their routine paths. How do I know it was a routine path? I had absolutely no discernible idea, it was the place itself, their run looked practiced, worn over. The run had become part of their relationship and for my curious pair of eyes, they were ingrained into a landscape painting of Fort Tryon Park’s slanting path.

Retracing my steps I found myself in a European landscape. An early birth had separated Hudson Heights from its midtown neighborhood brethren and made it the quiet one in the family. And I for one had found my favorite in the family. A welcoming vibe ushered me through its winding walkways and uneven terrain. The family trait of a grid structure was diminished in Hudson Heights and this metropolis as I knew from innumerable movie introductions turned around to reveal an unseen facet… and it was beautiful.

Nestled cozily within the semi-ultra-urban neighborhood lay Dyckman House, peacefully resting as visitors walked by, peering in but unable to quite disturb an old established silence. A blanket of history kept the silence intact as the woman ushered us through it’s hallways and proudly pointed towards the remnants of a life style that led the world centuries earlier. It was beautiful for what it was and the fire crackled a warmth as I imagined a well deserved evening’s rest in the armchair. The weather was in perfect sync to keep things at a cool slow pace, nothing to jump and surprise the bejabbers out of us. The walk was a trip into the past while consistently reminded of the present and the people of New York revealed yet another side to them. And it was beautiful.