The Greenwich Village is unique. It is dirty. It is weird. It is wonderful. I moved to my new home at age 14, and it was like entering a different world. I never liked cities, and I still do not particularly enjoy them, but Lower Manhattan will always have a special place in my heart. People with gorgeous skin tones and hair bleached with psychedelic colors roam the streets. The clothes however, are black. Whether that means heavy, down jackets; acid-washed, ragged jeans; or thick leather jackets, everyone wears the one color. The Village will always have this monochromatic uniform. To me, the color black feels like home. It reminds me of the raw, bohemian, artistic energy that cycles through the Village. It reminds me of the grit, and creativity that the Village was known for in the 1970’s and 80’s. The brown of dilapidated, brick buildings provides me with a sense of home. The iconic, obnoxious, yellow of taxis contrasts beautifully with dark surroundings. The piercing colors of rainbow flags demand respect for all people.

The strange, putrid smells, that are all different, but yet very much the same, remind me of home. Walking my dogs through Washington Square Park makes me feel at home. Staying out late and seeing the fluorescents flicker, as my brother and I munch on Joe’s Pizza reminds me of home.

Sounds of New York comfort me. Hearing my Mom serenade the boss with “Born to Run” feels familiar, and warms my heart. Music from the city reminds me of home. Hearing the sweet bounce of “I’ll be Your Mirror” by The Velvet Underground reminds me of the park, where young couples frolic when the weather is nice. Hearing the twangy “Marquee Moon” by Television reminds me of iconoclastic men and women trying to figure life out in the city. The aggressive music of A$AP Ferg, with pounding, brash beats reminds me of parties at my friends house, and seeing the lights of city buildings blur in my tired eyes in the wee hours of the morning. The Village is a whimsical playground.