The Big Apple

I'm not sure why I love New York City so much.

It's certainly not the thick, polluted air, the smell of garbage on the streets wafting from mounds of black garbage bags tossed at the edge of the sidewalk or the ever-present fear of terrorism, crime and corruption.

It has more to do with the click of a hurried woman's heels against the pavement as she walks down Fifth Avenue with an armful of colored bags with rope handles. It's the surge of business men carrying leather briefcases and talking on their Blackberrys who cross a full minute before the crosswalk flashes permission to cross. It's gazing into a restaurant window to see a group of gay men enjoying appletinis and laughing uproariously. It's the dog parks as the only oasis in the concrete playground and the peace that envelopes you when you reach the southern edge of Central Park.

It awakens in me a hurried, energetic spirit that often lies dormant in the depression of a Minnesota winter.

I'm on the plane, 45 minutes from landing at LaGuardia. I'm tired, stressed and a little lonely. But all I can think about is the rush I will feel in the back of a yellow cab heading to Midtown. Looking up to be surrounded by people and buildings and feeling that jolt of exhilaration as the hotel bell hop, complete with a top hat, greets me: "Welcome to New York, miss."