Before visiting NYC, I was warned by years of popular media that NYC people don’t give a shit. About you or your feelings or your problems or you as a person. They will step over you, on you, around you if you get in the way. And they’re proud of it, too.

I’ve been to many big cities, all of whom pride themselves on a bit of hospitality and/or indifference. The Southern cities usually portray themselves as old-time, folksy watering holes on top of square miles of concrete and asphalt, and the international ones as peculiarities of their countries. But New York? Fuck you, and you’re welcome.

So, I went out to NYC with some trepidation. Who would I piss off? Whose life would I be thrust into because of some random event? Who would be the characters I was assured existed that would show up in my visit?

It didn’t kind of happen like that.

On day one, I got in and walked the Brooklyn Bridge, starting on the Manhattan side. The day was overcast and not too hot, and the plan was to start getting used to walking everywhere. I was going to cross, find some place to eat, then visit the Brooklyn Library.

So, after crossing, I put in the wrong Brooklyn Library, because yeah. I was directed not to the main branch, but to the Brooklyn Heights branch, which is in the opposite direction. I realized my mistake too far along, but then I happened upon a small park where I decided to sit and recalibrate.

Unbeknownst to me, that small park was dedicated to those who served in the Korean War. My stepdad served in the Korean War.

And this pang hit me, and I sat down, and in Brooklyn Heights, I had a sloppy, snot-nosed ugly cry.I miss my dad, and I know he would have loved for me to tell him about my adventures and everything else going on. I thought of what was, and what is, and just lost it for about twenty minutes.

And, what I was told would happen, did. Hundreds of New Yorkers walked past my blubbering, sobbing mess, and not a fuck, not a care, not a concerned glance was given.

Thanks, New York. You do you.