Growing up several miles outside of a small town in the interior of British Columbia, one wouldn’t expect New York City to pulsate on the radar of a ten-year-old, but for me it did. I have had this thing with New York for what seems like my entire life—since I was a kid I had regular dreams about finally making it to that city, and always in the dream I would have the same thought, “I can’t believe I’m actually here.” I don’t think I ever went longer than a few months without having that dream, every time a different situation, but forever the same thought. I travelled a lot during my twenties, and visited upward of thirty states, but it wasn’t until three years ago that I made it to New York—strange, as I had studied maps of the city for so many years that I had the grid committed to memory. At long last the time had come, so I booked a ticket and set off from Vancouver on a midday in April. The flight was mostly uneventful, with the exception of a foul and mysterious odour that wafted through the cabin for a few seconds here and there—I suspected the person sitting in front of me, but because I had the row to myself, a decent movie to watch, and a rumble of excitement inside, I was able to put it out of my mind.

The five hours seemed to take forever, but finally we were beginning our descent. It was a clear night, and after passing over twinkling lights for an impossibly long time, I could start to make out the shape of what I suspected was Manhattan. It was nothing but a sea of lights, a sea of lights, a sea of lights, and then the moment we descended to the magic altitude all of the midtown buildings began to spring up into three-dimensional shapes, like a computer-generated animation. I recognized the infamous skyline, the dark square of the park, the Chrysler building. There was a surge of emotion as in my head I heard the anthem: “I can’t believe I’m actually here.” My eyes welled up, and I felt a shiver, so I reached to the unoccupied seat next to mine for my sweater. As I pulled it away the pillow resting against the back of the seat fell forward, and it was then that I discovered the source of the odour. Someone on a previous flight had barfed on the pillow that sat in the seat next to me during the entire flight. Suffice to say, my attention was quickly diverted from my moony-eyed romance-movie-style window-gazing to getting the hell off that plane—even more so once we got close to the terminal and the central air died down.

Lucky thing, too. The boys in customs might have been a wee bit suspicious of a weepy-eyed goofy grin—and I don’t imagine they’re the type to accept “I can’t believe I’m actually here” as sufficient explanation.