Grand Central Terminal
I'm trying to remember the first time I came to New York alone. It wasn't by train, but by bus, and I passed through Penn Station. The first time I passed through Grand Central must have been when I came to interview for a job, calling in sick from a job in Boston, and then shuttling my way south on the train. I spent that night at my friend Ken's apartment who is now, through a simple twist of fate, married to my cousin Irene. We went to the Knitting Factory and saw Henry Threadgill and then walked out into a blizzard. The city was quiet; the cars were trapped under the snow. We had coffee in a small cafe where a clarinetist blew jazz in a corner and watched the heavy flakes through a fogged window. It was probably then that I knew I wanted to move here.