From the coffeeshop in Little Italy, Manhattan where I am sat, I can see through the windows the crowds of people walking past. I love the way that people in the city are dressed; it looks effortless, but the rest of us know that they’ve spent hours in stores picking out clothes that fit right and time in the morning fixing their jackets so that they look like they were thrown haphazardly over their shoulders. I laugh to myself hearing the snippets of conversation from a woman who is showing around her friend from out of town (“Have you ever been to China? It’s exactly like the streets of Beijing”). I even find the tourists charming; they take so many photos of things because they find them mismatched. When I moved to Chicago, I remember feeling the same way in my poorly tailored pants looking up at the pink buildings right next to the green ones. No one in Plano would have ever let their uniform units diverge so outrageously from the others. I’m grateful for where I grew up, but there’s something undeniable about the way this place feels that makes me never want to go back.