It was a cool day in autumn, the brownest of seasons.
The rough wind was in our face, attacking our eyes, making them tear up. The leaves were blowing up and down the yard, their beautiful colors coloring my grandmother’s yard.
It was the type of autumn day that everyone dreams of.
My grandmother then approached us with a typical grandmother smile, the kind that puts a warm feeling into your heart when you see it.
She placed what seemed like heaven on my table: a beautiful, light brown apple pie with the smallest touch of darkness in the center. The overwhelming smell filled my nostrils and forced me to break into a gleaming smile of joy.
I grabbed a long, silver knife and cut into the warm pie. I grabbed a slice and took the biggest bite.
It was utterly horrendous.
This was the same experience I had with New York City today.
All my life, I grew up thinking that New York City was the best place in the world. I thought that I would instantly fall in love with it the moment I saw the tall skyscrapers and the yellow taxis.
Yet, I disliked it all.
I disliked the traffic, the snobby people, and the constant advertisements.
When I took a slice into this New York City pie, I was as disappointed as I was that one autumn day so long ago.
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