I have an old lady’s left lung. This story begins in the craziest city on earth – New York City.
I was delighted to be welcomed by an old teddy bear nailed to a telephone pole as I got off the L-train in the heart of Brooklyn. After checking into a hostel that looked like it was out of a horror movie, I found myself on a tour guided by a local beat-boxer showing off endless walls of mind blowing street art seemingly hidden to the world.
With no map in hand and a child-like curiosity in heart I proceeded down the streets of Soho passing by an array of quirky boutiques and eccentric inhabitants and navigated my way through an abandoned public school housing amazing contemporary art. The aroma of steaming hot espressos soon filled the congested air as I stumbled into Little Italy before being greeted by a bucket full of live frogs in Chinatown.
After a delectable overdose of dumplings I found myself with a drink in hand, chatting away to a part-time actor/skater in a posh Chelsea gallery filled to the brim with band posters and obscure ambient music. Following a short run-in with a BMX gang at the local servo and now accompanied by a budding writer and zoo keeper the night ended on a rooftop munching on the greatest pepperoni pizza I had ever sunk my teeth into.
In that moment I was alive and the city had unknowingly intoxicated me to the point of suffocation (literally). I later found out that my left lung had collapsed that day. But I reckon the magic of the city saved me. Now all I have left are vivid memories and an old lady’s left lung.