I lived in New York for maybe three days before I developed a morning routine. My apartment happened to be situated very close to a Starbucks (good for my addiction, bad for my wallet,) where I would grab a coffee and sandwich after waking up. I’d casually throw the sandwich in my bag and walk to the entrance of the High Line down 9th Avenue a few blocks. After finding a suitable bench looking out over the Hudson without much foot traffic around it, I’d pull out my latest read and have my now suitably warm breakfast.

It was during one of these mornings that I was reading and enjoying the summer weather when an older woman and her grandson took the seat next to me, which was a large bench, almost a lounge chair. What struck me as odd was how completely enamored the young boy was that he could put his feet on the bench.

“I’m allowed to get it dirty?” he asked his grandmother, to which she replied “Of course,” with a smile, though she wasn’t really paying attention. Later when she was on the phone with her husband, the boy took the phone and had to tell his grandfather all about how at the park you are allowed to put your sneakers on the bench.

While I was reading and the young boy and his grandmother were talking, a young photographer, probably a student, stopped across the pathway and took our photo. No one seemed to mind. This too stuck out in my mind as today people are so obsessed with their privacy, and photographers can get thrown in jail for taking pictures of public buildings. It was refreshing to see people acknowledge the innocence of a photograph.
I once met a fellow on the internet when I first moved to New York who was almost overly obsessed with his privacy. We chatted and introduced our basic interests and histories. He was originally from Ireland and was here living with his aunt and working for the summer, his first time in America. Even though he gave me his phone number, he wouldn’t tell me his last name. Richard, we’ll call him, said that you couldn’t be too careful. I disagreed, but didn’t tell him so, and simply entered his phone number into my address book as “Richard Ireland”

Eventually we met up one day and walked around Union Square, getting to know each other and chatting as we window shopped the stores that neither of us could even remotely afford. It was a great conversation and we ended the day well with promises of hanging out again. Later that night when I saw him online, he still refused to give me any more personal information, and told me that he would maybe add me on facebook “some day.”

I understand being cautious, but please.