My favorite thing to do in this city is walk around it.  The summer I moved here, when I lived in the no-man’s land of 92nd street and 1st avenue, I would take the subway downtown and exit at Union Square.  Then I’d walk down to Soho (stopping at Bloomingdale’s on Broadway for a bathroom break) and head either east, to Little Italy for pizza and shopping, or–usually–west to the West Village and Magnolia Bakery.  Home of either my breakfast, lunch, or dessert: their buttercream cupcake.  I would take my treasure across the street to one of the benches at the Bleecker Street Park and dive into it while reading a book or watching the kids play.  Then I’d stand up, brush the crumbs off, and walk the whole way home.  Passing through a dozen neighborhoods on the way.  And releasing gallons of sweat onto the non-discount clothes I was wearing at the time (purchased pre-New York, back when I was a student and had tons of money.  From loans).

My more conveniently-located apartment in the Murray Hill/Kips Bay/Gramercy conglomeration of neighborhoods (or Chelsea, if you ask my mom where I live) means less walking to get where I want to go.  But still rich with discrete pockets of life.  So after brunch and a movie with the girls on Saturday, the fifteen-block walk home didn’t take me through double-digits of neighborhoods, but it took me through a few:  Union Square, Irving Place, Gramercy Park, and Murray/Curry Hill.  Where else can you pass through four distinct neighborhoods, each with their own culture and character, on your way home from the movies?  I watched as the scenery changed around me:  tall buildings, businesses and department stores, “Free Palestine” sign-holding protesters, swarms of crowds escaping the subway at each corner; brownstones and townhomes and quaint restaurants and quiet and landmarks of the early twentieth century (not to mention the bar where the BF and I–just F at the time–first hung out and spent hours talking); iron gates surrounding the gravel paths, shady trees, and bursts of flowers that make up the city’s only private park; endless Indian restaurants a block over from endless post-college, beer-pong-playing, bad-decision-making bars.  An entire world in a few blocks, and all I have to do is walk.

And not just an entire world, but my entire world for the last four years, which means these streets are dotted with memories as well as culture.  The BF bar (Revival).  The restaurant where my mom and sister took me for my twenty-ninth birthday (The House).  The wine bar where I had a date with the Italian and we barely understood each other (Vintage Irving).  The sushi place where H. and I had our “book club” while eating outside as Rufus Wainwright walked by wearing what looked like a circus ringleader’s outfit (Choshi).  The block where I stood for an hour and watched Gossip Girl being filmed and realized how tedious and boring acting could be (Irving and 18th).  The spot outside the Gramercy Hotel where I saw Taylor Hicks and thanked him for winning American Idol (seriously).

And I was comforted.  Because one of the things I worry about when I consider leaving New York is how denigrating it will be to my sophisticated city pride to have to return as a tourist.  BUT!  I realized while walking through it that this city will always be mine because of the memories each street holds for me.  I have marked it (only once in the way a dog has…okay, make that twice–the half-marathon in Central Park and New Year’s Eve in Tribeca) and made it so.  It tells my story block by block.  All I have to do is walk.