It wasn’t until my third summer in my apartment that I really started enjoying the luxury of a New York City balcony. By balcony, I mean fire escape. But it’s a special fire escape—it has a concrete base so no tightrope maneuver necessary to stand outside my window.
Nonetheless, perched above 97th Street on my very own outdoor space, I get high as my senses happily drive into overload. The sound of Reggae music competes with the birds’ choir. The sun sets beyond Central Park on the West Side as scrubs-wearing hospital employees meander home. The perfect temperature warms my shoulders while a cool breeze blows the hair off my face. The smell of the Mexican restaurant’s fajitas outweighs the smell of detergent escaping through the Laundromat vents.
I spy a small boy blowing bubbles, some of which drift my way—they hover just out of grasp, little halos that float about in this little bit of heaven.
Happiness is finding a place that’s your little accessible heaven on earth and being able to go back there. Anytime.
