I first met her in 1985. I stayed in Times Square, and with all the neon, the skyscrapers, the energy, and the millions of tourists with their cameras flashing—it was clear that she was the center of the universe. I needed her and decided to move from Sweden. Fast-forward more than 30 years, and I’m still devoted. Yesterday, I was driving over the Brooklyn Bridge and I saw her through the window. She’s like a goddess—eternal, a force of energy. I see her face beneath the concrete.
But she’s not kind. She can be mean, very mean, and fierce and ruthless and demanding. Okay, you’re getting comfortable? She’ll give you a big slap across your face. If you’re not up to her standards, she sits you out. She pushes everyone, almost too far. And she changes every day. You turn a corner and all of a sudden it’s not the same as it was a year before. It’s because only the best of us survive her.
It’s important to leave every so often. Her energy can be too strong. Almost every weekend, I too escape to my country house in Connecticut. We get to the state border and I can hear her silenced behind me. But she’s on my mind while I’m absent. And when I come back, the volume comes up. I’m not talking about the sound, but an emotional intensity. I tell my husband all the time: she is the biggest love story of my life, not you. Do I sound obsessed? That’s okay—I’m used to it.
