I like sitting in an empty apartment with the windows open and my curtains wafting up and down and back and forth as waves of thunder move their way down my block. The cars make so much noise; there is always sound, and I'm reminded that there is much to love about city living -- the convenience, of course, but also the community, the way this place changes from hour to hour. I marvel at the sheer number of people who must live on my single block, how most of us migrate to the river to ride an underground train twice a day; how decades ago, someone decided that was a good idea, and people got to work building something once unimaginable, and so here we are. And yet. Then there is the beach, especially in winter, where the long streets are wide and quiet; the sand, unsifted and lonely. I have a special affinity for deserted resort towns; I imagine if I were a photographer that would be my project -- a global trek, in the off-season, to all the beaches of the world, snapping the extended shadows and peeling boardwalks and abandoned plastic buckets. But I'm not a photographer, and I have a job I love and people and tall buildings and sleek sidewalks I couldn't live without. So here I am, still always splitting my time between the two.

I suppose that's my solution, though it feels entirely too indulgent and yet, oddly, also within reach.

My deep confession is that I don't know where I want to live, so I just keep living here and there and the roads in between. The drive is always nice, at least.