The first month I moved to New York as a 21 year-old I was caught in a sudden down pour while jogging.   I was half way around the loop in Central Park when the sky seemed to unzip.  There were no rain drops, no definition, only a curtains of water in every direction.  The luke warm, summer rain seemed to unfurl from the sky in every direction, so dense it was difficult, nearly, to breathe and the sound of it on the pavement was deafening.

But it was Central Park, my first month in Manhattan and the water was a gentle temperature.  What would be miserable a year later was, at that time, nothing short of magical.

When I rounded to West 72nd Street to make my way up to 9th Avenue I stopped at a light.  Still pouring, the typically packed crosswalks were sparce as people took cover in restaurants and covered patios, and as I waited for the light to turn I unintentionally made eye-contact with a stranger, a man about my age who, like me, was laughing at the sheets of rain beating down from the sky.


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