I used to peer over the balcony of our fifth-story apartment, reflecting on the Scrabble-like arrangement of the Manhattan sidewalks. Second Avenue intersected with 128th St. for a double word score, while Dyckman and Broadway netted a triple letter points at the Inwood A-line. The Hudson treaded the boundaries of the game board, extending beyond the horizon and becoming one with the tips of skyscrapers. Gazing at the elegant setting sun looming over steel high-rises and stone facades, I tried to conjure up something poetic to describe the innate dichotomy. The bustling city was so aptly a ‘concrete jungle’- the Big Apple skyline met with cascading buildings, swooping under to join distant asphalt streets. The permanence resonated with me. The metropolis was inexplicably ingrained in my soul; it left an indelible impression unable to be swept away by the shores of Aruba, the markets of Bangkok, or the patisseries of Marseille. As a traveler, I have seen the myriad sights that fuse together to form a larger story about a town, city, or even a country. New York City’s story, however, is a lengthy novel, comprised of separate chapters that resemble vignettes. Each one contains an individual account from tourists, shopkeepers, street-performers, food-cart vendors- all the distinct personalities that add a separate ingredient to the clichéd, yet overwhelmingly accurate, melting pot. Yet, it is not simply the respective stories that I remember, rather, it is the unbridled collection of narratives as a whole. It is my home.