New York, New York

I’ve never felt a strong pull toward traveling to big cities. The quiet stillness of the countryside, the way nature invites you to slow down and breathe—that’s always felt more like home to me. There’s something grounding about being surrounded by mountains instead of towers, by chirping birds instead of honking horns.

And yet, if there’s one city that stirs something in me, it’s New York.

There’s a peculiar magic to it. Just like nature, it has a beauty that demands to be captured. People say any photo taken in nature is destined to be beautiful—and I believe the same is true for New York. Each street corner, each block, each building seems to pose, as if aware of the camera’s gaze. Even the chaos—the traffic jams, the rush of commuters, the ever-changing dance of city life—feels like art in motion. It’s a city where the mundane becomes poetic.

Wandering through its avenues is like flipping through chapters of a living storybook. You lose track of time not because you’re busy, but because you’re enchanted. The historical weight of its architecture, the allure of its cultural landmarks—from towering skyscrapers to immersive museums and the graceful arc of the Brooklyn Bridge—all echo a timeless elegance, like sepia-toned memories frozen in time.

If flights were free, I wouldn’t think twice. I’d return to New York, not just to visit, but to rediscover—to see what new layers it might reveal.