My backpack is filled to the brim. Inside, I only have three shirts, a pair of shorts and underwear, topped with more than three kilograms of souvenirs. It has been two years since I last saw my family, so tokens of appreciation are much needed from the anticipated arrival.

I take the 16A bus, the budget option to the airport. It swerves and bends through the little corners of Santry and climbs up to Collinstown, the soft hill where the airport lies as a platform to trans-Atlantic hopes.
With a knot in my throat, I walk through the U.S. customs and immigration Pre-clearance and I am welcomed into the United States before having taken off.
In the late morning, ‘St. Patrick’ heavily lifts off from the runway and climbs through white clouds of snow and sleet before clearing the way for an upwind crossing. Cookies, tea, ravioli with mince, dessert and four movies later, I spot the New England coast shining underneath us, seconds before the airplane nose points down and we start our bumpy descend over Long Island and into John F. Kennedy Airport at Jamaica Bay.

Outside the dated terminal and while riding the AirTran, I try to resemble the moment Kevin McCallister looks over the window for the unmistakable skyline of Manhattan. Not thinking it is Florida this time, I smile and transfer to the subway line A, with the city that never sleeps unfolding in front of me from the moment the doors close. A Jamaican speaks in gibberish English to her son, while a group of three Dominicans laugh and chew on sticky pastries out of a Dunkin Donuts box. Two kids sit next to me wearing school uniforms and look at my backpack with their deep black eyes. I nod and look at a Brooklin that outside embrace me with a line up of car dealerships, Asian shops and restaurants.

An elderly man enters the train as we pull from Jay Street. He hands me neatly folded map of the subway lines and in a heavy London accent welcomes me to Manhattan. He explains the differences between express and local lines, and elaborates in the sights around Central Park with little but sharp stories. I get off at 103rd Street and a blast of freezing wind hits my face. I look up at the tall buildings and my heart skips a beat, I feel like I have just landed in a movie set.

I race through checking into my hotel and barely have time to drop the bags. I grab the camera and walk down Amsterdam Avenue in pure and childish awe. At Broadway, I see the bright signs announcing plays I have heard of since being a kid. I try to cover my face from the wind and enter a diner, devouring on a burger while overhearing a couple of Ecuadorians on video call with Guayaquil.

I reach Times Square and sit down under the light of a red neon. Aggressively beautiful, the lights hit all senses with an information overload, a heart attack perhaps only soften by the snow, now delicately blowing across the boulevard. At Rockefeller Centre, the ice skaters make me dream of a late white Christmas before turning for the long day in the Upper West Side.

‘Explore New York from the point of view of a New Yorker’. I start my days in the Big Apple with a bagel in hand at the noisy platform of 103rd Street Station.
From Jay Street, I climb onto Brooklin Bridge and walk. Each step taking me across the East River in a beat of steps almost as loud as the traffic on the lanes beneath us.
I visit Ground Zero in contemplating quietness, looking up at the Liberty Tower being built high in the pure American spirit. A message of resilience and hope standing tall next to two big voids left by the World Trade Center, now a memorial of peace, remembrance and solidarity.

In Chinatown, I look for the hanged fried ducks staring at knock off stores outside greasy windows and in Little Italy, indulgence comes in the form of a rigatoni served with garlic bread and a Caesar salad.

Beating the cold wind with a venti, I walk by the Flatiron and wonder about the apartment layout inside, later marking my presence at Grand Central, with a visit to the bathroom and the crowded Apple Store.
A stunningly shining 1930s-built lobby reminds me of old King Kong movies, and once a ticket is purchased and a surprisingly short queue is conquered, a jump across a row of closed elevators prelude one of the most beautiful views I have ever seen.
From the 86th floor, the Chrysler building shines like a diamond encrusted in the prettiest engagement ring, Central Park looks an inverted blueprint of voidness against the countless skyscrapers and the cars move like ants in the afternoon rush some 300 meters below me.
The sun vanishes behind Harlem and dyes the New Jersey in orange. I take the elevators when I can no longer feel my hands and sip on a hot chocolate with one of my Irish friends near Madison.

The start of my weekend in New York is saved for one of its most iconic traditions: queue for brunch at Greenwich Village. It is on this bitterly cold Sunday morning that I join thousands of locals and flick through print newspapers and menus until we are assigned a table for a Moroccan-themed feast.
The Village is iconic and photogenic. The setting for legendary sit-coms and movie chases, extending from Chinatown to Chelsea, embedded in the heart of a constantly moving Manhattan, like a child refusing to grow up.
From Hell’s Kitchen, I walk up the High Line to the Garment District and dream of past arrivals, of my aunts once freshly arrived on tourist visas sharing rooms in Chelsea, of the Vietnamese dry cleaner returning from his citizenship ceremony, or the Pakistani taxi driver receiving a green card.

At Macy’s, an oak-scented escalator cackles to customers and at the end of the day, when the breeze punishes commuters across the Manhattan plain, i return to my hotel and place cold wet towels over my frost-chaffed legs.

My last day in New York is both frivolous and solemn.
Frivolous at the hotel checkout, at the walking around the city with a heavy backpack like any other budget tourist. Solemn at the VIP visit to the United Nations with a right to stand at the top of the Assembly Room, at the tea time with the Irish Embassy staff across the road or at the memorable end of the day on the Staten Island ferry, Lady Liberty waving hello and goodbye to close my visit to the Big Apple.

I will never forget stepping outside the ferry and walking Second Avenue. The wind strongly dissipating clouds of thick vapour, the packed buses racing down a frenzy of lights.
Buttery prawns and crab claws lay on the checkered table, an overly-friendly waiter smiles for a hefty tip. I have dinner at Red Lobster with a friend before walking to Penn Station and leave amid bundles of budget travellers assembled around hot dog carts.

Through Holland Tunnel, the bus speeds up Stateside and the skyscraper-lined landscape turns flat as the night sets in and I make my way through New England.