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I’m half watching “Manhattan.” When I say I’m half watching, I mean I turned on the TV about 30 minutes into the movie, and I’m simultaneously, well, writing this blog post. So as Woody Allen’s homage to New York plays in front of me, I’m going to launch into yet another one of my own tributes to the city (sorry, I know, it’s a tired shtick).

One thing that has struck me here that has never occurred to me anywhere else I’ve lived: New York City is limitless. I’ve lived in some amazing places: Berkeley and the greater Bay Area, Santa Monica and West LA. They all have a ton to offer. But they felt finite to me, at least in comparison to this. Obviously, the sheer magnitude of New York is enough to make my statement a total duh, but it’s more than that.

It’s more than number of restaurants, number of museums, number of neighborhoods — it’s that I’m finding more of myself around every corner. Being an overly cerebral person has always gripped me in a perpetual state of self reflection and analysis, but it’s obvious New York has cast a special kind of spell on me (sidenote: I’m hearing dad’s voice telling me I’m using 10 words when two will do).

There were plenty of places in Berkeley, San Francisco, Los Angeles, wherever, that I didn’t get around to exploring. Heck, I never even made it to the Getty. Perhaps in New York it’s a foregone conclusion that I’m never going to see everything there is to see, even lifelong New Yorkers can’t, but I feel like every time I step outside I’m going to live something. Maybe I’ll get sick of our neighborhood or the entire city. Maybe I’ll get bored and be ready to move on. But at this point, with an infinite number of combinations of streets, subway lines, foods, sights, enclaves, smells, people, feelings — I just don’t see how that’s possible.

P.S. I DVR’d “When Harry Met Sally” earlier today. I’ll try to prevent it from inspiring me to a similar post.

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