NEW YORK

New York is one of my favorite places; after all, it's more than just a destination on the map: it's a city that pulsates in its own unique way, vibrant, full of energy, and charming in its simple details, like the cafes or the distant sound of a saxophone in the subway. Walking its streets is to feel life happening in all directions at once. It shouldn't be observed from afar. It's lived. It's breathed. It's felt.

My first visit was in grand style: running its glamorous marathon. It was like traversing the soul of the city using my own body as a compass. It all started in Staten Island, with that nervous excitement that spreads like Wi-Fi among thousands of athletes. Everyone lined up, breathing deeply, feigning calm while thinking: "How did I end up here?". There, between the starting signal and the first step, I knew I was about to experience not just a race, but an experience that only New York can provide: intense, vibrant, and frenetic… just the way I like it.

The journey was an invitation to feel it in every heartbeat. In Brooklyn, the energy was warm, and all the residents were pure friendliness. They set up makeshift tables with water, fruit, and cookies—veritable banquets on the sidewalks—and children handed out little cups of lemonade with the solemnity of those handing out Olympic medals. It was impossible not to smile.

In Queens, diversity was palpable. Groups of spectators seemed to appear out of nowhere in the corners, each enjoying the marathon in their own style—it even felt like a family party, only with strangers and much more noise. And when, suddenly, a giant sound system blasted Gloria Gaynor at full volume with the powerful " I Will Survive ," I felt my legs gain a breath I didn't even know existed. I swear, for a second, I thought I was in a motivational music video tailor-made for me.

The bridges bore gigantic messages hung by the city government. They seemed to speak directly to the heart. Two, in particular, I will never forget: “Today you are running 42 kilometers. Many won’t even do that by car.” And, almost at the end, when my body was begging me to stop: “Congratulations. Keep going. Manhattan is waiting for you with a big hug.”

From the Bronx came a human chorus that lifted any weary soul. Shouts, laughter, drums, rhythmic clapping... it seemed as if each resident was pushing our steps forward. And then, like a lullaby after the storm, Central Park appeared: green, vibrant, immense. The arrival was not just the end of the race, but a consecration.

For those who don't know, due to a knee injury, I ran this marathon with sheer guts and determination, since actual training remained just theory. The pain wouldn't let me run a single day. But, defying common sense, there I went, mentally repeating: "The orthopedist will take care of it later...".

And the funniest part? My husband, who trained like crazy and dreamed of epic times, ended up falling behind. Me, all banged up, driven by stubbornness and adrenaline… I arrived before him!

And the grand finale ? The next day, there was my name splashed across The New York Times . Yes, me—printed, officially recognized, proof that the city had adopted me for 42 kilometers, almost an honorary citizen by merit of sweat and emotion. A paper trophy, one of those that no one can take away; that shines in the memory like a victory.

Whenever I'm there, I make a point of experiencing the city as it deserves: from the inside. Not just passing through, but feeling it. On one occasion, I went to watch a game at Madison Square Garden; I wanted to see this temple where history seems to echo in its walls. And there, right in front of me, was Joe Frazier, the boxing legend, sitting in his reserved seat in the front row. He wasn't just a spectator, but the man who, in that very place, starred in the Fight of the Century in 1971 against Muhammad Ali.

It was impossible not to feel the weight of time. The silent reverence that seat carried, as if the scene needed a final cinematic touch, Kevin Bacon also made an appearance.

Another must-see for me is Broadway and its theaters. It doesn't matter if my schedule is packed or if it's been a long day; at night, I make sure to be in front of a stage. When I heard Tom Hanks was performing, I bought a ticket without even blinking. First row, obviously, because I wasn't going to risk sitting behind a monumental head of hair that would become my aesthetic enemy for the day. And wow… I don't think I even breathed properly during the performance, I was so mesmerized. Tom Hanks, in the flesh, right there in front of me, and I just wanted time to slow down, or for someone to invent a pause button just for that moment.

But it didn't stop there. On another trip, I discovered that Samuel L. Jackson was also performing. So I went. The play was with him and Angela Bassett portraying the life of Martin Luther King, it was simply breathtaking. Upon leaving the theater, I found the sidewalk taken over by security guards, fences, and two black SUVs. Something big was about to happen. I asked a lady, and she told me that Samuel would be coming out any minute. We were chatting when, suddenly, more fences were put up and... I was trapped inside the makeshift VIP area!

Then he appeared and stopped right in front of me. In a second, I became his autograph assistant: I took papers from the audience and handed them to him, received them back and passed them on. I felt like I was part of the cast.

When Mr. Jackson finished, walking to leave, my heart raced with panic! Instinctively I shouted: Hey! You didn't autograph mine! The following moments were like slow motion. He turned around, flashed a wide smile, and, full of charisma, turned in my direction.

It goes without saying that every postcard of New York holds a trace of me. I walked through the city like someone collecting stories, going up and down avenues, observing the dance between concrete and sky. Among all these places, there is one that left a different mark: the Twin Towers. I knew them when they stood immense, so tall they seemed to want to touch infinity. And I was there later, when the silence gained another weight; the emptiness where there was once height became memory. There, time seems to behave differently, as if each step were a conversation with someone who is no longer there. I stood still, looking, feeling. It was like realizing that cities also bear scars, and that, despite them, they continue living, breathing. Rebuilding themselves.

Shifting to a more festive setting, let's talk about the Christmas markets. The most enchanting of them is the Bryant Park Winter Village. Imagine small, illuminated wooden houses, like an enchanted village sprouting amidst the skyscrapers. And inside them, artisans, confectioners, and creators from all over selling little magical treats: scented candles with the smell of pine and orange, handmade ceramic cups, lovingly knitted hats. The air is filled with the aroma of cinnamon, chocolate, and warm sweet bread. There's something intimate about this place, as if the whole city breathes memories.

Walking a little further, we find the shining heart of the season: the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. No matter how many photos we've seen, standing before it is surreal. So immense and luminous, as if it had stolen all the stars for itself. Tourists, New Yorkers, children, the elderly, people from everywhere stop and admire it.

Next to it, the iconic skating rink. People glide across the ice, some with elegance, others stumbling amidst laughter, but all with the same enchanted expression. Hands reach out, hugs form, falls end in shared laughter. It's not about skating well. It's about feeling like you're in a movie you've always wanted to live in.

In this atmosphere, the city is dressed in dreams: lights, ribbons, and memories that take us back to the sweet glow of the fairy tales we once believed in. And that perhaps, we still want to believe in.

Since the winter ritual calls for coziness, she gifted us with hot chocolate. At each kiosk, café, or market stall, there was a variation, from the simplest to the creamiest. But all with the same promise: to warm the body and soothe the soul. The marshmallows melted slowly, forming small sweet clouds that transformed into liquid comfort. Savoring it in this period leading up to Christmas was almost a poetic act; it's like holding warmth in your hands while the world outside shines icy cold.

I'm not content with just Christmas treats. For me, who transforms every trip into a gastronomic expedition, I couldn't fail to mention Little Italy. That delightful little corner of New York, where the pace seems to slow down just to let the Italian soul shine and lavish the hospitality that only they know how to offer. The streets are narrow, people talk loudly with their hands, and there's that smell of fresh pasta that makes any diet lose its dignity – obviously, the cannoli are absolute stars. A microcosm of pleasant energy, a mixture of chaotic and nostalgic.

And of course, I, a staunch defender of vegan cuisine, always find a way to find my tribe: a generous slice of vegan lemon cheesecake, so creamy that even grandma would approve – even if she made the sign of the cross first.

For me, someone who's a bit of a country bumpkin and feels more like myself when surrounded by trees than traffic lights, it wins me over in ways I thought impossible. Those who know me know: before the day begins, I need to train. There, my sacred ritual is running through Central Park, a piece of nature that breathes like a silent lung surrounded by skyscrapers. Life happens without haste, the wildlife is a daily spectacle, but it only reveals itself to those who look calmly. It's the park gently reminding me that even amidst so much movement, there's still room to relax.

The grey squirrels are my hosts. They crossed paths, climbed trees, fought over imaginary almonds, and always seemed in a hurry, as if they too had meetings on Fifth Avenue. They always give the park a feeling of constant movement, almost like laughter running through the leaves.

High in the treetops, life bursts into color. The red cardinal antbird illuminates the green with a brilliance that seems hand-painted. The blue jay, with its intense blue, seems laden with sky. And when spring or early autumn arrives, the park becomes a resting place for migratory birds. It's as if the whole world passes through there. Tired wings finding shelter in the middle of the city.

Near the lakes, the atmosphere changes: wild ducks, Canada geese, and even herons stroll calmly, as if they're in no hurry at all. They mingle with us, the tourists, runners, and couples sitting on benches, as if it were all a common scene, and indeed it is. The most curious thing is how everyone seems to know that this space is a sacred pact between city and nature.

As evening falls, other inhabitants take over the shift. Bats begin to streak across the sky with discreet flights. Sometimes, a raccoon appears among the shadows, with that watchful gaze of someone who knows the secrets after the sun hides.

From time to time, even unexpected visitors appear: coyotes crossing bridges in the early morning; owls that become famous and gain fans. All this in the heart of one of the world's largest cities.

Ultimately, that's what New York does to me. It surprises me, welcomes me, and moves me. I've seen it grand, illuminated, noisy, vibrant. I've also felt it silent, reverent, marked by absence.

I took steps that crossed its five neighborhoods, ran through its parks, mingled with its art, and was moved on its stages. I saw legends up close, touched living stories, and breathed in the kind of energy that only exists there—an unlikely encounter between intensity, poetry, and reality.

And yet, every time I return, it feels like I'm arriving for the first time. It never runs out of steam. It's always reinventing itself and, somehow, reinventing me along with it.

Consulting and Review: Arthur Barbosa.