So quickly the foreign becomes routine. The funny ramshackle minibus rolls up to the bus stop, we loop through the tunnel, we pass over 6 American dollars and emerge into the rush of new york city. The day is bookended the same.

Dylan had a surprise for me, we walked towards the industrial edge if the city. Then architecture lessons came to life, not the empire state building or radio city music hall, a garden in the sky – it was the high line.

A gorgeous day and walking above the city with flowers and trees sprouting cleverly between disused train tracks, even with all the people there was something so special about that walk. It resonated with me even more than central park, something abandoned and ugly given new life. A reinvention of eden.

The journey over we found ourselves outside artists and fleas. Handmade and vintage packed into a room, characters galore. It was the tie pins that drew us in, music notes, classic bars and stars. Crisp ties, pocket squares, coffins and vintage suits. Oh the suits, I felt my way through them, my fingers tingling when it felt the softness of quality wool. Dylan uncharacteristically enthused tried it on, a perfect fit. The gentleman running the stall was a sartorial dream, his motto know the rules then break them. He had none of the cold pretention of many vintage sellers, he had a genuine passion in transforming his customers and bringing their personality into their style. He stood in his socks so he could see Dylan wearing his shoes with the suit, told him never to do up the bottom button of a jacket and wear your sleeves short so you can see some cuff. It was rather a charming experience and for a vintage Italian suit and the sellers delightful presence $170 seemed very reasonable and everyone one left with a smile on their face.

In a foreign country, in a city bursting with experiences it’s hard to take a break, but after three months relentless interaction it was time to rest.

Towards sunset we wandered down a hidden stair, and along the road to a soccer field on the shore. A local game began as the sunset on manhatten, the lights came on and there was something soothing about the umpires whistle and kick of a soccer ball under lights, a world away from the unceasing flood of humanity on the otherwise of the water. We were replenished.

“I‘m just so much in love with a girl” his thick new jersey accent implored like something in a movie, “do you know what I mean, I’m just so in love with a girl.” This crumpled middleaged man, was imploring me for some unknown feedback to his public outburst of unrequited love, frazzled I wished him luck.

New Jersey ws our home for the next week. A short bus ride from Manhattan, and half the price. It was a glorious sunny day and we were walking along the Jersey shoreline towards liberty park and a glimpse of the statue of liberty.

We walked passed industry and rundown townhouses on the brink of gentrification, new york glistened on the horizon only a river away, it was a wonder that the developers of new jersey hadn’t been taking advantage of that view.

The wind picked up and threatened to hurl me skywards, a kite in flight. A state away, this was Manhattan at its best, a skyline twinned in the rippling river.

10 miles and a ferry ride later the Lady was still not in sight. I wandered, Manhattan dwindled then her back came into sight, she and I looked out into the cloud streaked horizon. She looked lonely there, but from my derriere vantage point I couldn’t see the hoards of tourists that no doubt were swarming at her base. I was quite happy on the wind swept park, where the bobbing daffodils outnumbered man 1:20.

“Almost blown inside out we took the ferry towards lower Manhattan. The buildings glowered jewel like in the setting sun and shadows crept.

We were tired but felt the pressure of the city to cram in another experience. We entered the bar, devoid of chairs and crammed with hipsters. The walls were decorated with portraits of zebras their black and white faces starring from brightly painted walls. It was free Wednesday at the improv comedy club and when the call went out we filed into the theatre.

We weren’t sure what to expect, but it turns out you can’t really define improv, except perhaps as high energy chaos with veins of wit. The first group had the prompt murder and managed to hobble together a story that actually had a narrative involving Mennonites, slick nyc cops, prostitutes, diamonds and a Mongolia boy. It was random, but surprisingly funny and the room roared when an actor was particularly quick witted.

The second group, with the inspiration ‘moon landing’ weren’t able to tie their vignettes together, but were carried by a Krameresque figure who owned the room with a mincing mighty boost style delivery that dwarfed his peers.

It was fun fluff, all the more so for its zero pricetag in a city where everything is expensive. Another night of creeping up apartment stairs in the midnight dark, tomorrow we needed a rest day. We couldn’t keep up with new york!

He whirled his fingers up and down the guitar with his eyes closed in almost uncomfortable ecstasy. In front of me a New Yorker bucked his head in melodramatic surprise whenever a feat of uncomprehending mastery was performed. Spontaneous applause would break out at these moments from the darkness of the basement room, only eyes illuminated by the stage lights. There wasn’t a tourist in sight, except for Dylan and I of course, and the obligatory Australian we met in line. Before the show started we listened to this New Yorker who was a singer chat to that New Yorker who was a starving writer, there was a lot of intellectual posing involved, it was fun to watch. Dylan caught a strange dynamic, perhaps the wife meeting her husbands undisclosed mistress. I tried a Manhattan cocktail to get in the new York mood, but in an ironic twist preferred Dylan’s Black Russian.

Earlier day we had ticked off some touristy things on our list: stand in line for half an hour in Magnolia’s bakery, a picnic in Central Park with a fresh cream cheese bagel made by a grumpy old lady. It was nice, but we was a superficial skimming of the surface of New York, we saw more foreigners than locals, we wanted to find the creative heart. Of course we did see a bedazzled preacher on a bedazzled bike spreading the word by the pond and some kids trying to steal turtles from the pond (I hope their mum stopped their antics), and dozens of young dog walkers with a brace of 6 dogs a piece, it was fun.

Another round of claps, this time for the pianist. He had his back to me the whole time and the way he was bobbing up and down like a muppet, I started to feel in an absurd surrealist moment that he might not actually have a face, he would turn around and I;d just see the back of his head for eternity. I felt bad for the bass player, strumming his heart out, the like of a bass is to be in the shadows, no applause for him this night. The drummer earned his claps in “Star of Jupiter”, where he made out of this world sounds with his cymbals, spinning them and running his drumstick up them to produce and eerie whine, then arms rose in the blur of a card shark across the skins. Waves of sound, jazz with such technical skill behind it we realised everything else we’d seen of the genre was pale and simplistic in comparison. We felt a closer connection to New York than in any subway carriage, neon street or tourist trap. Music ended, lights went up and to applause the pianist turned around.