This city is full of people I don’t know, friends I haven’t made yet. I am thankful for them, for the strangers I pass on Park Place at 9:07 in the morning. For their smart outfits, their zany hair and quick baits. For the strangers I find at my coffee shop on a blistery Saturday morning. For how we all had the same idea: to slip on last season’s sweaters and come sip hot coffee from our spot at a shared table. When we aren’t poking on our phones, we are stealing glances at each others’ flushed faces, reminding ourselves why we left the house at all. I think we are all secretly in love with each other, with the city, with the broken sidewalk, with the break dancers who get on at Grand Street, with the piano player who has been playing the same song for seven years. I am thankful for the strangers sitting together at Walter’s, for the way they lean into each other under soft lighting, their hands resting lightly on wineglasses; for the way they leave their hair down and wear last winter’s boots. I am thankful for the strangers’ children who whiz by me on scooters, capes and tulle fairy wings snapping behind them. I’m thankful for the waiter who watched over my friend and I last night, for how he laughed at my dumb jokes and recommended good wine. I am sorry I do not remember your name. I am thankful for the Hasidic Jewish men who asked for directions this morning and how a man who did not look like them came quickly, eager to point out how even though the street turns oddly, you are not far. I am thankful for the old lady on the bus who tapped the shoulder of the woman in front of her and whispered about a dropped metro card. thankful for how that woman whispered back thank you and picked it up, even the card wasn’t hers. I am thankful for the taxi drivers who speak in excited Arabic under my window at three in the morning, for how they remind me that friendship — even in a fierce and crowded city, where even the children hide behind phones — has not gone out of style.