Nothing is more unforgiving than the New York night. You always start with the hopes for a fun night - good music, good food, good company. Half way through, the reality of it hits - the trek to the subway was killer in six inch heels, “he” showed up but turned out to be a moron, and worst of all - the band sucks! The most agonizing moments are felt from the instant you are ready to leave and the moment you can duck out. Whether you are waiting for a girlfriend to make her play for her “he”, or you are being polite and not deserting the host like everyone else. You find yourself itching for the door and sweet escape down the three flights of stairs you cursed all the way up in those six inch heels. When you finally make your getaway you slip off the heels and bust out the flip-flops and reclaim the night. The mystery and depth of a street you have never been down calls to you making you decide to take a subway from a further station because you have never seen this part of the city in such a brilliant glittering darkness. You forget about your inane “he” and start wondering about the guys sleeping on the benches. You crane your neck to catch the glow of the moon and street lamps off the prewar buildings and catch glimpses of the modern kitchens the new occupants have crammed into them. It’s at these moments the New York night breaks your heart. With all certainty you know your place in this metropolis. It is small. No matter how much we beg, plead, shout and chest thump, the night will reduce us to the worshippers we are. It will shake us from the dream we are trying to create for ourselves and place us back into the reality of navigating puddles and cobblestones. With heavy hearts we finally descend the subway stairs and like all little ants in their ant hills - we march home.