Manhattan has intoxicated me since I was a boy. My uncle was wed in Central Park when I was 10 years old, and as we left Maryland to attend the celebratory weekend, I can remember my family sternly warning me: stay close and do not to talk to anyone. I was an obedient and believing youngster, so when a man in a deli asked “Hey kid, you like baseball?”, I just naturally assumed I was about to be snatched, hogtied, and tossed into a van to join other bumpkin children who had stupidly decided to let go of their mother’s hand in New York City. My panic was foolish, of course; he and I exchanged pleasantries about my beloved Orioles (I had forgotten I was wearing my baseball cap), I grabbed a Coke from the refrigerator case and lived to tell the tale. Later that night, my mom and I peered down into one of the city’s canyons from our hotel window and counted limousines.

Those moments ingrained within me the understanding that New York City was a place where exciting and unpredictable things happened, even to little boys from Western Maryland. It was a place I wanted to be.

Note: These Polaroids can be seen – larger, I might add – at my Flickr page.