June contains February, yet for those who know the city, February contains June, too, under the cracked and tired surfaces of the city, an unrelenting, optimistic heartbeat. The reason that so many different people manage to get along with one another in New York more than any other place in the world, I would guess, is that they wake up every day eager to start again. Old hatreds and suspicions are shelved for practical purposes. I grew up in Downtown Manhattan, which remains adamantly old and new. In my old neighborhood of Gramercy Park, named for a stream that flowed under a farm, young people play make-believe Paris at outdoor restaurants.
Babies toddle in the park.
Farther downtown, in the West Village, more of the same. Clarissa pauses at the threshold as she would at the edge of a pool. I like New York in June. Ever the brave new world. Ever the place where the brave find a brave new world.