December 26, the day after Christmas, New York woke up from its holiday slumber. It was on this lazy afternoon that I took my sister on a tour of our own city. We began our journey in the Meatpacking District, passing Chelsea, and ending in Hudson Yards. The tour was neither remarkable nor praiseworthy; we passed by becoming landmarks, landscapes, and attractions that are all but a facade. We fixed our gaze onto a mirage and contemplated our roles within it. My sister would dream of being an astronaut whilst surrounded by a sea of stars, or an avid sailor upon catching sight of Hudson piers, as though the city enticed us to inhabit fantasies of grandeur that far exceeds our current realities. The innocence she carried was almost contagious, however, I do not share the same sentiment. We are, after all, tourists, in our own city.
New York City is a magical place. My sister’s excitement and the newfound gleam in her eyes were a testament to that belief. Many are emboldened by the towering skyscrapers and sweeping skyline, seeing them as a manifestation of their dreams. As we walked along the High Line, my sister remarked on its uniqueness in the city landscape. With a smile, I began recounting the old tale of Manhattan’s grid design and the lasting influence of Robert Moses. However, as I spoke, my gaze wandered upon the corridor of buildings receding toward the horizon, their bodies aligned in near-perfect symmetry along the straight avenues carved by Manhattan’s grid. Many of them were old, their red-brick stature worn by decades of weather and history. The buildings appeared almost archaic, rugged and tired, yet they retained a quiet dignity.
Against the backdrop of history, I felt young, however, perhaps more importantly, insignificant. I felt small, like a fleeting figure inside an epic far larger than myself. The same skyscraper that emboldens one can dwarf another just as easily. Amidst the machine that is New York City, I am perhaps just another cog in the wheel, dissolving my individual identity. New Yorkers move with purpose, guarded by necessity and focus to reach their dreams. Hence, there is no room for complacency in a caucus of ambition and competing lives.
Two years later, on June 21st, I found myself sharing a table with a stranger in Townsend, Montana during a bikepacking trip. Arman was his name, a retired Swiss national on a journey to bike from New York to Los Angeles. As I looked past my shoulder, the sun began to creep behind the distant mountains, bleaching the sky in a subtle, yet vibrant, scarlet hue. I sat, with unwavering determination, to learn more about a man half a globe from home.
That evening, Arman spoke candidly of the life he had left behind. For decades, he had immersed himself in work, one defined by milestones rather than accomplishments. Success came, Arman reminisced, but so did the poignant realization that the years flew by in a blink of an eye. Somewhere amidst the monotonous routines and obligations, and the bygone days of surfing relentless waves or skiing down the serrated alps became mere whispers from a distant shore, drowned out by the pressure of success.
Retirement, then, for Arman, was not an escape, but rather a chance to rekindle his hearth. Arman’s journey across America was a long-winded one. As he described the deserts, plains, mountains, and small towns he had encountered, I sensed that what captivated him was not any singular destination, but the act of moving through the world itself.
Arman’s story pulled me back to the familiar cadence of my own days on the road. I recalled the grueling uphill climbs where each pedal stroke bore the weight of the world, and the coasting descent, piercing through a deafening wind, tunneled entirely alone with my thoughts. Before me, the landscape composed itself in layers: the quiet, lush expanse of the plains, the rising rhythm of the hills, and finally, the distant, snow-capped peaks cutting their crest against the sky.
I felt small, the same physical diminutiveness I had felt beneath the skyscrapers. Yet, the emotional echo was entirely different. Rather than insignificance, I felt as if the horizon was within my grasp; it is not geographical, but human. Arman was not an isolated traveler, but part of a larger diaspora of ranchers, architects, poets, and reformists who populated these open acres. Instead of restless illusions, the people pursued personal, gratifying goals. They carved out their own quiet realities, piece by piece, beneath the endless, indifferent sky.
I bid Arman farewell as the mountains faded into a shadow under a rising moon. I found myself gazing towards yonder, wondering where I would be tomorrow. Perhaps that is the true magic of Montana: it does not dwarf you with a facade of grandeur, but leaves you small enough to land amongst the stars.