My street in Jackson Heights today…the first day it felt like fall for real: the crisp, clean, chilly air, the brilliant, almost Attic light, that seems to shine at the angle filmmakers call “the golden hour” all day long. Hard to get those who haven’t lived here to understand how excited New Yorkers get about this time of the year and the sudden heady rush of adrenaline it produces. It’s not complicated; the winters are brutal, the springs rain-logged to the point that it frays your last nerve ending (a primary Holy Week sensory memory is standing for hours in church in soaked-through shoes and socks), the summer suffocating with the constant aroma of something putrefying somewhere — this is the only time of the year that we can count on long stretches of truly beautiful weather. “… the promise of new love,” what spring is to the most of the rest of the world. From now till about the beginning of December. Enjoy it while it lasts.
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Jadde: from Bosnia to Bengal 
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