Today marked the end of my first week in my New York apartment. I can pen dozens of cliche “end of an era” phrases to convey the tone of this time, but they don’t fit. Living in the city was a dream I’ve always had. I expected it to come true when I was 37 years old. To be here, and only 23, feels surreal.

My biggest fear is losing my love of the city. Wednesday night after a lovely dinner with friends, I trumped through wet midtown still feeling warm and fuzzy from a glass of rose Cotes de Provence wine. All the glitz of Time Square melted around me in the rain, and my hands were ice. My doggie-bag of skirt steak began to disintegrate in the freezing rain. Heck, it was a potential ”I hate New York moment” but something about it was so magical. I passed Rockefeller Center and reminded myself that these solitary joys will be mine for as long as I live in the city.

I heard you have seven years to become a resident and maybe then I’ll be jaded and cynical about city life. For me that translates to seven years of magic and to that I say: time please run slow.