For a while, I didn’t like living in New York as much as everyone seemed to think I should. Manhattan can be dirty, noisy, and rude. Plus, there are no trees. But I’m starting to change my opinion about the city, and there is one thing that Manhattan can provide that will always make me happy:

FOOD.

After climbing today, I cut through Chelsea Market on the way home. Now, I always sort of knew that the reason 16th street smelled of fish juice was because of the market, but I somehow never went there until today. And it’s amazing. There was a jazz band with an upright bass, and a bluegrass band with something that looked like a zither (maybe it was a zither?). I bought crab cakes, pumpernickel bread with currants and sunflower seeds, dried Angeline red plums, and an orange butter cookie. Yum.

These days, I’m trying to become a 5.11 climber, which is going all right—though my friends are doing a better job of meeting the same goal! We girls were joking about our individual sources of climbing power. One of the things I like about climbing is the language people use to describe it—Ben, for example, called one route a “stout” climb, then said, “Maybe ‘robust’ would be a better word.” Anyway, we decided that Natalie had “kangaroo power,” because she’s an Aussie and always jumping back onto a route until she conquers it. Lisa and Ji had powers named after spicy food additives they love. I asked, “What’s my power?”

“Poetry power!” Lisa declared.

I decided not to mention that I have always been a rotten poet. Instead I began thinking about which poet might best symbolize the way I climb. I’ve got good technique. But I’m not that dynamic and my endurance is nothing to speak of. So, John Keats, maybe? A poet who had plenty of formal talent, but was ultimately consumptive and dead at 26?