Reflections While Running: The reason I love visiting the world’s greatest city is not what you think

I had the opportunity to spend four high-paced days in New York City this past week, and like so many people before me, I came away understanding why it captures the imagination of the world.

New York City is magical.

I love wandering into the little specialty shops that could probably exist nowhere else. There’s an entire store that sells nothing but refrigerator magnets. Magnets. Thousands of them. Somehow, they’ve built a successful business around something most of us buy once every ten years.

My favorite places, though, were the spice stores. The smell hits you before you even open the door. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling with ingredients I’d never heard of, spices whose names I can’t pronounce and enough varieties of paprika, cinnamon, saffron and peppers to convince me I’ve been cooking with only about three flavors my entire life. If there’s a place on earth to find that obscure garlic-infused saffron you’ve been convinced exists somewhere, it’s probably in New York.

I also love the sounds of the city. Somewhere twenty stories above the street, a man is riffing on his saxophone from an apartment balcony. A jackhammer echoes down the block. Taxi horns become background music. The subway rumbles beneath your feet. Somehow, all that noise comes together into a rhythm that’s uniquely New York.

Then there are the people.

Every block is different. Every subway ride sounds different. I find myself quietly trying to guess what language everyone is speaking. Is it Vietnamese? Laotian? Arabic? Portuguese? Russian? Am I hearing French or Haitian Creole? Half the time I’m undoubtedly wrong, occasionally inventing languages just to impress Sally.

“Of course they’re speaking Genovian,” I confidently announce, referring to Anne Hathaway’s kingdom in “The Princess Diaries.” Or maybe I detect a slight Parseltongue accent. She has learned to simply nod and smile.

But I love that, for a few minutes, I get to wonder where people are from, why they’re here and what stories they carry with them.

The few times I struck up conversations, people inevitably asked where I was from. When I said Wyoming, more than one immediately assumed I was a cowboy. All of you know I couldn’t tell a steer from a heifer, but for four minutes on a New York subway, I can apparently convince somebody I’m John Wayne.

In New York, the whole world seems to walk past you every fifteen minutes.

One of the most meaningful moments of the trip wasn’t famous enough to appear in any guidebook.

I stood on the very address where my great-great-grandfather opened his medical practice nearly 180 years ago. The original building is long gone, and the city around it has changed in ways he never could have imagined. I stood where he once stood, probably nervous and yet confident as he unlocked the door to his practice for the first time. I found myself wishing I knew him better and grateful that I inherited his name.

Sadly, ownership of that downtown Manhattan lot was not one of the family traditions that came with being John M. Bernhisel IV.

Since he stood on that street, horse-drawn wagons have become taxis, taxis have become Ubers and delivery wagons have become young men weaving through traffic on electric bicycles. Dirt streets became pavement. Gas lamps gave way to electric lights. Millions of people have lived and died since he first unlocked the door to his office.

Yet for a few quiet moments, history became personal.

I wasn’t just standing in New York.

I was standing where part of my family’s American story unfolded.

That meant more to me than I expected.

What surprised me most, though, wasn’t Times Square or Central Park or even the skyline.

It was discovering beauty where no one tells you to look.

Miles from downtown, miles from the tourist attractions, you turn a corner and find a building so beautifully designed that you stop in the middle of the sidewalk just to stare. Stone carvings. Arched windows. Gargoyles. Decorative cornices. Brickwork that craftsmen spent months, perhaps years, creating. Details fifty feet above the street that almost nobody notices anymore because they’re too busy looking at their phones.

I’m that guy.

The one standing across the street taking pictures from odd angles because the afternoon light is catching the architecture just right. The one craning his neck upward while everyone else is looking down. Some of the city’s greatest works of art aren’t hanging inside museums. They’re the buildings people walk past every day without ever looking up.

On Sunday we attended church in the heart of Harlem.

The congregation couldn’t have looked much more different from the one back home in Cowley.

There were people of every race, every background, every age and what seemed like a dozen different native languages represented in one room. Compared to that congregation, Cowley looks like plain white Wonder Bread.

And yet…

Once the meeting started, it all felt familiar.

People smiled.

People greeted strangers.

People worried about their children sitting still.

The hymns began, and just like back home, not everyone found the right notes. They sang with sincerity more than perfection, exactly the way we do. The prayers were familiar. The scriptures were familiar. The hopes, fears and faith people carried into that chapel were familiar.

On the outside, we looked remarkably different.

On the inside, we were remarkably alike.

That may have been the greatest lesson I brought home.

Of course we saw Broadway, and it absolutely lived up to its reputation. The singing, dancing, lighting, staging, orchestra, costumes and sheer professionalism were unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Every day brought another museum, another neighborhood, another famous landmark, another meal I’ll probably think about for months.

I loved every minute of it.

But here’s the thing I’ve discovered about traveling.

I don’t travel because I’m looking for somewhere better to live.

I travel so I can better appreciate the place where I already do.

As incredible as New York City is, there was something deeply satisfying about seeing the mountains appear in the airplane windows as we headed west.

The crowds disappeared.

The noise faded.

The horizon stretched for miles.

Home.

I came back with a camera full of pictures, tired feet and a renewed appreciation for one of the greatest cities on earth.

But I also came back with something else.

Gratitude.

Gratitude that I can experience places like New York and then return to a place where I know my neighbors, where the mountains frame the horizon, where the stars still outnumber the streetlights, and where life moves just a little slower.

New York reminded me how wonderfully big the world is.

Wyoming reminds me how wonderfully blessed I am to call this little corner of it home.