The Upper West Side at the Speed of Wonder

by Yvonne Vávra

I’ve cast my fair share of judgment on tourists at the 72nd and 81st Street entrances to Central Park. I didn’t use my words, evil stares only. But I sincerely hope they never noticed, because the truth is that tourists hold a very special place in my heart. I just can’t always access that place when they arrive in blobs, determined to experience the Upper West Side shoulder-to-shoulder across the sidewalk.

And yet, I do love them. Because the very thing that makes them so annoying is also what makes me soften: They’re busy being happy, amazed, and completely in the moment. They’ve been looking forward to this trip for who knows how long. They’ve dreamed about it, planned it, saved for it. And now they’re finally here, moving at the speed of wonder—in Central Park, in front of the Dakota, in my way.

I’m not going on vacation this year. In fact, it’s been a while since I’ve left the city. But why do we travel, anyway? What are we after?

Permission to stop, to do less, or even nothing at all. To spend our days gloriously ineffective and waste our sweet time. To take a break from being available, knowledgeable, capable. To shed our roles and simply be a traveler. To interrupt the numbing loop of everyday life and feel alive and curious again.

We don’t need to leave the neighborhood for any of this. Vacation mode doesn’t require a whole new set of sights. A step out of routine is enough, and the small sliver of the Upper West Side we know from daily life becomes a wide unknown again. We could go on quite a trip just around the corner. No passport needed, just intention.

If I were a tourist, first of all, I’d take pictures of every single squirrel that crossed my path. Adorable. I’d get a bagel with salmon from wherever happened to be nearby, without burdening my hungry little mind with the question of where to find the best one. And I’d eat it while wandering random blocks, imagining that one of those brownstones was mine, and that I’d step out onto its stoop in the morning, excited for another Upper West Side day.

I’d get a kick out of walking down a romantic block like 71st Street and spotting Roman Roy’s penthouse from Succession in the crown of 200 Amsterdam, looming over the century-old brownstones.

I’d peek into the tiny locksmith shop on Columbus between 75th and 76th, marveling at how impossibly small it is. I’d probably wriggle my way inside and chat with the locksmith, then end up trying to stretch my arms out—no chance—and buy a keychain in tribute to the fact that a place this tiny could exist.

At the American Museum of Natural History, I’d walk up the steps at the Central Park West entrance and read the inscriptions above the benches: “Humanitarian.” “Ranchman.” “Explorer.” “Naturalist.” I’d definitely make my dog pose under “Scientist.” He’s got the perfect face for it.

I’d wander into Mani Market Place on 94th and Columbus and marvel at the homemade olive oil from family groves in Greece, right in the middle of New York City.

I’d be intrigued by the lockbox “monsters” tied to building railings and tree guards and wonder who they all belong to.

I’d notice the sculptures in front of Fordham University at 62nd and Columbus and, wanting to see more, make my way up the staircase to the sculpture garden. I’d think it was the best decision of the day, because a giraffe on stilts, an airplane-ostrich, and a woman washing her foot in the most artistic way were exactly what I never knew I was looking for.

I’d sit somewhere and drink coffee for five hours. Then, through no effort of my own, I’d suddenly find myself 44 blocks uptown in Straus Park on 106th and Broadway, admiring the fabulous sandals on the bronze statue. Totally New York City, 2026.

I’d never stop looking because I wouldn’t assume I already knew.

Today feels like the perfect day to celebrate staycations as an act of independence from autopilot, from the habits that make us rush through streets others pay a fortune to visit. We’re free to move in disorganized ways, at the speed of wonder. Same place, different attention. That’s the trick.

Yvonne Vávra is a magazine writer and author of the German book 111 Gründe New York zu lieben (111 Reasons to Love New York). Born a Berliner but an aspiring Upper West Sider since the 1990s (thanks, Nora Ephron), she came to New York in 2010 and seven years later made her Upper West Side dreams come true. She’s been obsessively walking the neighborhood ever since.

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