Everything is measured by the minute here. Each one is precarious; will I make the walk signal? Will I make it to class on time? Will the light ever turn green?

The other day I found myself with a walk which was short, staccato. Step-step-step. I felt tense and ungainly, and attempted to lengthen the stride. It didn't work. The air was frozen cold on my face and I was nearly late for the whatever I was rushing to, so I continued my awkward stepping until I reached the destination.

New York is not a city built for slow walkers. Everyone here walks with their eyes focused on something far ahead and bodies leaning forward as though it'll get them there faster by sheer momentum. They stream around the tourists with their armfuls of bags and fanny packs and big cameras who either move in a lethargic pack or not at all, standing and pointing at the sights. I remember a time when I was the tourist, gawping at the tall skyscrapers and neon brightness of Times Square.

Even when I was younger, I remember my sister always telling me to hurry up. She was the brisk one, who often walked far ahead of my parents and me.

Recently, when my sister visited, there was no mention of my hurrying up. I was already on pace with the other New Yorkers.