I remember the moment my attitude changed. It was like someone turned on the light, unexpectedly, in my mind, and all of a sudden the world was shining again. It was sometime in the afternoon on a weekday that wouldn’t stop raining. Because of the constant drizzle, I (and hoards of other people) had escaped into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Everywhere I looked there was a crush of damp patrons, and for the first hour or so, I was overwhelmed and hungry. It was just a bad mood, but at the time I took it to mean more, as I was so desperately looking for a sign about New York. I wanted some unwavering sense, one way or the other, about it.

I wandered around, always going a way I hadn’t planned but realizing there was no point getting angry at my lack of directional sense, as everything was fascinating (Native American baskets? Dammit! I wanted Tibetan amour). There was only one thing I really had my heart set on anyway, and it was a photography exhibit by Robert Frank. I knew little of him, really. I was just hungering to see some photos that mattered.

Somehow, I navigated the floor plan and come up on the exhibit, and only then did I realize what I was actually about to see. It was a collection of the images he used in this book, The Americans — all 83 black-and-white photos, blown up to a pleasingly large dimension. Frank traveled around the country for two years in the 1950s while making this book, and when it was finally published, it included writing from Jack Kerouac. When this burst on the scene, the pictures’ blunt view of America had scandalized people.

I learned all that as I walked from photo to photo, each shown in the order they appear in the book. These aren’t happy pictures. They’re kind of bleak, with a hard edge and absolute lack of Americana-flavored romance. And yet, I loved them. As I circled the space, I made sure to give ample attention to each image. I read almost all the captions, and when I couldn’t understand a concept, I stood there and soaked in the words and photograph until I did. I was looking at an America I don’t really know anything about, one with rough cowboys and black nursemaids and old-school starlets, all looking a little lost. Even though people doing the same grand tour hemmed me in on most sides, everyone else in the room hardly existed to me. I shifted from image to image for what must have been an hour-and-a-half. I let them settle, slowly, into my system. I had been in New York for a week, and finally I had found something deeply personal in it.

There is so much to do and see in that city that it’s hard to choose one thing to care about, but once I did, it felt so right. As I left the exhibit, something in me was restored. The rest of my day felt better, looked better, tasted better. That evening, I shared beer and nachos with an editor with whom I had done some work months before. As she lives in New York (she works for Fodor’s Travel Guides), we had never met in person before, but it went well. She was friendly and real, and in turn, I felt like I was being myself, too. I looked at her life, as a young editor on the make and then at mine, as a young writer, traveling and looking for direction, I appreciated both these realities. I was absolutely impressed with the prestige of her job, and at the same time, I didn’t lose sight of what I’m doing.

A friend of mine recently said that maybe part of me wants to play with the big boys in the world journalism and publishing. Part of this is true. Part of me wants to settle down in a big city and gear down into making myself a somebody. But I can’t forget one of the huge differences between me and those up-and-coming artists that live and breathe New York City as they launch themselves into the world. To them, New York is home. But I can come to their city, take in it, and then leave. For me, right now, that’s beautiful.

I’d like to thank Robert Frank some of this clarity.

She pointed at the sign behind her which read "Don't Feed The Birds" and laughed. It's because of her, she said, that they put that warning up. She feeds the pigeons every day.

I had no idea I was hoping to see the Naked Cowboy until I did. I stood in his presence for several minutes, taking in the bravado and strangeness of him.

Keeping Times Square beautiful.

Unfortunately, this is as close as I got to seeing a taping of the Late Show.

Inside the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

More of the Met.

Jana and Rita, two sisters nice as can be, who chatted me up right when I need a good chat.

My old friends, David and Arielle, and their little daughter, Olive. I swear that I have never seen a kid more full of energy. She was so awake. It bowled me over.

Scarecrow contest, Central Park.

Central Park, in a moment without rain.

Chinatown.

Maybe it’s just a reaction to being in an intimate place after visiting so many huge places recently. In the last few weeks, I’ve seen New York City, Baltimore and D.C. Now that I’m out of all that, I look back on it warmly, but I’m also happy to be away. I’m on my own again, far from all my extremely sweet and welcoming friends who have migrated to the East Coast in the last few years. Now I don’t know anyone for thousands of miles, and that feels good somehow. I already miss my friends, but it’s time to be alone. I’m craving solitude in a way I can hardly explain. I want to write and take pictures and plan my next few moves. I want to see how well I get on while being completely alone. Really, isn’t that what this trip is all about? I think so.

In honor of my last month or so, in the next week I’m going to post quite a few stories and photo essays of my recent travels, mostly to cities. Right now I’m going through a real turning point in my trip. I get to choose it all over again and decide if this life is really what I want. I think is. I almost know it is, but if that’s the case, I have to start making more money and soon. These next few months are going to be the test of whether I can do this or not. I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I just want to do good work and support myself and see more of America, but I know those aren’t the easiest of things.

Tonight, at the lovely RV park where I’m staying (Country Waye RV Resort — total gem), a guy from Québec looked at my trailer and said, “You have to be a poet to live like that.” To this, I replied, “I’m trying.”

Until I’ve got some words to give you, here’s a photo album of my Halloween, spent in New York City. It was a rainy night, so most of the pictures are from the subway. My favorite costumes were clever, homemade ones, and I loved watching people shine with pride when they were complimented on them. I saw one guy dressed as “balloon boy,” complete with the titular, silver balloon and a sock monkey. I gave him a thumbs-up as he boarded a train, and he mouthed an excited “thank you” at me as his car pulled away. That sort of innocent, bubbly energy is my favorite part of Halloween.

OK, I also get a kick out of men dressed in drag, too. Don’t ask me why…it just makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside and reminds me that anything is possible.

Cirocco, my friend's roommate and my guide into the crazy web of New York City's Halloween parade. Under this black jacket was a beautiful, vintage dress from the 1960s or '50s. But no, no, no, she was not someone from Mad Men. That she made clear.

I love it when you tell a complete stranger to "work it" for your camera — and then they do.

Save the children!

One of the many, many zombie parties going on Halloween week. I have to say, I love zombies, but I can't exactly tell you why.

Any costume that makes a girl cover her face completely in makeup is a costume I like. The dedication is awesome, I think. She is an Oscar, by the way.

I, on the other hand, was just dead.

This is the only pictures I took at the actual Halloween parade. Damn the rain.

I have no idea what her costume is, but I'm impressed.

Best group costume ever. A gaggle of gay Tiffany jewelry boxes. What you don't see here is that theyr'e all wearing togas.

Work it.

I loved watching his couple in the subway. They were cute and caring toward each other, exchanging knowing glances that I couldn't decipher throughout the whole ride. This was around 11 p.m. Halloween night.

What am I doing with my life? What is my passion? Who am I?

It is at this point that I feel like ducking into one of New York’s hip eateries, one that serves only cupcakes or crepes or designer donuts and drowning these questions in something sweet. I don’t want to complain. I don’t feel bitter. I simply feel challenged by this city. It keeps asking me why I don’t live here, and I can’t think of an answer that’s not touched by defensiveness. And, like any slightly painful breakup scenario, I don’t want to be defensive, nor do I want to be judgmental. I just want to be myself.

All this said, I am awed by this city. My surroundings are so rich that I have had no idea where to start, and I’ve spent most of my days just walking and observing people. I could watch people all day here and be happy doing just that. I love the cozy, multicolored leaf canopy of Central Park and the quaint, tree-lined streets of the West Village. Times Square’s neon tangle of tourists and cameras and huge, animated advertisements is both exciting and exhausting. I still want to see Harlem. I have yet to check out Brooklyn. I am surrounded by an infinite amount of coolness and possibility, and I know it. I simply want to enjoy it.

And then get back to my trip.

Maybe my time in Pennsylvania.

It was there where I recently turned into a smiling, crying dork, as I watched my friend, Rebecca, get married at an old farm. I loved it. Probably because of the informality and individualist spirit of my family, I have an inherent lack of understanding about big gatherings, especially weddings with their DJs and catered food and billowing event tents. But as I sat in the audience of this union — as Pachelbel’s Canon played and people snapped pictures — I was overjoyed. I was drunk off of everyone else’s elation.

Happy bride, happy parents.

I was also simply amazed to have made it.

The thing about traveling that is both heartening and frustrating as hell is that wherever you go, there you are. All those parts that you don’t like about yourself (along with those you do) come with you everywhere. One thing I hate about me is that I am late a lot. This is not all the time but enough that people take notice. I am the kind of person who will go out my way to attend your play/christening/bat mitzvah/bridal shower. I will make that happen. But I am also the kind of person who might just be late to it. Don’t ask me to explain. I can’t.

I left for this wedding on the day of from Salem, Mass. It was 9 a.m., and the ceremony was at 3 p.m., and I knew the drive was supposed to be about six hours. Even in an unencumbered truck, it would have been a tight fit. With the trailer, it was going to be near impossible. I had woken up late and gotten lost and whatever, and for a few hours I drove and kicked myself at my lack of planning. I started to wallow. It wasn’t until I stopped for gas, a hundred or so miles down the road, that something shifted. A tiny bit of resolve started to grow, and I made a decision. I am going to make it this thing, I told myself. I will. I will. I bought two Red Bulls and a few candy bars at the convenience store, and that was it. I was dedicated.

Legally, I can’t drive more than 55 miles an hour while pulling my trailer. Like most trailer folks I’ve seen, I usually end up doing around 60. But as I made my way south, I caught myself driving 70 at times. New England passed me in a blur. Mostly, what I saw were trees and traffic, but I could sense a shift in the geography happening. It was getting less quaint and more hardscrabble, and I felt less and less surrounded by Sunday drivers. Things seemed to be getting more and more real, and I felt both excited and kind of disenchanted with that. I listened to the radio; I ate my junk food, but never did my attention leave my destination. Rebecca and I haven’t even been in touch all that much since we graduated, but that didn’t matter. She had been a good friend to me freshman year, and though I had never fully understood her, I wanted to. I wanted to be there, show my support. I kept on calling our mutual friend, Erik, and telling him my location. He continually told I was going to miss it. I kept telling spouting out optimism.

When I reached Pennsylvania, I had about 30 miles and 30 minutes to spare. I was actually shocked that things had gone so well. My mantra of “I’m going to make it” kept going through my head. Even the maze of my commercial, suburban surroundings weren’t enough to scare me off my goal. I’m going to make it.

For a short time, I morphed into Steve Carell’s gay uncle character in Little Miss Sunshine (you know, at the end, when he’s running like his life depends on it to reach the pageant? Is that too obscure?). As I neared the driveway for the wedding’s farmhouse locale, I saw a parking lot for some shipping business that I prayed wasn’t open and pulled into it. It was 3:05. I ran into the trailer and striped down, pulling a dress over me and literally running out the door. The breeze was cool, and the sun was nice, and I felt elated, even though I was almost sure I was missing it. At least I had arrived.

Thank God the bride had just arrived as well. By the time I got to the wedding site, an outdoor scene, surrounded by grass, trees and a barn, I actually had a few minutes to spare. Usually, I would feel pretty out of place in a crowd of dressed up people I didn’t know, but I had too much adrenaline for that. I was downright giddy, and when the bridal party started to walk down the aisle, my excitement only increased.

My incites about those moments are pretty basic. I just took in the scene. Rebecca, in her flowing, white gown looked happy and Erik, her best man and one of my best friends, looked handsome. Michael, the groom, looked proud. They were all beaming. The audience was beaming. I was beaming. Being there wasn’t an obligation; it was a gift. Toward the end of it, as the couple read their vows, I tried not to tear up.

When Michael said something to the effect of “Finally, this lonely Homer has found his Marge,” I was a happy, crying fool.

After the ceremony, and after I had congratulated the bride and groom and started to sip a glass of wine to take the edge off my high, I realized this was the first time I had ever seen a friend get married. So, I guess it made sense that I didn’t know what to do with myself throughout the night. I don’t know the wedding drill. I ate, danced a little bit, chatted up some of Rebecca’s older friends and family. But never did I get drunk or make-out with anyone (though that spiky-haired, short groomsman did waft through my mind more than once). I never let myself become happily lost in the effervescence of the after party. For me, the real beauty of the whole event was the wedding itself. To watch two people make a decision about which they both looked so sure was invigorating. It gave me gallons of hope.

I wanted to be swept away in the reception, too, but never quite got there.

Reading this, you might think that I want my own nuptials to be right around the corner. But that’s not the case. As I saw Rebecca’s life change before me, I did think about my future guy, whoever he might be, and wondered how we might meet each other. I thought about what kind of casual wedding we might have, held on someone’s lawn, with a potluck instead of catering. And I thought about the type of place we might live, hopefully in the Southwest, somewhere with space, chickens and few neighbors. I want that, so badly. The idea of me going without that sounds like no fun.

I don’t want it now, though. That’s a big part of what I was thinking as the wedding party swirled around me. I want this, I could almost hear myself saying, I want this. But not yet.

Someday.

The best man, Erik, sharing a dance with the bride.

This is definitely the cutest thing I saw in Canandaigua. This little family was right by the lake.

It’s nice in Canandaigua. This is the kind of town that people are proud to be from, the kind of spot that people stay in or return to, or at least that’s my sense of it. I’m not sure how big it is, but it’s large enough to have a community college, Panera Bread Co. (which, thankfully, has fast, free internet) and hefty amount of traffic. The downtown is cute, and the jewel of this place is really the lake, which shares the town’s name. It’s big, filled with bright, white sailboats and lined with tons of people on blankets, park benches and bikes. Today and tomorrow, there are a few festivals going on at the water’s edge, and of course I’ll check them out. I always like stuff such as that, community efforts that I’m not actually emotionally involved in. My lack of attachment gives me free reign to just enjoy them — and then leave whenever I want.

By the way, I suppose I wouldn’t be jumping into writing this morning if I didn’t feel so sober. Recently, an old man I’ve been friendly with sexually harassed me in a sad way. He asked me to kiss him, and I said no, and it’s no big deal, except that it reminded me how damn vulnerable I am out here. It made me lonely. What I really want to do is call up a certain friend and have him talk to me, about anything, but I think that would be uncouth. If I can’t deal with these sorts of things on my own, then what’s the point of the trip? Self-reliance is the idea — though a big bear hug from someone I care about would be lovely right now.

It’s weird to have to find your comfort wherever you can, preferably without coming into contact with anyone. When I’m lonely, that’s the time I absolutely don’t want to strike up a conversation with a soul. I don’t trust myself enough right then. So, I try to shut up, wake up and look around me. Last night, when I was in that state, I ended up downtown, in front of a free concert hosted by a trio of string-playing middle-aged guys. They were working a banjo, guitar and fiddle, and the music was sweet. There was a large, pastel-wearing crowd of older people and families, and they were clapping and smiling at all the recognizable folk offerings. By the time the group played some kid songs while wearing Muppet masks, I was in love with all the musicians. When they closed their set with “This Land is Your Land,” I was grinning, trying to hold on to the innocence of the moment in my mind.

As I already wrote, I do love those kinds of community things.