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.