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The morning of Christmas Eve, I usually wake up to the smells and noises of my Mom already busy preparing lunch - the whole apartment is filled with the scents of cooking meat and baking cookies. This morning, I woke to a splitting headache, disoriented, uncomfortable. I reached for the glass of water and the pills, took off the outfit I wore the night before and buried my head in a big soft pillow for a few more hours. Half asleep, the details of the night before slowly started coming back. The half a bottle of wine on an empty stomach before dinner; the disappointingly silent cell phone with the blank screen was like a little kick in the stomach every time I checked; the tears that nearly froze to my wet face in the stormy wind walking through Times Square; the anger I felt towards everyone especially the tourists blocking the way taking a million pictures. I went there to feel like just one little grain in the desert, to get lost in the crowd: it made me - with all those emotions - seem so miniscule, so insignificant. I could have walked around forever not minding the freezing cold, wallowing in self pity, but I had a birthday party to get to.

I got to the bar first. It being way too cold outside to wait, I got a drink at the bar and started talking to some people who worked there in the pub. I quickly made friends with the nice Nepalese man rolling his own cigarettes there at the bar - made me nostalgic of home - and we even danced out on the street to the sounds of the city that never sleeps. It made me think how easy it is to make fleeting momentary connections with people: walk into another life and then walk out. No agendas, no commitments. That is New York City. But to actually know someone, to share, to stay and be a part of each other's lives, that is almost impossible here. Everybody's in way too much of a hurry, too self-involved. If only on one day of the year, today we should try to think of others too, those we care about.

I didn't feel like getting out of bed. Eventually, the need for coffee won and then a long hot shower made everything better. Opening the gift from my parents that'd been sitting under my Christmas tree filled me with happiness and pangs of longing for home. A quick stop at the lab - a disturbing number of people were there. I must have looked pretty awful because they all asked what'd happened to me. "Rough night, is all."

The package I though had been lost somewhere over the Atlantic finally arrived with my favorite Christmas chocolates from home. It put a smile on my face. On the F train, a young man with a guitar sang "Stand by me". He had an angelic voice; it was so simple and beautiful I felt warm inside. I gave him a couple of dollars and wished him a Merry Christmas. We exchanged a warm look. Walk into another life for a moment and then walk out. At Penn Station, suddenly I needed some soup - relinquish the lost liquids and salts from the night before. I bought a cup of chicken noodle soup at a deli and sat down to eat it. A very old man was sitting at the table next to mine, a regular. As workers came and went, they all shook his hand and said "Hi Tom!". All I could think about was how sad it must be to spend this day at a deli at Penn Station. Then I heard two people working at the counter speaking Hungarian. They were talking about the hassles of traveling; they were going to go home the next day. As I left, I said "Boldog Karacsonyt!" to them. Surprised smiles and quick exchanges of holiday wishes followed. Walk in and walk out.

Suddenly, I was composing this entry in my head and I desperately needed to write it down. No paper, no pen. Thank god for Penn Station having a store of every kind - Staples! On the train to Morristown now, I am writing all this, the lines in the notebook are all crooked as the train is undulating. Writing every word down is therapeutic. With every sentence appearing on paper, a little bit of the fog lifts and I feel more and more liberated and lighter.

There are people standing in the aisles everywhere, trying to get home for the holiday. To me, it doesn't seem like a holiday at all. It's just another day on which someone walked out after a brief stay of a few moments.