In London, I moved slower – I spent long afternoons walking aimlessly, thinking deeply, dreaming in quiet. Now in New York, I move with purpose, urgency, chasing things before they slip away.
Winner of The Letter Review Prize for Nonfiction
A Tale of Two Benches
Some places are not meant to be destinations but pauses, like portals. Intermissions in time, in the ongoing movement of life. For me, a bench by the Hudson River near Hudson Yards has become one of those places. Sitting there, watching the water wave under the changing sky, I feel both deeply connected to the city around me and entirely separate from it. In contrast, another bench, one thousand miles away in Barnes, London, holds a different kind of quiet.
Comparing the two, I realize they are more than just seating along the river; they are reflections of the two versions of myself that exist in each place. In London, I had everything—or so it seemed. I went there chasing New York, but somewhere along the way, in the quiet spaces, the narrow roads, and the gloomy days, I ended up living a life. A full life. Now, in New York, I have almost nothing, yet somehow, I feel full. Whole in a different way – living another life but remembering the one I left behind.
I first found the Hudson River bench on a walk when I needed a moment to breathe. The weight of the city – well more the weight of my dreams – their relentless pace, the intensity, can be exhilarating but exhausting. This bench, set against the backdrop of the West Side waterfront, offers a rare contrast. Facing the river, I watch ferries cut through the water, their wakes breaking apart reflections of skyscrapers. The sky shifts colors at sunset, sometimes streaked with soft pastels, other times burning in fiery hues. The sounds of New York are still present, the distant honk of a taxi, the hum of conversations from passing joggers, the rhythmic whir of bike tires, but they feel muted, softened by the openness of the water.
I run my fingers along the bench’s wood armrest. The slats are rough and aged, with small splinters jumping out. I let my feet rest lightly on the pavement below. There is something grounding about this place. It reminds me that even in a city constantly pushing forward, I can stop. Here, time stretches just enough to let me catch my breath.
The bench in Barnes held a different kind of quiet—the kind that doesn’t interrupt, only listens. I sat there on chilly mornings, and warm nights, on happy days and sad ones. The Thames moves differently than the Hudson, slower, more deliberate, mature, reflecting a city that holds onto its history rather than constantly reinventing itself. The view from this bench is different, too. Instead of towering skyscrapers, it is framed by Barnes Bridge’s iron structure and the red brick houses lining the riverbank, their chimneys puffing out curls of smoke on cold days.
Unlike the Manhattan bench, where pace never truly stops, the Barnes bench exists in a place that feels outside of time. Rowers glide by in synchronized strokes, their boats slicing through the river in perfect rhythm. The occasional dog walker passes, offering a polite nod, and the air is filled with the quiet sounds of nature – a bird calling, the distant ringing of a bicycle bell. Sitting there, I don’t feel like I need to catch my breath because I never feel like I’m running out of it.
These two benches, though physically similar, exist in different worlds—and in some ways, so do I when I sit in them. The Hudson River bench is a reflection of the version of myself that thrives in rhythm, the part that loves the challenge of New York, the energy, the ambition, the never-ending momentum. But there are moments when I crave the quiet certainty of the Thames River bench, a reminder of my ability to be still, to exist without needing to chase the next mountain top. In London, I moved slower – I spent long afternoons walking aimlessly, thinking deeply, dreaming in quiet. Now in New York, I move with purpose, urgency, chasing things before they slip away.
Maybe this is why I find myself drawn to places like these, places that exist between two states, where motion meets pause, where solitude coexists within the presence of others. A bench, in its simplest form, is just a place to sit. But depending on where it is, it can be a place to reflect, to exist without expectation, to reconcile the versions of ourselves that are and once were.
London is like a love that lasts—steady, familiar, unwavering. It does not pull you in with fiery urgency, but it stays. It is the kind of love that offers certainty, something you can rely on, something that holds you without asking you to chase it. New York is like the passion of a first love – intense, unpredictable, consuming. It sweeps you up in its energy, its promise, its fire. It makes you feel like anything is possible, but it also demands everything from you. The city moves fast, like a heart racing in excitement, and if you’re not keeping up, it might leave you behind. Unlike the Hudson bench, where time rushes forward with urgency and momentum, the Thames bench rests in a world where time unfolds gently – stretched across decades rather than moments.
I do not know if I belong more to the fast, unpredictable rhythm of the Hudson River or the steady, timeless flow of the Thames. One pushes me forward, ignites my ambition, dares me to chase more, to be more. The other grounds me, slows me down, reminds me to breathe, to exist, loves me as I am. But maybe the real question is: which love do I want? Because in the end, you can’t sit in two places at once.
I’m a Portuguese writer currently based in New York, where I balance my days between studying, working, and writing before sunrise. My creative nonfiction centers around themes of identity, belonging, and the quiet moments that shape who we become. I’m drawn to the emotional landscapes of place and memory, and my work often reflects the tension between movement and stillness, ambition and introspection.