Slow down. Just for a minute.

Peaceful is not a word to describe New York City.

If it isn’t commuters bashing you with briefcases on the Metro (polite apologies aplenty up and down the carriages), it’s tourists elbowing you as they open their magic-carpet maps, dutifully guiding them to landmarks; checking off their city must-sees before they catch the red-eye back to reality. Visiting The Big Apple? Check out our 3-day, 5-day and 7-day itineraries, ‘we’ll fill every moment, don’t worry!’.

Why do we do this? This rushing thing? Why are we late more often than not? Why don’t we give ourselves enough time to actually enjoy? Of course I’m using the Royal ‘we’, because fourteen days into my city trip, and I’m still a culprit of this tangle of tube chasing, pretzel scoffing, sight cramming madness. I have lists on top of lists on top of lists. Go here this day, see that another day, do this when it’s raining.

Then something made me stop.

I emerged from Cortlandt St Metro station and hurried towards the end of the queue. After a forty-five minute wait in the sunshine, I was given my free ticket. I made my donation and slipped on the complimentary wrist band to prove I’d been generous.

I had forty minutes to spare until my ticket would be valid, so I wandered. I wasn’t really aware of which direction I should go, but already knew that I needed to walk slowly, take everything in. And then I understood. I’d been on it the whole time.

Ground Zero.

This is where it all happened, fifteen years ago.

If you take a trip to NYC, do not leave without meandering through the memorial ground. Stay a while. Listen to the water, the only entity that should be rushing, gushing over the edges of the twin reflecting pools. Walk around each one, touch the names lasered into the cool bronze. Whether or not you know them individually, you’ll still connect with them as one, as a nation. You’ll look up and envisage those legendary Twin Towers, building a picture brick by brick in your mind. You’ll imagine standing in the shadows of their glass walls as they block out the sun. Today though, the sky is open and the sun continues to warm you into the early hours of the evening. In terms of square foot, this may not be the most open space in the city, but it sure feels like it should be.

You might arrive at this sacred place with every intention of waltzing through those museum doors, eager to learn and immerse yourself in the tales of all those affected; from police dogs labouring through embers and rubble, to lives lost and left behind. But when it’s time for you to put one foot in front of the other and join the back of the five o’clock line, you might realise that you don’t want to. But that’s okay. You don’t have to go to the museum. Nobody is judging you. That’s the beauty of this memorial. You’re already there, sucked in by the empty space, standing in that grove of trees and running water; you can sense the heat, the dust, the noise.

You might reflect on your own life. Your own experiences. Regrets. Faults. Bad choices. The epiphany that none of it matters. Because here you are, breathing fresh air. Alive.

This post was written to the sound of Bastille’s twenty-sixteen album, Wild World.