The waiter at Emporium Brasil provided excellent service tonight. After learning that neither my friend nor I had ever eaten Brazilian cuisine before, he offered some recommendations and ensured that the cook staff knew that we would be sharing the dishes. After pulling a second table next to ours, he unloaded the cart of the various plates—main courses there, yucca flour here, sectioned tangerines there, extra black beans here, etc.—and then identified each dish.

The meal was delicious. (We ordered the “Filé de Peixe com Camarão, Abóbora e Leite-de-Coco”, which is the red snapper, and “Feijoada”, which is the dried beef with black beans. For dessert, we enjoyed cheesecake with a super sweet guava sauce.)

My dinner date was a friend from Seattle who has been in New York City for the past week for a conference. The last time I saw her was at our residency graduation.

Well, technically, I saw her two days ago for dinner. (At Joe’s Shanghai. Please note that the Joe’s Shanghai in Chinatown and the Joe’s Shanghai in Midtown provide vastly different dining experiences. The one in Chinatown embodies the typical Chinese dining experience: it’s crowded, loud, cash only, and you’ll probably end up sharing a table with strangers. The one in Midtown has crystal chandeliers, the waiters are all wearing tuxedo-like uniforms, and most of the patrons are Caucasian tourists. Just saying. Soup dumplings are mighty tasty in both locales.)

To my surprise and relief, my friend had similar impressions of New York as I did when I first moved here. And I was surprised to note that, even though I still identify myself as a (now clandestine) tourist, that’s no longer really true. I’ve kinda gotten used to the city. Sort of.

Maybe it’s because I’m in New York City, maybe it’s because of coinciding variables, but many more people have visited me in New York than they ever did when I lived in Seattle. Reuniting with friends from past and present is a delight, of course, though it also highlights the routine distance that separates us.

When my friend and I said farewell this evening, she headed back to her hotel and I walked away towards Grand Central Terminal. We parted at the corner of 5th Avenue and 45th Street. Tourists were ambling up and down 5th Avenue with bags from Lord and Taylor (which does not have a presence on the West Coast), Barnes and Noble, and H&M. Working types—in suits, overalls, or high heels—hurried past, clutching a Blackberry or a tired, overstuffed bag in one hand. We both disappeared into the crowd, once again anonymous and lost in the noise of the busy city.

I don’t know when I shall see her again. I am confident that I will, but given that we now live on opposite sides of the country, our opportunities to meet for dinner are limited.

And this amazing city so full of people underscores the importance of these relationships and the fleeting nature of connection. The city is already cacophonous: Cars and buses honk, subways rattle underneath the grates, young men and women solicit passersby to attend events, people are shouting into their cell phones, high heels clack on the pavement, the sound of sizzling meat rises from the food carts on the street. People walk around, seemingly lost in their own thoughts, blocking out the noise with earbuds or through conversations on the phone.

How much more noise would we all hear if we could hear the thoughts of others? What about all of those concerns, worries, hopes, fears, and wishes that we all carry around in our heads that we rarely share, if at all, with others? Many people in New York are, on the one hand, so eager to connect with others: Think about all of those strangers who strike up conversations about nothing in practically any location you can imagine. Think of all the eye contact, intrusive or not, that happens while people are out and about. On the other hand, many people in New York guard themselves and isolate themselves behind fierce facades or icons of status: These are the people who have earbuds in their ears, sunglasses over their eyes, and make no eye contact with anyone. Think of the people who wear high fashion, slip into bars and restaurants that involve hurdles for entry, and sit alone in Towncars to go to work.

We all waver between these two points, of course. Sometimes we want to connect with other people. Sometimes we want to be alone. (Not everyone, though, wants high fashion and the accoutrements that accompany that.)

The presence of so many people—strangers!—in this city remind me of the intimacy I do share with those I like and love. And though I do feel sad when these shared moments come to an end, the realization that these moments will come again—whether with someone new or already known—brings comfort.