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Why We Go To Cabarets

By Ellin Mackay

Read the 1999 essay that made Anthony Bourdain famous

Bourdain’s first big essay shows off all the things that would make him a great food celebrity.

by Constance Grady

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Before Anthony Bourdain was a TV host, he was a memoirist. And before he was a memoirist — before Kitchen Confidential , before Medium Raw — he was an essayist.

Actually, technically, Bourdain was first a novelist and a short-story writer. “My lust for print knows no bounds,” he wrote on a submission to the downtown literary journal Between C & D in 1985 . In 1995, he published Bone in the Throat , a crime novel set in the restaurant world, and in 1997 a follow-up, Gone Bamboo . Both novels disappeared quickly and quietly.

Bourdain’s writing career truly began to take off with a 1999 essay for the New Yorker. Titled “Don’t Eat Before Reading This,” the piece forms the basis of what would later become Kitchen Confidential — and in its pages, you can see all the elements of Bourdain’s distinctive, charismatic persona already in place.

The essay is framed as advice to a restaurant-goer from someone who knows: Order fish on Tuesday, when it’s fresh and the chef is well-rested from his day off. Never order your food well done, because that’s where kitchen staffs get rid of the worst of their meat. (“The philistine who orders his food well-done is not likely to notice the difference between food and flotsam,” Bourdain explains.) Chicken is for people who can’t make up their minds, but pork is fantastic. At a good restaurant, there will be a stick of butter in every meal.

The savvy insider knowledge is fun, but what really makes the essay pop is Bourdain’s unmistakable voice. There’s lots of bad-boy posturing — Bourdain throws around Spanish obscenities with relish and boasts of the “powerful strain of criminality” in the restaurant industry — and it’s all mixed in with a sensualist’s genuine appreciation for and love of food.

“Good food, good eating, is all about blood and organs, cruelty and decay,” Bourdain writes. “It’s about sodium-loaded pork fat, stinky triple-cream cheeses, the tender thymus glands and distended livers of young animals.”

And that was the food world that Bourdain helped create and make wildly fashionable: one in which eaters could unabashedly celebrate their food, and the insistent physical fact of it.

• Anthony Bourdain, chef, memoirist, and TV host, is dead at 61 years old

You can read the entirety of “Don’t Eat Before Reading This” on the New Yorker’s website .

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My Unraveling

I had my health. i had a job. and then, abruptly, i didn’t..

This article was featured in One Great Story , New York ’s reading recommendation newsletter. Sign up here to get it nightly.

Let’s begin with an action scene: I was in midair, tumbling sideways, heading for the floor of the Columbus Circle subway station. Not a place I wanted to be. Where I wanted to be was on the downtown 1, five or ten yards away, doors standing open. I’d made this connection more than a thousand times, though usually getting off the 1, not on it.

This time, I was out of practice and I got it wrong. After stepping off the downtown B or C, I took the wrong stairway and had to double back to get over to the right side of the 1. When I climbed up the correct stairs, the stairs I used to fly down every morning, straight from the optimal train door on my precisely plotted commute, I saw the 1 arriving.

And then — well, if I knew exactly what happened, it wouldn’t have happened, would it? What I registered went like this: I sped up, or I meant to speed up. Someone cut across my path. I tried to steer around them and my legs … my legs did something else. Or did nothing. The extra walking and climbing had taken too much effort, and my intentions lost contact with my legs. I reached out and tried to brace myself on someone’s shoulder; they were wearing a black-on-white shirt; I was so undone I was trying to make physical contact with a total stranger on the subway platform . I missed. All that was left was to hit the station floor, so I did.

I rolled to my knees and discovered that was as far as I could make it. My legs couldn’t get me upright again. One guy streaming by broke stride, asked if I was okay, and hauled me to my feet. I checked myself: no torn clothes, no blood. Another 1 was pulling in, one minute behind the train I’d missed. I got on and went where I’d been going. I had just had a fall.

Old people have falls. I had only just turned 52 one week before the September evening I collapsed. But the year from 51 to 52 had been a remarkably bad one. I gambled on a job I wanted, as the editor-in-chief of a small magazine, and it ran out of funding. I sent applications to other publications and got thoughtful rejections. I sent more applications, and they went unanswered. I made an appeal for paid subscriptions at a newsletter I’d been writing. Its revenue flattened out at about 20 percent of my share of our living expenses. The household finances began to drain.

I picked up an adjunct gig, teaching a writing class on Zoom, three straight hours a shot, and the anxiety of filling the time — of giving the students what they were paying for — gathered into a lump in my upper torso until I couldn’t stand the taste of the herbal tea that was supposed to relax me and give me something to do with my hands on-camera. My shoulder locked up. I got pins and needles in my arm.

What was happening to me? I don’t go looking for medical-mystery articles in the newspaper, but when I see one, I read it end to end. The strangest things happen to other people’s bodies! Someone, if I remember right, fought a lingering cough for years because they accidentally inhaled a pea and forgot about it. The medical-mystery column has a beginning and a conclusion. In between is a fumble for clues, moving toward a flash of insight. Some doctor finally runs the right test, recollects the right journal article. The shapeless misery takes shape.

I went to see a shoulder specialist. He knew exactly what was wrong. I had trigger points, little knots in the muscle under the shoulder blade. He gave me some exercises — pin a tennis ball between the shoulder and the wall, lean back, and roll around on it — and a prescription for an anti-inflammatory. A few days later, I noticed my shoes were laced too tight when I tried to put them on. Another day and I made the connection: No, my feet were too big for my shoes. Google said that anti-inflammatories can cause swelling in the extremities, so I stopped taking the pills.

My feet kept swelling, day by day, until my pink ankles looked like deli hams and I started using a butter knife as a shoehorn. I’d reluctantly spent some money to order a new pair of canvas sneakers, off-white, for the spring and summer, and I left them in the box, unable to face the thought of jamming my distended feet into them. The pins and needles spread to both arms, like I’d slept on them funny, except the sensation lasted all day.

I could still type through the numbness, though, publishing what I could for what money I could get. I stopped buying myself things that seemed discretionary — the good oolong tea leaves, crushproof imported pocket notebooks, a new pair of jeans — but some spending had its own momentum. My wife’s family had booked an Airbnb in Italy for April. It would be our first vacation since before the pandemic, our middle-schooler’s first trip abroad since he was in an infant seat. It would have been absurd to cancel just because I was between jobs. My ankle ached on the clutch pedal of the rented Fiat. I brought along a folder of unfinished tax paperwork. The amount I owed the IRS would match, almost exactly, a big freelance check I was waiting on. The deposit went into and out of my account on the same day.

I went to my regular doctor, whom I’d bypassed on the shoulder thing. He was baffled at the symptoms and frank about his bafflement. Swollen feet can mean congestive heart failure, so he referred me to a cardiologist. She instructed me to walk and then run on an inclined treadmill, hopping on and off for ultrasound imaging of my heart. I have — had — always been extremely healthy without being physically fit, so while I didn’t enjoy the test, I still passed handily. My heart was strong and well.

Sometimes this kind of swelling just happens and then goes away, the cardiologist said. Whatever it is, you won’t die of it.

I’ve told the story over and over, to various doctors, till it almost sounds like a coherent narrative. When I drafted this passage, in the dark, by thumb, on a phone plugged into the USB socket of a hospital bed, I’d been telling it to several people a day: general practitioners, neurologists, rheumatologists, radiologists, nurses, physical therapists, medical aides, a dietitian, a surgeon. The story, I told them, happened in two parts. In the spring and summer, part one, I chased the swelling and numbness and other symptoms — stiff fingers, shortness of breath, tightness in the chest — in slow motion from doctor to doctor. Mostly, this was shepherded by the cardiologist, who seemed to feel as if, by ruling the problem not to be her business, she had made it her duty to discover whose business it might in fact be.

I saw a neurologist, who talked me into spending $700 from our high-deductible health plan on getting my muscles zapped with a little Taser and told me the results said I had carpal tunnel. I did have carpal tunnel, but not really, not because my terrible ergonomic habits had caught up with me. The swelling had simply gotten into my carpal tunnels for a while. I ignored his suggestions for exercises and supplements, and months later, in the hospital, I got an email telling me his practice was going out of business.

I saw a rheumatologist. He ordered a bunch of blood tests and suggested I take prednisone and something else. When I opened the paper bag from the pharmacy, I realized the something else was hydroxychloroquine , the malaria drug that had a moment in the news as a spurious COVID treatment. I took only the prednisone. My ankles stayed puffy. You could jab a finger into one and leave a dent that lingered.

Before this, my hands had been loose-skinned and a bit wrinkly, the one part of me going more visibly on ahead through middle age than the rest. My hands looked like my mom’s hands, and I would catch myself gazing at them sometimes and congratulate myself on my resignation to the realities of aging, the mortality of all flesh. Now my fingers resembled Italian sausage links, tight and shiny, with no reassuring philosophical overtones at all.

One symptom would fade and a new one would assert itself. My ankles deflated and I started wearing the new sneakers, but my breathing and stamina steadily worsened. A wheeze or cough would interrupt my talking. On the mile-long walk back from school with my younger son, the route we’d been taking for two years, I lagged behind, guiltily asking him to slow down. I started buying five-pound bags of rice from H Mart instead of ten-pound ones. Then I just started getting rice delivered.

Nobody cracked the puzzle. The folder of referrals and results I carried to appointments got thicker. My blood tested positive for signs of general inflammation and negative for the constellations of markers that would point to any particular inflammatory condition. I had not been bitten by any ticks; I had never gotten the Lyme rash or any other diagnostically meaningful rash. My fingers did not exhibit a telltale sign of turning stark white when they got cold. My chest X-ray and CT scan were clean. The closest thing to a breakthrough was basically an accident: During a routine vitals check, a nurse asked if I was holding my breath. I was sitting still, and my pulse-oximeter reading was refusing to go over 95 percent.

Normal is 95 and above. Below 90 is an emergency. I self-tested at home with a device on my finger. Light activity, like bustling around the kitchen, would knock my level down to 91. Walking a bag of groceries home and up the stairs dropped me to 87. At a medical center, I did breathing exercises with a mouthpiece in a sealed booth. I passed that test. I went to a pulmonologist and passed every test there, too. If you ignored the pulse-ox readings, my lungs and heart were, officially, fine.

There was zero explanation; there was, maybe, the absolutely obvious explanation: that I was stressing myself into this over money. We’d been absorbing plenty of strain in the household before I lost my job — some normal midlife stuff, some normal parent stuff, some abnormal and menacing stuff that I truly can’t even get into. Our black cat gnawed our potted prosperity bamboo to shreds. Trying to save it, we overwatered it until it rotted from the inside out.

It had not been the wisest time to choose an unstable job in a beyond-unstable field. If my time as an editor-in-chief had even been a job: I applied for unemployment, got rejected, and after months of appeal, the State of New York ruled that my past two full-time situations had been contract gigs, uncovered. I considered whether my illness could be a conversion disorder flowing from my misguided career choices. On some level, I believed the swelling would go down and the oxygen would go up as soon as I collected a few consecutive pay stubs from a normal, salaried job.

Back in the winter, I’d met up with a friendly fellow writer who happened to have just secured, through a different line of work, an amount of money that meant financial security forever. In theory, we were talking about ways to fund the job of mine that was about to run out of money, but we both knew that wouldn’t happen. “You’ve got a good reputation,” he said. “Someone will want you to work for them.”

This had been true enough before. I’d made myself a useful editor and a reasonably well-known writer over the years. I moved between jobs without much trouble, tending to get hired the way murderers in movies get hired: a message or phone call from someone who needed something done and who thought I could do it. Abruptly, all that my connections could offer were gigs. Someone needed a manuscript edited before they gave it to their book editor. A magazine wanted a book review. Work, but no jobs.

I kept applying for something stable. A notoriously lavish start-up loved my proposal for a mini-section within its soon-to-be-launched vertical until the sponsorship for the vertical failed to come through. A major media company advertised for a position that exactly fit my history, then withdrew the listing in the middle of an executive meltdown. A friend of a friend let me know that another major media company was ignoring my application because it wanted someone less opinionated. I started calling in favors, nagging people with whom my friendships had previously been non-transactional. It broke up the dead silence, at least.

My wife and I considered disaster scenarios in which the “disaster” was simply that things kept going the way they were going. We did the math on vacating our condo, finding tenants, and living in a cheaper rental. Maybe it was time to leave New York. But it wasn’t clear if we had enough savings to cover such a move. It wasn’t even clear if I had the physical energy to pack boxes. On the online job forms, there was usually a question about whether I, the applicant, identified as disabled. I paused longer and longer each time. Disabled? I was … less able. To do things. Than I’d been. For now? I clicked “no,” uncertainly.

Part two of the story is I got COVID. I’d avoided it for three years, but everyone is going to contract the virus sooner or later. It’s not worth the trouble, officially, to even politely suggest people should wear masks or to keep the public up to date on the rate of new cases. The pandemic is over, people keep on saying. You are free to make your own decisions about what risks to take individually without any useful information about the overall risk picture.

I’d been furious about this already on other people’s behalf. Most Americans, the Biden administration said, would be fine if they were vaccinated. This elided the people who wouldn’t be: the immunocompromised, for example, and those with certain respiratory conditions. The political and journalistic consensus had set the value of these people’s safety at zero, not even granting them the benefit of mask advisories or ventilation standards.

When I started hearing about the late-summer COVID wave, it occurred to me that now I was one of those people myself. This is what disability advocates have said all along, not that it usually sinks in: The able and the disabled aren’t two different kinds of people but the same people at different times. Last year, I was healthy; this year, I had a breathing ailment, even if nobody could say exactly what that ailment was.

I got Paxlovid delivered and sank into fever. The back of my throat was so raw I would wake up snorting for air. Rolling around in my bed, I felt, for the first time, that this body of mine truly was going to die someday. Not the abstract knowledge that death awaits all of us but the shocking awareness that eventually this system of veins and nerves and organs would lose its familiar stubborn equilibrium, cease functioning, and fail. I fixated on whales. They’re right out in New York Harbor. What if I used up my allotted time on the planet without ever laying eyes on a whale? I booked a whale-watching cruise for the family. Later, when the day came, it got canceled by a hurricane.

In August, when the acute COVID infection ran its course, I got out of bed and back on my feet. But after a week or two on the upswing, a whole new set of malfunctions took over. Routine movements burned as if I were doing deep stretching. I couldn’t get through a meal without a coughing fit from a lump of food getting stuck or a drink of water splashing the wrong way. Saliva accumulated in my mouth till I had to go to the sink and spit. I ate more slowly and stopped getting seconds, feeling like I was in one of those testimonials about the new anti-obesity drugs, in which people tell how their motivation to keep eating has disappeared. I was far past needing or wanting any weight loss. My sedentary midlife flab had long since ebbed away, and now I was losing something else, down ten pounds in a month. Maybe, the cardiologist said, eyeing my scrawny limbs and loose clothes, I should consider checking into a hospital. Just so I could get all my testing coordinated in one place.

It was only a thought, one that dissipated as I sought out second opinions. The medical-mystery column doesn’t usually dwell on how slowly the inquiry goes in our fractured health-care system. How the highly recommended pulmonologist doesn’t return the first phone call and only has an opening five months away, and how the major-medical center does have an appointment but isn’t in network with the major-medical insurer. How the chest X-ray is over by the East River and the breathing booth is in the West 160s and the phlebotomist is by Columbia, and how each one has its own online portal for billing and results.

Every day, my legs were harder to move. Climbing in the door of an SUV, I couldn’t lift my rear foot over the threshold until I reached down with my hands and pulled it in. Then the grab-and-lift maneuver became necessary to step into my pants. I had to ask the kids to pull pots and cutting boards out of the bottom kitchen cabinets for me. I gave up bedtime-story duty, crawling into bed each night before anyone else, half-hearing my wife’s voice reading in the next room, feeling myself fading out of my own life. I imagined living in a world and a class where a person could retreat to a sanatorium and shut everything down until the problem was figured out.

I stopped leaving the apartment. The project of washing left me needing to lie down. One morning, or possibly afternoon, it took me four or five tries to shrug my way into my bathrobe, nearly overcome by the weight and friction. I gave up on shaving, and the rattiest stubble of my life took over my chin. The kids were put in charge of the cat box because I couldn’t reach that corner of the bathroom anymore, but one night I got down on the floor to help and when we were done I couldn’t stand up. I didn’t even know how to start to try. Eventually, my wife grabbed me under the armpits from behind and hauled me most of the way upright while I gabbled warnings about my legs giving way.

Two different realities or images stood superimposed in my mind. There was the body I’d occupied two months ago — my body , as I understood it — walking over to Broadway for pizza, taking the younger boy to the basketball courts, ducking into Central Park to climb the Great Hill. And then there was Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World , a gaunt figure dragging her useless legs along the ground. If this was histrionic or self-pitying, it seemed less so on the days when I couldn’t raise my hips up off the floor. The only thing that still felt more or less normal was sitting at a desk, doing the work I was trying to get someone to pay me to do.

Meanwhile, in the span of time that it took a newspaper to move one step down its hiring checklist from a Zoom interview to an edit test, a law school in a small southern town progressed from sending my wife a preliminary inquiry to making her a tenured job offer with a part-time teaching slot for me thrown in. We booked a visit for the family to see if we could really live there. As the trip came closer, we realized there was simply no way I could walk through an airport. The rest of the family would have to scout out our possible future while I stayed home.

As they prepared to go, my GP called with the results of my latest bloodwork. A normal range for creatine kinase, a marker of muscle breakdown, might be between 30 and 200 units per liter. A new test said my level was 8,000. The reason my muscles felt so weak was that they were actively dissolving into my bloodstream.

I wrapped up a job-recruiting call, threw my glasses and contact-lens case into a shoulder bag, and booked an Uber to the emergency room. My wife took my sons to see about the job. It was unclear which of us was going to the place that would offer a solution.

In the hospital, the medical mystery falls into an awkward, indeterminate zone. Between the fall and the choking and the creatine kinase, my story qualified me as a definite emergency when I shuffled up to the admission desk. But it was a conundrum to be solved, not as straightforward and urgent as a stroke or broken hip. The staff put me in a wheelchair and parked me in a walkway lined with other people in wheelchairs. The hospital was beyond full. There were genuinely not any open beds, not only as an administrative category but as literal objects to lie down on. I spent my first night on a gurney in the ER observation section, fully dressed and still in my shoes. To avoid catching anything else, I kept a mask on, the elastic digging into my ears.

On the second day, I got a bed and changed into two layers of hospital gowns. My clothes and my new sneakers went into a pair of plastic patient-possession bags. Doctors came by, individually and in teams, with blue gloves on, to test my muscles. Squeeze my fingers. Push up against my hand with your knee. Stick out your elbows and don’t let me push them down. The closer the blue gloves came to the middle of my body, the worse I did.

The doctors had questions. Had I been hiking at all back in the spring, when my troubles started? No? Was I sure? Not even in Central Park? This was about Lyme disease again, of course. I knew about Lyme, and the ever-growing literature of people’s struggles with Lyme, and the whole elusive post-Lyme complex. But I also still knew, as solidly as I could know any fact about my health, that I had not been bitten by any ticks. One doctor after another asked me to blink my eyes, harder, over and over, watching for the lids to droop from fatigue, which might mean myasthenia gravis. My lids did not droop.

ER time took over, with “day” and “night” merely more or less busy spells in an unbroken atmosphere of fluorescent lights and beeping. A 24-hour flight in coach, a 48-hour flight in coach, a 72-hour flight in coach. The patient behind the curtain to my right kept his TV blaring all night, cycling episodes of the same forensic true-crime show: some ghastly rape or murder, the bafflement of investigators, the infallibility of scientific evidence coming to the rescue. The Kars-4-Kids jingle playing in between.

My obvious risks — choking, falling — had standard countermeasures: puréed meals and caution-yellow nonslip socks with a matching wristband that read FALL RISK. For treatment, there was nothing but big bags of IV fluids to flush out the creatine kinase while keeping my underlying symptoms untouched, the better for accurate testing and observation. The creatine kinase went down to 5,000, back up to 6,000, down again. The staff rolled me away to a chest X-ray, a thyroid ultrasound, a contrast CT scan, an MRI. Wheeling down the hall toward an echocardiogram, I passed the neurology team going the other way, misconnecting on a planned meeting. I never talked to them again.

A real hospital room, outside the ER, opened up in the late afternoon on the fourth day, a Saturday. It was on the tenth floor with a window looking uptown over the top of Central Park. I could see the boathouse by the Harlem Meer, but not the water itself, because the trees were so thick and green. I wondered, tempting fate, what it might look like when the colors turned.

My new roommate, a friendly, stooped figure, was in agony for non-mysterious reasons — a manageable condition that had gone unmanaged because the treatments cost too much money. The problem-solving sessions on his side of our shared curtain, with the doctors and social workers, were about which programs or policies might help him if he and his family could sort them out.

For me, evidence and theories kept trickling in. Doctors would come by and mention some finding, or my phone would give an automated notice that a new lab result had arrived and I would Google as best I could. Open tabs accumulated on my phone: RNP antibodies, rheumatoid arthritis, polymyositis, mixed connective tissue disease . (“The overall ten-year survival rate is about 80 percent.”) I was negative for hepatitises B and C, negative for Sjögren’s-syndrome antibodies, negative for syphilis, negative for Lyme ( told you ) — negative for most things, as I’d been all along. The speed with which my muscles were falling apart seemed to be, in some sense, good news, meaning that I probably wasn’t going through one of the more gradual neurological degenerations like ALS.

Down in radiology, I took a swallowing test, a three-course flight of barium snacks: a thick barium drink, spoonfuls of barium marshmallow fluff, then bites of the barium fluff on a graham cracker, consumed one after another on live X-ray video. There was my jaw, my tongue, my hyoid bone, and there were clots of barium-tinged food getting visibly hung up short of the esophagus, behind the tongue, in little pockets of underperforming pharyngeal muscle. None of the food, however, was obstructing my windpipe. It meant I was eligible to trade in puréed green beans for individual green beans, French-toast paste for ordinary French toast.

A provisional unifying idea took shape. More and more, the conversations circled back to one form or another of myositis: an autoimmune attack on my proximal muscles. If the muscles were the essence of the problem, then my oxygen troubles could have been a muscle problem all along too, a creeping weakness in the diaphragm. The swallowing trouble would be the muscle problem appearing in the pharynx. The swollen ankles and knuckles — well, those weren’t quite muscle problems, but they also were no longer a pressing concern. What I needed, urgently, was a muscle biopsy, one that might tell the doctors exactly how that part of me was going wrong.

It was my bad luck, the attending doctor said at my bedside, to be an interesting case. Our meetings had a tone of rueful amusement. Yes, I was in pain and reeking from infrequent showering, but we could talk about the unresolved mystery and its submysteries with a certain detachment. My oxygen levels were behaving themselves. No one knew where that problem had gone, nor why my voice had suddenly gone faint and reedy.

My wife was back from the job-scouting trip, but she’d picked up a foot infection and was stuck in the apartment, taking antibiotics. The boys trooped across the park to bring me my laptop. They were visibly alarmed by how gaunt and shaky I was. I took them on a shuffling tour to a long back hallway lined with sleek, derelict equipment, with a window facing out on a black monolith of a building, to show them how much it looked like Andor . We shared the crunchy, startlingly good French fries on my dinner tray. I couldn’t have swallowed that many on my own.

Now that I had the computer, I rummaged through test results and image scans on the hospital information portal. I could navigate this way and that through the inside of my own body on the CT or MRI files, moving the cutaway to watch the stark white rib cage flow into the spine. My thoracic aorta was “normal in caliber and course.” My right iliac bone had a “tiny sclerotic focus” that was probably a “bone island.” My muscles were all fucked up:

Diffuse STIR hyperintense signal throughout the visualized musculature of the pelvis and thighs as well as partially visualized portions of the paraspinal muscles of the lower back, including the quadriceps muscle (vastus lateralis, medialis, intermedius), hamstrings, iliacus, psoas major, gluteus medius and minimus, pubococcygeal muscles, adductor muscles, highly suggestive of systemic myositis in the appropriate clinical setting.

I knew this, implicitly. It was apparent every time a nurse or technician asked me to scoot a little in my bed and my psoas major or adductor or the rest simply wouldn’t do the scooting. The most minimal movements were the most impossible. It was easier to clamber out of bed, take a six-inch step, and clamber back in at the new spot than to shift my body. If my pillow slipped down to the small of my back, there was no retrieving it.

A perverse rule of medical technology is the more you scan, the more you discover, whether those discoveries matter or not. The imaging reports noted a “small hiatal hernia”: Google said a weakened diaphragm could cause that. I had an “underdistended stomach,” as would anyone who was expected to eat French-toast paste. My liver was “prominent in size,” which qualified as “hepatomegaly.” My lower lungs had “minimal mild reticular opacities.”

One discovery was notable, or might have been. A night-shift doctor brought it up offhandedly, as if someone else must have already mentioned it: The ultrasound had picked up a nodule on my thyroid. Could it be squeezing my trachea? Could it be cancer? Could it be nothing? Sure. A little more inspection and the nodule became nodules, plural, the largest being a nearly inch-long sausage on the thyroid isthmus, salient and crying out for analysis. The thyroid-biopsy team swooped in during lunchtime, chatty and armed with portable gear for working at my bedside. One person tracked down the sausage with an ultrasound wand against my neck while another jackhammered away at it with a tiny needle. They prepared the samples in little vessels of brightly colored liquids laid out in the sun on the windowsill. The technicians eyeballed the cells on a microscope set up in the hallway and declared that nothing looked obviously malignant. My thyroid itself, they said, showed “lymphocytic thyroiditis.” Also known as Hashimoto’s disease, although who could say, here, whether it was a disease unto itself or a manifestation of some greater disease. The question was bigger than the thyroid.

Now there was almost nothing left to do but the muscle biopsy. Ten stories up turned out to be cruising altitude for hawks, wheeling by the window in the sunlight, borne along on the fresh autumn breezes. I gave my daily samples of blood. I sent some follow-up emails about jobs. The procedure was scheduled for Thursday, my ninth day in the hospital, in the last slot of the afternoon.

As the time came closer, I began to apprehend an uncomfortable truth. The actual medical mystery wasn’t about anything inside me. It was whether the tests were going to point to some far side of this where I got my life back. Was there a future where I could walk out the door on Sunday morning in decent shoes and make it to church? Where I could pick up heavy groceries to put a three-course meal on the family dinner table? Where we could rent a rowboat? Where I was a helpful and economically viable member of the household?

The operating team drew a mark on my right thigh and put me under sedation. When I came around, I was still in the operating room. My wound was neatly sewn up but the team was on the phone with the pathologists, who wanted to discuss whether they’d taken a big enough chunk of my leg. Pleasantly high and feeling fantastic, I assured everyone it was fine if they wanted to go back and get more. You know — While we’re here, happy to oblige. They decided against it, and off I went to recovery. It was the nicest feeling I’d had in weeks. I looked at my hands and I could believe the old familiar wrinkles were coming back.

Later on, it felt as if someone had sliced open my thigh, since they had — an additional stabbing pain tucked inside the usual burning pain when I used my quadriceps. But that was tolerable. I was finished with being a test subject. All the possible diagnoses pointed to the same treatment, anyway, so the next morning, I got a syringe of steroids pushed into my IV, chased with a cold squirt of saline to make sure every drop went through. I was a patient, trying to get well. Within hours, maybe, my thigh muscles seemed a little less dead than before. That afternoon, I limped off to the bathroom, pulled the shower chair out of the shower, and sat down to make a job interview call, away from any beeping machines or doctor visits. At least it wasn’t a Zoom.

Out the window, I could see magenta and gold in the tree canopy of Central Park. It was deep enough into October for that now. My creatine kinase dropped from 6,200 to 4,500 overnight, then headed for the 3,000s, a level a person could go home with. Whatever had made my immune system start tearing up my muscles, the steroids seemed to be making it slow down. That’s what they were: immunosuppressive drugs, to be followed over time by other, different immunosuppressives. If all went well, I would trade being an actively sick person for being an immunocompromised one.

The blue-gloved muscle checks resumed. Oh, yes: Much stronger in the legs. I took a lap around the ward. I spent less time in bed and more in a chair. I booked another job call with maybe some steroids-laced overconfidence. My wife, with a counteroffer from her current employer in hand, turned down the southern school.

Normal life, or whatever would stand in for normal, was calling. On my 15th day, with the pathology report on my leg sample still a work in progress, the last sparkling dregs of a fat bottle of immunoglobulin filtered into my veins. The two-day infusion was the final piece of treatment that had required hospital care. I was free to go. When the IV came out of my arm, I dug out my things from the closet and got dressed. Clean pants and a clean T-shirt over my poorly cleaned body. My eyes in the mirror were sunken, my neck withered. Nonstop mask wearing had scraped the bridge of my nose raw, and my ratty stubble was now a full ratty Vandyke, the chin shot through with gray. I peeled off my last pair of grimy yellow nonslip socks and wrestled my way into my own regular socks.

Now the shoes. I’d been imagining how this would feel for days. I reached into the hospital bag for my canvas sneakers and pulled them out. They were mashed out of shape and … damp to the touch? Damp to the touch. Had something spilled into the bag, somehow, or was it just residual sweat? Either way, they had been sealed in plastic with it for two weeks. Flecks of mold had sprung up on the otherwise new-looking insoles.

There was nothing to do but wear them. I would be taking myself home. The hospital had sent my prescriptions to the nearest pharmacy for me to pick up on my way out. A string of robocalls and human calls then informed me that the branch did not, in fact, have all the meds I needed, specifically the steroids. My wife headed across town to another location, where the computer indicated there were enough steroid pills to last me three days.

The nurse who’d unplugged me reappeared with a sheaf of papers: I was discharged. No final consultation with any of the doctors. The nurse asked if I wanted a wheelchair. I figured I might as well start walking.

By the time I reached the ground floor of the hospital with my bags, I understood that had been a mistake. My room had been on the west side of the building; the pharmacy was on the east, an entire avenue over. I walked a few yards down the vast hallway, paused for a stricken moment, then walked a few more. I couldn’t wipe out again. Stopping and going, I made it to the east side of the building, down a short flight of steps, and out. Numbly, I trudged up the sidewalk in the quickly fading twilight, clutching my papers. It dawned on me that I still didn’t have a diagnosis.

I despise those stories where a writer tells you all about some mystery for thousands of words and then fails to deliver the solution. Usually with some metaphysical vamping about the unknowability of all things. What are you even telling anyone about it for? But I didn’t have an answer, and I still don’t. It would be more than another week before the pathology report came back. My muscles, it said, showed “myopathy with scattered necrotic myofibers in the absence of significant lymphocytic inflammatory infiltrates.” I couldn’t raise a doctor on the phone to talk about it. Whoever wrote the report had floated a whole new possibility, “antisynthetase syndrome,” to go with the other possibilities still bobbing around. The hospital rheumatologists, weeks later, would stick with polymyositis; a different myositis expert would propose “immune-mediated necrotizing myopathy.” A neurologist would suggest “lupus-myositis overlap syndrome.”

Medicine hasn’t really solved for the body attacking itself. Since the inflammation first brought me to the rheumatologist months before, I’d been quietly bracing for an answer that wouldn’t feel like an answer. An authoritative-sounding name like scleroderma would come up, and Googling would fill in non-detail details like “no cure” and “symptoms vary” and “don’t know exactly what causes this process to begin.” The thing that had taken me apart was something rare and diffuse, its effects almost certainly melded with those of the coronavirus. I was on my own with it. I was three weeks behind on a freelance editing gig, and November’s bills were cycling into view. In January, an endocrinologist had an opening to see about my thyroid.

The pharmacy window was, as pharmacy windows are, all the way at the back of the store. An incredible distance. A terrifying distance, alone on my shaky legs. I put out a hand to steady myself against the shelves along the way, and waiting in line I just grabbed on. I said my name to the pharmacist as clearly as my cracked voice could muster, got the pills, and retraced the long path to the door.

It was fully night now. As I stepped outside the pharmacy vestibule, I saw an empty taxi coming up the block, preparing to turn the corner. Memory and instinct said it was mine: Two or three long, quick strides to the curb and a sharply upthrust hand would catch the driver’s eye. My body knew otherwise. I ventured a short step, not even to the middle of the sidewalk, and the taxi went on by my half-raised arm.

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I Got Published In The New Yorker: Tips And Insights From A Successful Submitter

Getting your writing published in the prestigious pages of The New Yorker is a career-defining accomplishment for any writer or journalist. The magazine’s legendary selectivity and rigorous editing process means that just landing an article, short story or poem in The New Yorker is a major success worthy of celebrating. But how does one actually go about getting published there? In this comprehensive guide, we share insider tips and hard-won lessons from someone who successfully made it into the hallowed pages of The New Yorker.

If you’re short on time, here’s a quick answer to your question: The keys to getting published in The New Yorker are 1) Target your submissions carefully by deeply understanding the magazine’s voice and sections, 2) Perfect and polish your best work before submitting, and 3) Persist through rejection after rejection until an acceptance finally comes through .

In the sections below, we’ll share everything I learned and did along my journey to New Yorker publication, from how I identified what to pitch and submit, to handling those inevitable rejection slips, to working with editors once a piece was accepted. I’ll also pass along wisdom from New Yorker staff and other successful contributors. Whether you’re a writer who dreams of seeing your name under those distinctive cartoons and columns, or simply curious about the submission process, use this guide to gain real-world insights into achieving the writing milestone of getting into The New Yorker.

Understanding The New Yorker’s Editorial Needs

Getting published in The New Yorker is a dream for many writers. With its prestigious reputation and high editorial standards, it’s no wonder that aspiring authors aim to see their work in its pages. To increase your chances of success, it’s important to understand The New Yorker’s editorial needs.

Here are some tips and insights to help you navigate the submission process.

Studying the different sections of the magazine

The New Yorker is known for its diverse range of content, covering topics such as fiction, poetry, essays, cartoons, and more. To better understand what the magazine is looking for, it’s essential to study the different sections and get a sense of their style and themes.

Spend time reading through past issues and familiarize yourself with the types of pieces that are typically published in each section.

For example, if you are interested in submitting fiction, read stories from previous issues to get a feel for the kind of narratives that resonate with The New Yorker’s readership. Pay attention to the tone, language, and themes explored in these stories.

This will give you valuable insights into what the editors are looking for and help you tailor your submission accordingly.

Reading issues like an editor

When reading The New Yorker, approach it with an editor’s mindset. Take note of the articles, essays, or poems that stand out to you and analyze what makes them compelling. Consider the structure, writing style, and unique perspectives that make these pieces successful.

By doing this, you’ll start to develop an understanding of the editorial preferences and tendencies of The New Yorker.

Additionally, pay attention to the topics and subject matters covered in the magazine. Are there any recurring themes or areas of interest? Understanding the magazine’s editorial direction will help you align your work with their needs and increase your chances of catching the attention of the editors.

Remember, The New Yorker receives an overwhelming number of submissions, so it’s crucial to stand out from the crowd. By studying the different sections of the magazine and reading issues like an editor, you’ll be better equipped to tailor your submission to meet The New Yorker’s editorial needs.

Crafting Your Best New Yorker-Worthy Submissions

Submitting your work to The New Yorker can be a daunting task, but with the right approach and a little bit of luck, you too can see your writing published in this prestigious magazine. Here are some tips and insights to help you craft your best New Yorker-worthy submissions:

Matching your writing style to The New Yorker’s voice

One of the most important aspects of getting published in The New Yorker is understanding and matching their distinctive voice and style. The magazine is known for its sophisticated and witty writing, so it’s essential to familiarize yourself with their articles and essays.

Pay attention to the tone, language, and overall vibe of the pieces they publish. This will give you a better understanding of what they are looking for in submissions.

Additionally, don’t be afraid to inject your own personality and unique perspective into your writing. The New Yorker appreciates fresh and original voices, so find a way to stand out while still staying true to their style.

Experiment with different writing techniques and incorporate elements of humor or satire if it aligns with your work.

Creating multiple targeted drafts

When submitting to The New Yorker, it’s crucial to tailor your drafts specifically for the magazine. Avoid sending the same piece to multiple publications without making any modifications. Instead, create different versions of your work, each targeted towards a specific theme or section of the magazine.

Research the different sections of The New Yorker and identify the ones that best align with your writing. Whether it’s fiction, poetry, essays, or cultural commentary, each section has its own unique requirements.

Take the time to understand what they are looking for in each category and adapt your writing accordingly.

Remember, quality is key. Take the time to polish your drafts and make sure they are the best representation of your work. Proofread for grammar and spelling errors, and consider seeking feedback from writing groups or trusted friends.

The more effort you put into crafting targeted and well-written submissions, the better your chances of catching the attention of The New Yorker’s editors.

For more information and inspiration, you can visit The New Yorker’s official website at www.newyorker.com . Their website provides valuable resources, including writing guidelines and examples of previously published work, which can further guide you in crafting your best New Yorker-worthy submissions.

Submitting Your Work and Handling Rejections

Submitting your work to The New Yorker or any other prestigious publication can be an exciting but nerve-wracking experience. However, with the right approach and mindset, you can increase your chances of success.

Here are some valuable tips and insights to help you navigate the submission process and handle rejections with grace.

Following submission guidelines closely

One of the most important aspects of submitting your work to The New Yorker is to follow their submission guidelines closely. The guidelines are there for a reason, and not adhering to them could result in your work being rejected without even being considered.

Take the time to carefully read and understand the guidelines, and make sure your submission meets all the specified requirements. This includes formatting, word count, and any other specific instructions given by the publication.

Furthermore, it’s worth noting that The New Yorker is known for having a unique style and voice. Familiarize yourself with the publication by reading previous issues and understanding their editorial preferences.

This will help you tailor your submission to align with their aesthetic and increase your chances of acceptance.

Persisting through inevitable rejections

Receiving a rejection letter can be disheartening, but it’s important not to let it discourage you from continuing to submit your work. Even the most successful writers have faced numerous rejections throughout their careers.

Remember, rejection is not a reflection of your talent or worth as a writer; it’s simply a part of the publishing process.

Instead of dwelling on rejections, use them as an opportunity to learn and improve. Take the feedback provided, if any, and consider it constructively. Reflect on your work, make revisions if necessary, and keep submitting. The more you persist, the higher your chances of eventually getting published.

It’s all about perseverance and resilience.

Additionally, it can be helpful to join writing communities or seek support from fellow writers who have experienced rejection themselves. Sharing your experiences and discussing strategies can provide valuable insights and encouragement.

Remember, every successful writer has faced rejection at some point in their journey. It’s how you handle those rejections and continue to refine your craft that will ultimately lead to success. So, don’t give up, keep submitting, and one day you may see your work in the pages of The New Yorker or any other publication you aspire to be a part of.

Working Successfully with New Yorker Editors

Expecting rigorous editing of accepted pieces.

One of the key aspects of working with New Yorker editors is understanding and embracing the rigorous editing process that your accepted piece will go through. The New Yorker has a longstanding reputation for its high editorial standards, and they take great care in refining and polishing every piece of work that gets published.

This means that as a writer, you should be prepared for multiple rounds of revisions and feedback from the editors. Don’t be discouraged or take it personally if your piece undergoes significant changes during the editing process .

It’s all part of the collaborative effort to ensure that the final product meets the publication’s standards.

Collaborating professionally during the refinement process

When working with New Yorker editors, it’s crucial to maintain a professional and collaborative attitude throughout the refinement process. Listen to and consider their feedback carefully , as they have a wealth of experience and insight into what works best for their publication.

Be open to suggestions and be willing to make revisions that align with the overall vision of the piece. Remember, the goal is to create the best possible version of your work that resonates with The New Yorker’s audience.

During the collaboration, it’s important to communicate effectively and promptly . Respond to emails or requests for revisions in a timely manner, and make sure to ask for clarification if there’s something you don’t understand.

Be respectful of the editors’ time and workload and show your appreciation for their expertise and guidance.

While working with New Yorker editors can be an intense and demanding process, it is also an incredibly rewarding one. The collaboration and refinement of your work with experienced professionals can help elevate your writing to new heights and increase your chances of getting published in one of the most prestigious literary magazines in the world.

Maximizing the Benefits of Being a New Yorker Contributor

Getting published in The New Yorker is a dream come true for many writers. It not only gives you the satisfaction of seeing your work in one of the most prestigious literary magazines in the world, but it also opens up a world of opportunities for your writing career.

Here are some tips and insights on how to maximize the benefits of being a New Yorker contributor.

Adding a New Yorker credit to your writing portfolio

Having a New Yorker credit in your writing portfolio is like having a golden stamp of approval. It instantly elevates your credibility as a writer and catches the attention of literary agents, publishers, and other industry professionals.

When showcasing your New Yorker publication, be sure to highlight it prominently in your portfolio, whether it’s a physical or online version.

Include a brief description of the piece you had published, and if possible, provide a direct link to the article or a PDF version. This allows potential clients or employers to read your work easily and see the quality of your writing firsthand.

Remember to update your portfolio regularly with any new New Yorker publications to keep it fresh and relevant.

Leveraging the prestige of New Yorker publication

The prestige of being a New Yorker contributor goes beyond just having a credit in your portfolio. It can open doors to various writing opportunities and collaborations. Use your New Yorker publication as a springboard to pitch ideas or submit your work to other prestigious publications, literary magazines, or even book publishers.

When reaching out to other publications, mention your New Yorker credit in your pitch or query letter to grab the editor’s attention. Highlight how your writing has been recognized by one of the most respected publications in the industry and emphasize the unique perspective or style that got you published in The New Yorker.

This can increase your chances of being accepted by other publications and boost your overall writing career.

Furthermore, being a New Yorker contributor can also attract speaking engagements, panel discussions, or even teaching opportunities. Organizations and institutions often seek out writers with a strong publication record, especially if they have been published in prestigious outlets like The New Yorker.

Leverage your New Yorker credit to showcase your expertise and secure these types of opportunities.

As a writer, seeing your name printed in The New Yorker is an incredible feeling hard to replicate. While getting published there requires immense skill as a writer, persistence through rejection, and professionalism when working with demanding editors, it is an accomplishment well worth striving for over a writing career. Use the tips and learnings from my journey outlined here to tilt the odds of a New Yorker acceptance in your favor, no matter how long it takes. The destination is worth the journey many times over when you can finally call yourself a New Yorker contributor.

Hi there, I'm Jessica, the solo traveler behind the travel blog Eye & Pen. I launched my site in 2020 to share over a decade of adventurous stories and vivid photography from my expeditions across 30+ countries. When I'm not wandering, you can find me freelance writing from my home base in Denver, hiking Colorado's peaks with my rescue pup Belle, or enjoying local craft beers with friends.

I specialize in budget tips, unique lodging spotlights, road trip routes, travel hacking guides, and female solo travel for publications like Travel+Leisure and Matador Network. Through my photography and writing, I hope to immerse readers in new cultures and compelling destinations not found in most guidebooks. I'd love for you to join me on my lifelong journey of visual storytelling!

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What I’ve Learned From My Students’ College Essays

The genre is often maligned for being formulaic and melodramatic, but it’s more important than you think.

By Nell Freudenberger

Most high school seniors approach the college essay with dread. Either their upbringing hasn’t supplied them with several hundred words of adversity, or worse, they’re afraid that packaging the genuine trauma they’ve experienced is the only way to secure their future. The college counselor at the Brooklyn high school where I’m a writing tutor advises against trauma porn. “Keep it brief , ” she says, “and show how you rose above it.”

I started volunteering in New York City schools in my 20s, before I had kids of my own. At the time, I liked hanging out with teenagers, whom I sometimes had more interesting conversations with than I did my peers. Often I worked with students who spoke English as a second language or who used slang in their writing, and at first I was hung up on grammar. Should I correct any deviation from “standard English” to appeal to some Wizard of Oz behind the curtains of a college admissions office? Or should I encourage students to write the way they speak, in pursuit of an authentic voice, that most elusive of literary qualities?

In fact, I was missing the point. One of many lessons the students have taught me is to let the story dictate the voice of the essay. A few years ago, I worked with a boy who claimed to have nothing to write about. His life had been ordinary, he said; nothing had happened to him. I asked if he wanted to try writing about a family member, his favorite school subject, a summer job? He glanced at his phone, his posture and expression suggesting that he’d rather be anywhere but in front of a computer with me. “Hobbies?” I suggested, without much hope. He gave me a shy glance. “I like to box,” he said.

I’ve had this experience with reluctant writers again and again — when a topic clicks with a student, an essay can unfurl spontaneously. Of course the primary goal of a college essay is to help its author get an education that leads to a career. Changes in testing policies and financial aid have made applying to college more confusing than ever, but essays have remained basically the same. I would argue that they’re much more than an onerous task or rote exercise, and that unlike standardized tests they are infinitely variable and sometimes beautiful. College essays also provide an opportunity to learn precision, clarity and the process of working toward the truth through multiple revisions.

When a topic clicks with a student, an essay can unfurl spontaneously.

Even if writing doesn’t end up being fundamental to their future professions, students learn to choose language carefully and to be suspicious of the first words that come to mind. Especially now, as college students shoulder so much of the country’s ethical responsibility for war with their protest movement, essay writing teaches prospective students an increasingly urgent lesson: that choosing their own words over ready-made phrases is the only reliable way to ensure they’re thinking for themselves.

Teenagers are ideal writers for several reasons. They’re usually free of preconceptions about writing, and they tend not to use self-consciously ‘‘literary’’ language. They’re allergic to hypocrisy and are generally unfiltered: They overshare, ask personal questions and call you out for microaggressions as well as less egregious (but still mortifying) verbal errors, such as referring to weed as ‘‘pot.’’ Most important, they have yet to put down their best stories in a finished form.

I can imagine an essay taking a risk and distinguishing itself formally — a poem or a one-act play — but most kids use a more straightforward model: a hook followed by a narrative built around “small moments” that lead to a concluding lesson or aspiration for the future. I never get tired of working with students on these essays because each one is different, and the short, rigid form sometimes makes an emotional story even more powerful. Before I read Javier Zamora’s wrenching “Solito,” I worked with a student who had been transported by a coyote into the U.S. and was reunited with his mother in the parking lot of a big-box store. I don’t remember whether this essay focused on specific skills or coping mechanisms that he gained from his ordeal. I remember only the bliss of the parent-and-child reunion in that uninspiring setting. If I were making a case to an admissions officer, I would suggest that simply being able to convey that experience demonstrates the kind of resilience that any college should admire.

The essays that have stayed with me over the years don’t follow a pattern. There are some narratives on very predictable topics — living up to the expectations of immigrant parents, or suffering from depression in 2020 — that are moving because of the attention with which the student describes the experience. One girl determined to become an engineer while watching her father build furniture from scraps after work; a boy, grieving for his mother during lockdown, began taking pictures of the sky.

If, as Lorrie Moore said, “a short story is a love affair; a novel is a marriage,” what is a college essay? Every once in a while I sit down next to a student and start reading, and I have to suppress my excitement, because there on the Google Doc in front of me is a real writer’s voice. One of the first students I ever worked with wrote about falling in love with another girl in dance class, the absolute magic of watching her move and the terror in the conflict between her feelings and the instruction of her religious middle school. She made me think that college essays are less like love than limerence: one-sided, obsessive, idiosyncratic but profound, the first draft of the most personal story their writers will ever tell.

Nell Freudenberger’s novel “The Limits” was published by Knopf last month. She volunteers through the PEN America Writers in the Schools program.

Essay About New York City: World’s Most Breathtaking Place

Our world is full of wonders and every person should plunge into unforgettable feelings they give us. One of those wonders is New York City. It is considered to be the city of diversity, opportunities, and unbelievable beauty. This essay on New York will definitely help you find your own way in exploring it.

New York essay: Five delicious pieces of the Big Apple

Each of five boroughs is unique and characterized by specific features of living there. You can recognize Manhattan by its eminent skyscrapers such as the Empire State Building and Rockefeller Center, numerous universities and colleges and wonderful Central Park. It represents the financial heart of the city. You can see busy clerks and businessmen on Wall Street and hear continuous clicking and typing of office workers and programmers eager to make fortune. It is for sure, they would make money faster with the smart writing service like ours.

Brooklyn nowadays is a core of the powerful “machine” producing exclusive organic food and promoting modern art, cinema and indie music. All creativity is mostly presented by the Williamsburg neighborhood, the hot spot for the young people ready to enjoy every single breath of night. However, you can notice how the fascinating night clubs transform into calm and quiet Cobble Hill and Park Slope residences. Bushwick offers shopping for young families.

In the northern part of New York, the Bronx stretches its boundaries. Known for its agrarian past and the first settlers skilled at farming, hunting and fishing , the Bronx has parklands and gardens at its disposal now. New York Botanical Garden will amaze you with the beauty of rare flowers and plants and the Bronx Zoo is going to immerse you in the atmosphere of wildlife. Have you ever been to Italy? The Bronx is called “real Little Italy” , by the way. New York City makes it possible to fall for the charm of Bella Italia right on Arthur Avenue.

If you think about sports as the best way of entertainment or care for your body and want to keep trim, you are to visit Queens. Take your rollers and skates and be free to disclose vivid streets. Stroll by Flushing Meadows-Corona Park. Root for New Your Mets at Citi Field stadium. Go to Flushing Chinatown nearby to satisfy your hunger with some special Asian dainties. But be careful with those dainties, for instance, choose a healthy Mediterranean diet and make the right choice of your dietary pattern for effective training.

Staten Island is regarded as the keeper of the city’s past. This part of NYC encompasses museums and historical attractions such as prominent Historic Richmond Town where anyone may play the role of a person of the 19th century. Moreover, this place combines sunny beaches and the biggest and coolest forest preserve of the city. If you are interested in ordering an essay concerning New York boroughs, take a look at our services. Our company will help you save your money.

Pay attention to the following topics on our website:

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New York City in five words

It is hard sometimes to describe a beautiful place just in a few words. Only a skilled writer expresses the right thought briefly and clearly. We know that New York welcomes everyone all over the world. Despite the great number of tourist attractions, its vividness and versatility also catch an eye. Take a look at five simple words describing New York:

1. Multiplicity.

New York is a real polygonal diamond in the jewel box of America. That is why it has about one hundred different names. For example, look at how the name “The Big Apple” appeared . John Fitzgerald, a sports reporter, was the first to use such a nickname in his articles. One day, he heard the horsemen in New Orleans talking about going to “the big apple”, the venue of horseracing, which was NYC. In the 17th century, New York City also got the name New Amsterdam due to Dutch West India company.

2. Hospitality.

The city is the paradise for immigrants. It takes the first place among heavily-populated cities of America. Many foreigners from all over the world come here willing to open new possibilities and challenge themselves. This multicultural harbor is a combination of the true American lifestyle and international flavoring. Aliens can find here a place reminding their own cultural environment. For instance, Brooklyn is a borough where Ukrainian, Russian, Italian, Jamaican people etc. may encounter fellow countrymen and simply feel at home. Check our essay on American culture to get more information: https://smartwriters.org/blog/essay-on-american-culture-how-should-we-start

3. Musicality.

The Big Apple can boast its staginess of the onstage and musical life. Dozens of theaters open their doors for visitors in Broadway. Many essays on New York cover great Broadway performances including astonishing “Cats” and “Chicago”. These are the must-see performances accompanied by incredible acting and pompous dancing. You can hear music everywhere in the city. Feel its sound from the windows of huge dwellings and especially on the streets of Times Square and even underground. Lots of street musicians and dancers entertain passers-by and devote themselves entirely to the rhythm and endless passion of music.

4. Eccentricity.

By the way, famous Times Square, the place of giant shining billboards, big screens, fashionable shopping centers and glam, gathers lots of extraordinary personalities. You can meet here specific characters form the Statue of Liberty in human guise to cartoons and even daring naked cowboy with the guitar hiding the most “shocking” parts of his body in his hands. So getting amazing emotions is possible for free right in Times Square. Here, you can allow yourself being a bit of weirdo especially when it comes to putting your personal goals into life. Look here for some interesting ideas on achieving success in our essay about career goals .

Did you know how many bridges there are in New York? In total, almost 2,000 bridges and tunnels were built here. Today, the most outstanding of them comprises Brooklyn, Manhattan and Verrazzano Bridges. All they are the symbolic architectural embodiment of a connection between things, which seem utterly differ at first glance. Considering the contrast between nations, religions, sights, and territories that the city represents, the feeling of unity there is quite impressive. This contrast is based on the grounds of respect and friendship. Look at this essay to enquire the importance of friendship in our life: https://smartwriters.org/blog/what-is-friendship-essay-who-is-a-friend

Consider this descriptive essay on New York City as your guide. Now it is up to you to choose your path in the kingdom where everything is so different and similar at the same time. Keep in mind that there are plenty of options. At one moment you find yourself inside the boiling business pot like Wall Street or rejoice over bright sun of the beaches standing with your toes in the warm sand, listening to the sound of the sea at another moment. Whatever you want to do, New York has it all. If you liked this essay, you can find out more about our company and writing services.

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Descriptive Essay About New York City

• Categories: Tourism

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Published: Mar 13, 2024

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Essay on New York City

Students are often asked to write an essay on New York City in their schools and colleges. And if you’re also looking for the same, we have created 100-word, 250-word, and 500-word essays on the topic.

Let’s take a look…

100 Words Essay on New York City

Introduction to new york city.

New York City is a big, busy place in the United States. It has five parts called boroughs: Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, and Staten Island. Many people from all over the world live here, making it a place with lots of different cultures.

Famous Places in New York City

The city has famous buildings like the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. There’s also a huge park called Central Park. People come from everywhere to see these places.

Life in New York City

In New York City, life moves fast. Streets are filled with taxis, buses, and people walking. There are lots of shops, restaurants, and places to have fun.

New York City is known for its bright lights and tall buildings. It’s a place where you can find something new and exciting around every corner.

250 Words Essay on New York City

New York City is a big and busy place in the United States. It has five areas called boroughs: Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx, and Staten Island. Many people from all over the world live here, and you can hear many different languages.

The city is known for some very famous spots. The Statue of Liberty is a huge statue that stands for freedom. Central Park is a big green space where people can play and relax. The Empire State Building is a very tall building that lets you see the city from high up.

Life here is fast and exciting. The streets are often full of cars and the sidewalks full of people walking. There are lots of shops, restaurants, and places to see plays called theaters. The city never sleeps, which means there is always something to do, even late at night.

Transport in New York City

Getting around the city is easy with many buses and trains. The subway is a train that runs under the ground and can take you to many places quickly.

Culture and Food

New York City has food from all around the world because people from different countries live here. You can try new foods and learn about other cultures.

New York City is a special place with lots to see and do. It is full of life, with many different people and activities that make it an exciting city to visit or live in.

500 Words Essay on New York City

New York City is one of the most famous cities in the world. It is known for its tall buildings, busy streets, and many different kinds of people. Some people call it “The Big Apple” or “The City That Never Sleeps.” This city has five parts called boroughs: Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx, and Staten Island.

The Skyline and Buildings

When you think of New York City, you might picture its skyline first. The skyline is the shape made by all the tall buildings when you look at the city from far away. The tallest of these buildings is called One World Trade Center. There are many other tall buildings, too, like the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building. These buildings are not just offices; some have places to live, restaurants, and shops.

The People of New York

Lots of people live in New York City. In fact, over eight million people call it home. They come from all over the world, which makes New York a very special place. You can hear different languages, eat foods from many countries, and meet people with different customs and traditions.

Famous Places to Visit

New York has many famous places that people like to visit. One of these places is Times Square. It is full of bright lights and big electronic screens. Another famous place is Central Park. This big park is right in the middle of Manhattan, and it’s a place where you can play, walk, or just sit and enjoy nature.

The Statue of Liberty is also here. It was a gift from France and stands on a small island. You can take a ferry to see it up close. It is a symbol of freedom and welcome to people coming to the United States.

Transportation in the City

Getting around New York City is easy because there are many ways to travel. The subway is a train that runs under the ground and can take you to many places quickly. Buses run on the streets, and there are also yellow taxis that you can hail to get a ride.

Culture and Entertainment

New York is also a place where you can find lots of art, music, and theater. There are many museums like the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Museum of Modern Art. These museums have paintings, sculptures, and other artworks.

Broadway is where you can watch plays and musicals. It’s famous all over the world for its shows. There is also music everywhere, from big concerts in places like Madison Square Garden to street musicians playing in subway stations.

New York City is an exciting place with lots to see and do. It’s a city of tall buildings, lots of people, and fun places to visit. Whether you are interested in history, art, or just want to see the sights, New York City has something for everyone. It’s a place that shows the best of what a big city can offer, and that’s why so many people love it.

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Consolidated health care hurts New York patients

More than half the doctors nationwide now work for hospitals and health systems. Credit: ISTOCK

This guest essay reflects the views of Dr. David Eagle, a board-certified hematologist-oncologist at New York Cancer & Blood Specialists and vice president of the American Independent Medical Practice Association.

Hospitals are snapping up physician practices. Between 2019 and 2022, they acquired nearly 5,000 of them. More than half of doctors nationwide now work for hospitals and health systems.

My colleagues and I do not want to capitulate to such hospital-driven consolidation, and we’re confident our patients don’t want more care driven into the hospital setting. To stay independent, we’ve teamed up with something called a management services organization, which gives us financial and operational support to provide better, higher-value care while preserving our autonomy in how we care for our patients.

Unfortunately, our model is under threat. MSOs are often backed by private equity firms. That’s led to calls to bar independent practices from partnering with MSOs, arguing that the arrangement prioritizes returns for investors over the interests of patients.

That has not been the case for my independent oncology practice, including my office in Patchogue — or hundreds of other independent practices nationwide. Independent practices provide care as good or better than that provided by practices affiliated with hospitals — and at lower cost.

The health care market is complicated. Physicians spend more time on tasks that have little to do with practicing medicine — negotiating with insurers, recruiting doctors, staying up to date on the latest medical records technology. Selling to a hospital may seem like a straightforward way to offload tasks like these and focus on providing care to patients.

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But physicians who become hospital employees sacrifice their independence. Their new employer might second-guess every decision they make.

Partnering with an MSO, by contrast, can let physicians delegate nonmedical concerns without losing the freedom to practice medicine with the best interests of patients in mind. It also can give independent practices access to the financial resources they need to serve more patients — and invest in the cutting-edge care they seek.

My practice has opened clinics in historically underserved communities — most recently, in Brooklyn and in Queens. These moves were made possible by capital provided by our private equity-backed MSO partner OneOncology. Our MSO has also helped us recruit top-notch physicians — 62 in the past year — and further expand access to care.

Partnering with an MSO allows us to connect patients to clinical resources typically only available at large health systems and academic medical centers. For example, our MSO has provided more than 2,000 cancer patients access to more than 700 clinical trials, letting them receive promising experimental treatments in their home communities where our clinics are located, rather than traveling long distances to urban medical centers.

Patients and the health care system benefit when independent practices are viable alternatives. Our practice is the lowest-cost oncology provider across the markets we serve and the sole major cancer care provider in the metropolitan area that accepts all insurance plans, including Medicaid. And we’re not an outlier. According to a Harvard Medical School analysis, hospital-based care is nearly 30% more expensive than care delivered at an independent practice.

I’ve seen firsthand how partnering with a private-equity backed MSO can improve patient care. That’s what makes the attacks on the model so confounding.

As in any sector of the economy, there are bad actors. But barring independent practices from affiliating with MSOs out of general antipathy toward private equity would prevent millions of patients from choosing to receive high-quality, lower-cost care from groups like mine.

This guest essay reflects the views of Dr. David Eagle, a board-certified hematologist-oncologist at New York Cancer & Blood Specialists and vice president of the American Independent Medical Practice Association.

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Ex-Goldman Sachs VP rips bank’s ‘man’s world’ culture: ‘I played golf, talked football, and cried in bathroom’

A former vice president at Goldman Sachs said she left a six-figure job at the Wall Street giant two years ago to become a novelist because of its “man’s world” culture that left female employees “not feeling valued.”

Lindsay MacMillan, who worked at the bank’s marketing department where she rose to become a VP, wrote that she cut short a promising career after six years at Goldman because she felt the need to “keep my feminine side tucked away” being one of the few women in her division.

She said that her grueling 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. daily schedule and long hours on weekends was dictated by “whatever the male leadership pushed,” according to her essay in Business Insider.

“Under my desk, I would keep a pair of black pumps that I called my ‘Hollywood heels,'” she wrote. “When I put them on every morning, I channeled a thick-skinned character who thrived in a man’s world.”

Being the only woman on a team of 20 investors, MacMillan wrote that she “had to mimic the masculine way to succeed.”

“I wore a pantsuit and muted my personality,” MacMillan wrote, mentioning the recent exodus of high-ranking women from Goldman as well as a $215 million class action settlement over claims that female staffers suffered gender pay discrimination as well as sexual harassment.

“I played golf, talked football, and cried in the bathroom stall so I wouldn’t be seen shedding tears at my desk,” MacMillan wrote.

When MacMillan used exclamation points in her emails, she was told to stop, according to her essay.

“My out-of-the-box ideas were discouraged,” she wrote.

When MacMillan baked cookies and brought them into the office for co-workers, she said she was admonished that she “should have been building financial models instead of baking.”

MacMillan wrote that when she posted poetry on her Instagram account, she was the recipient of “negative comments” from colleagues “about how emotional the poems were.”

Despite reaching the rank of vice president at the age of 28, MacMillan wrote that she was “burned out — not from the work itself but from the parts of me I had to dim along the way.”

“The internal balancing act pushed me out,” she wrote.

The Post has sought comment from MacMillan and Goldman Sachs.

After Business Insider published the story on its web site on Tuesday, MacMillan wrote on LinkedIn that the publication’s editors “slapped a sensational headline” on her essay “without my permission” that included a subtitle claiming, “the ‘boys only’ culture drove me out.”

“Not only did I not write these words, but I made clear that the headline needed to be about CELEBRATING women, not bashing men,” MacMillan wrote on LinkedIn.

She accused Business Insider of having “disregarded my input” and “scrapped the many headlines I sent through in favor of a click-baity one that misrepresents the article.”

“It’s pretty simple — if it’s our name on the byline, then give us final approval of the headline,” she wrote.

“Otherwise you’re just exploiting us.”

The Post has sought comment from Business Insider.

In November 2022, MacMillan published another essay in Business Insider which appears to contradict some of the claims she made in her latest submission.

In Tuesday’s essay, MacMillan claimed to have been forced to work a “7 a.m. to 10 p.m.” schedule by her male superiors.

But two years ago she wrote that she had “an uncommonly good work-life balance for Wall Street” during which she was “logging only about fifty hours a week.”

MacMillan also wrote in 2022 that she was not unhappy at Goldman.

“It would’ve been easier to leave Goldman if I’d been miserable and working hundred-hour weeks, per the stereotypes,” MacMillan wrote back then. “But I wasn’t.”

MacMillan added that she “didn’t hate my job by any means” and that she found the work “intellectually stimulating.”

She gushed over the fact that she “met wonderful mentors and friends” while “learn[ing] about the business world from the best of the best.”

“I just loved writing so much that I couldn’t justify keeping it as a side hobby any longer,” MacMillan wrote at the time.

The Post has sought clarifications from MacMillan.