“Let nature do the freezing and frightening and isolating in this world. Let men work and love and fight it off.” —Jack Kerouac

I woke up early this morning, like I do most mornings—especially in cities where I don’t have a mailing address. It’s not that I’m a “morning person” by nature. I’m not even sure such a thing exists. I mean, sure, I guess some people are biologically wired to wake up early or stay up late—circadian rhythms and all that. Still, we love our labels. Night owls and early birds, like astrology signs or political parties. Just more ways to try and pin ourselves down. Bullshit, mostly. But comforting bullshit. And maybe as much about habit and circumstance as anything hardwired. Who knows. I’ve been just as happy staying up till five as I’ve been waking up at five.

Still, there’s something about choosing to be up before the sun. The world hasn’t put on its makeup yet. It hasn’t masked itself with noise and people rushing off to wherever they’re supposed to be. It’s quieter. Maybe not clean, but unclaimed.

The sidewalk in front of the Marlton Hotel—the spot where Kerouac lived while writing The Subterraneans—isn’t the same place at sunrise that it was the night before. The zip code hasn’t changed, but everything else has. The blue jeans and dive bars give way to yoga pants and hot Americanos. The weird hush of Sunday night turning into Monday morning gets swallowed by garbage trucks disappearing mountains of trash, and city bus air brakes groaning against gravity. Greenwich Village resurrects itself all over again.

It’s always been a place that attracts a certain kind of person. Ginsberg, Baldwin, Patti Smith, Dylan, Millay, Hansberry. Poets and prophets and misfits with notebooks in their pockets. Back when rent was cheap and publishing didn’t require a platform, the Village gave people space to think and speak freely, to contradict themselves without apology. It was a place of contradiction and conviction. The Stonewall riots sparked a movement here. Folk singers in smoky basements turned protest into melody. Writers tapped out manifestos at café tables not far from where I’m sitting. Even now, there’s something about this part of the city that makes you want to sit down and try to catch........

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