It’s not my usual walk. It’s so unusual I’m brimming with excitement.

Perhaps it is because of the crisp mid-November wind, blowing away the dead leaves, frail harbingers of winter, that makes me feel rejuvenated. Can it be the colours? Shades of green and yellow, orange, and several tints of red, bright and vivid or dark and purplish, a clear blue sky, only troubled by vaporous white trails and the skyline of tall grey buildings. Or is it all the conversations I had before that led me here, like the friendly one I shared a few minutes before in a coffee shop and which draw a smile on my face.Is it the sound of people chatting in a foreign language? The birds chanting songs I’ve never heard?

Perhaps it’s just the simple fact that I’m standing in Central Park, 3635 miles away from my place and that I’m just thrilled and bewildered to be there.

I wasn’t that confident when I took the B line. It felt familiar, yet like I wasn’t belonging in that picture. I was so agitated I stopped one station earlier, on 72st. I rushed outside, and the brisk air of late afternoon calmed my nerves down. I started to walk up north, following the posh buildings of Central Park West, remembering my initial aim. Of course, I made a stop at the first horse-carriage, like probably all the tourists of this town. How anachronic and ironic is that slow horse-ridden sleigh in a modern and active city? I didn’t bother finding an answer, as I just noticed the silhouette of the landmark where my excursion starts : The Museum of Natural History.

There’s an entry on the opposite walk of the Museum’s main entrance, this is my starting point. I buy a bottle of water at a hot dog stand and contemplate the path. There is only a few people sat on the benches or walking by. It’s a weekday after all, New Yorkers must be at work, leaving the places to the idlers and travelers. At this right moment, I feel glad those two terms applies to me. I take a long breathe, and make my first step in Central Park. I’ve been waiting to walk here for a long time.

I follow the large, serpentine paths, that only seems to lead to other paths coiled in the autumn hues. The woods are dense, and the fading light gives them an eerie appeareance. Brown, gold and crimson leaves are slowly falling from majestic oaks and sycamores on big grey rocks, squirrels fleeing away at each footstep, robins and blackbirds chirping at me with indignation. I am walking in the Ramble, a place said to be the wildest part of the Park.

As the first wafts of excitement are leisurely wearing off, I realize I didn’t really made notes of the directions I took. My brain decided to give the reins to the least good decision-taking part of my body and washed its hand of the consequences, too happy enjoying the stroll. Not that I’m definitely lost, I remember passing West Drive, but after that, my tracks are lost in gleeful stupor. Since, I don’t really remember where I turned left or right. there is no point walking back. Am I an adventurer, or am I not?

Going straightforward, and trying my best to go south-west, I finally stumble on The Lake. The view of the flamboyant trees and the dusky line of skycrapers reflecting on the surface, only blurred by the occasional food-searching duck plunging and showing New York’s sky its feathery butt, is a slap across my face. Unable to handle so much poetry, I follow the trail along the lake to the west, and after a few minutes, I find salvation in form of a map sign planted at a crossroad. Ah, I wasn’t that lost! And a second glance at the map convinces me that I have enough time to visit the Turtle Pond. Who would miss the slightest opportunity to see turtles?

Fastening my pace, I venture again in the Ramble, this time having vaguely memorized the map. Perhaps following that grey squirrel in what I thought was a crosscut wasn’t the smartest idea to climb up the slope, but it was so cute! And it’s not the Alps anyway. Finally on the top, I’m immediately attracted to the odd construction that is Belvedere Castle. Wondering if the architects didn’t go too high on their Romanticism binge, I arrive to the small plaza in front of that neogothic folly where a sign informs me, to my dismay, that I am 18 years too old and I come 15 minutes too late to be lent a bird observation kit. Needless to say, I’m very disappointed. Swallowing my hurt feelings, I step in with other tourists and walks to the terrace on the second floor, where I can enjoy the incredible panorama. Below me lies the Turtle Pond, the Great Lawn, the North Meadow and Harlem. On my left, I can see the Upper West Side and the Museum. I’m certain there are greatest views elsewhere in town, but at this very moment, I wouldn’t change this vision of symbiotic city and nature for anything.