After heading West for a week of work, I was home. To quote another blonde wanderer, L.A. is too hot—too sunny, too sandy, too supermodelly. San Francisco is too cold—all tech, no talk. And I don’t trust a city where you can’t tell the difference between a billionaire, hipster, or homeless person. All hoodie, no Fendi. All flannel, no Chanel. For this Goldilocks, New York is just right. I couldn’t help but wonder: If my roots are so far away, why do I blossom in New York? I guess not all flowers grow in the sun. Some need the shade of skyscrapers, the ballet of crowded sidewalks, dollar slices in Dior, bodega cats and Birkin bags, MoMA with Monet, sunsets with Lady Liberty, the pleasure of 5th Avenue and the pain of Penn Station and most of all: the people-watching—because we might not have much nature, but we’re overflowing with life. So L.A. can keep its sun and San Francisco can have its screens, because I need magic, and I only bloom in New York. #CarrieDragshaw