Trains used to run on these tracks. Once the trains stopped running, nature took its course and hid all trace of its past: providing milk, produce and meat to the city before interstate highways took over. Now, it’s a public space adorned with occasional art, baby trees and shrubbery. It’s the best place to feel the pulse of NYC, away from the desolate concrete jungle that is Manhattan.
We set a slow pace to observe, pause, and let others pass. We’re in no hurry to get nowhere.
Elevated walkway for people, not things.
Blue sky lights our path. Strong breeze embrace our bodies as we move. It’s not warm. It’s not cold. We can see the Statue of Liberty from here.
A man has out a box of “black lives matter” buttons while reading his book quietly. His narrow brimmed black hat sits atop of his graying hair. His pant legs are rolled up and his bare feet are wrapped in black sandals. We pick up a button before walking on. I pin mine on.
Unmarked building’s occupants display pictures on their windows to poke fun at the 45th US president. It’s funny. It’s clever. We take pictures. Others do too.
We pass a small section in which approved vendors are selling their art.
Highline provides much-needed respite from the hustle and the bustle of the Big Apple.
We look down to witness the widening gap between the haves and the pauper. The man is unrecognizable. He blends in with the black trash bags all around him. He’s invisible. No one can see him but us (do you see him?). 
We look up. We walk on.
We pass a giant tattered letter that starts with, “I want a dyke for president….”
A ballerina jumps up and down. The photographer does her best to capture her subject.
We exit the Highline next to the Whitney museum. We descend to reality. It’s busy here.
Chelsea Market isn’t as busy. Something about a leaked gas line. We treat ourselves to fresh oysters and sushi.
We go deeper into the underground. We catch the train back to midtown.