Visiting New York on one of last days of the year seemed like a good idea. An extravaganza of lights, food we like but don’t have anywhere near home, the hustle and bustle of a city known for its showmanship and endless variety. From a distance, Manhattan shone with promise – an amalgam of Greek Revivals and skyscrapers, an epicenter of creativity and magic – just being there was bound to cheer one up, to elevate the gloomy mood that clouded most of the year.

I recalled these expectations several hours later, after half a day spent in the city. So far, New York did not disappoint. Everyone in our family found something they liked to eat at the Chelsea Market; my sons enjoyed browsing dead-tree books in a brick-and-mortar bookstore; I window-shopped, eyeing the lush, festive displays that one day would probably appear in an unfinished draft of my novel.

It felt good to imagine that we landed in a modern fairy-tale, but then, vacant spaces between the fanciest stores on 5th Avenue shouted that retail reality was not as glamorous as the dressed mannequins, and the prices of the gelato and the French-sounding pastries brought to mind how many home-cooked meals (or school lunches) each bite-size serving could buy.

My personal bubble burst while jostling for a space on a sidewalk on our way to see THE Christmas Tree (at the Rockefeller Center). I don’t know if there were hundreds or thousands of people there, but I felt that they all came to New York for the same purpose, to catch a piece of magic, a glimpse of something bright and shinny, and yet untarnished by revelations and scandals. And so we inched forward, crowded but determined to pass by the famous tree. There were too many people to come close and see the details, but it sparkled from afar, a symbol of continuity, of stability, and maybe a glimmer of hope for a better year.