I dreamed of going to New York, hailing a cab, eating a hot dog in Central Park, and taking in a Broadway play. I would carry a soft, leather handbag and walk effortless through the city in heels which made Carrie Bradshaw jealous. Oh yes, the steam from the subways would be magical, the sounds of urban city life whimsical, the sights unforgettable.

My dream came true as trudged through the gritty streets of New York with my father and sister. Clad in knee-high boots and a soft, leather handbag I loaded my luggage into the yellow cab I always dreamed of hailing—except in my dream it didn’t smell of onions and peculiar body odor.

By the third day, my feet ached from walking 92.7 miles through Manhattan. And those shoes that would make Carrie Bradshaw jealous? Yeah, they ended up at the bottom of my Samsonite suitcase. I walked around the city in flats that only a podiatrist would love. I was a shame to myself and every other tourist who vows to never look like a tourist.

The hot dog I salivated over in movies made me nauseous as it bobbed in murky grey water I was positive contained a water-born fungus. Or SARS. Or both. I ate it on my way to buy theater tickets for life-changing Broadway production and felt very New York. Except real New Yorkers don’t eat hot dogs en route to a play. Oh, it’s just a detail.

Every play was sold out. And when I say every play, I mean every play worth seeing. Rent, Phantom, Les Mis, Beauty and the Beast—sold out. To thwart our instantaneous twin depression, my father told us there was an “amazing” off-Broadway show he read about in TIME magazine. I should’ve known it was some political piece starring a Jewish woman reenacting the entire conflict Golda Meir faced as the first female Prime Minister of Israel. 1. It was my father, and 2. it was TIME magazine.

After convincing my father to leave early [his snoring was bothering the patrons], we wandered the damp streets until we found a cafe. We sat and spoke about life, ministry, and family over coffee and warm pastries. We laughed and chuckled with our waitress who really said phrases like, ah forgettabloutit!

We weren’t in Times Square, I didn’t have Jimmy Choo‘s on, and there wasn’t a cab near by. But it was New York. The real New York. And I fell in love.

Somehow Hollywood has concocted a romantic notion of what life should look like. Sensual, sweaty, and scandalous. But is that our reality? The life of smelly cabs, weird hot dogs, off-Broadway plays, and littered streets is more like life. The real life.

To thwart depression by juxtaposing the life you live with the life you think you should live, remember that reality in small cafes with normal people eating warm pastries and wearing comfortable shoes is beautiful. And in that beauty there is a freedom. Be free.