We’re sorry we haven’t posted today, but we spent seven hours today on the Greyhound from the North Country to New York. Of course we brought our flask, which resulted in exactly the effect we wanted – arriving in our home city, slightly drunk, at sunset. In fact, as we type, we are on our laptop passing that random high net beside I-95 in the Bronx, which is either a driving range or a batting cage. We’d probably be able to tell if we cared about sports.
It’s a funny thing, returning to New York, if you’re not from here. We’ve lived in this city for nearly four years, but we will never get over the cheesy small-town excitement that comes with seeing the New York skyline as it slips into the view from the train, bus, or car.
When we were living in Spain, everyone we met was fascinated that we lived in New York. They had a million questions. “Have you met Robert De Niro?” they would ask. “Were you there when the towers fell?” “It must seem normal for you,” they’d say. But it doesn’t.
Right now the New York skyline is burning with the orange of the setting sun. We just looked back on the bus, and everyone is gaping out of the window toward the island of Manhattan. Every time we go through this, it’s the same. We can hardly believe it - we’re home.