Love and Rebirth in New York: A Story of Calamity, Struggle and Triumph

 

 

I wake up on Monday morning, MLK Day 2017 and four days before Trump’s inauguration, and immediately feel a visceral need to leave my home borough of Queens. I grew up in Manhattan – also known as The City – so every few days I need my dose of the bright lights. It’s already 9:30, though, and I want to hit the gym before heading in, so I better get moving.

I brush my teeth, wash my face, and perform all the morning ablutions modern society demands.  I make the 7-minute walk east across 30th Avenue to my local New York Sports Club in Astoria. It’s the usual scene there today. Lots of huge, jacked dudes staring at themselves in the mirror as they bang out their 15th set of bicep curls. Shit, I shouldn’t criticize, I do it too. I mean who doesn’t like to watch the veins on their guns pop while listening to a mix of hard-core rock on Spotify? Maybe some people don’t, but I sure as hell do.

The gym has actually become kind of my temple lately, as much of a cliché as that sounds. I suffered a serious arm injury some years ago, and I couldn’t lift for a long time. I finally started lifting again this past summer, and it’s been On Like Donkey Kong ever since.

This is not your typical New York Sports Club, by the way. It’s really big, with tons of equipment, and lots of exercise rooms. It’s actually kind of a hub for Queens. People from all across the borough come here to work out. The best and brightest, lol.

Two more points on the gym. First, since I’m a native Manhattanite from the Upper West Side, and a nice Jewish boy to boot, this gym epitomizes every stereotype I had of Queens before I moved to Astoria. There’s lots of Giannis’s, Dimitris’s, and Tony’s. Most of them are the sons or grandsons of immigrants from southern Europe, mainly Greece and Italy. And there’s definitely a cheese factor to the whole scene, kind of a Jersey Shore type vibe. But over time it’s grown on me. Queens itself is so incredibly diverse, the most diverse county in the country in fact, that I often think of it as Jersey Shore meets the United Nations.

The other thing is, what the fuck do they put in the water in this borough? I mean these dudes are all massive. It’s like they were born on a bench press with a dumbbell in each hand.

Like most gyms, there’s also a gender division. The guys are mainly working out with weights, and the women are using the cardio machines. I use both to get the holistic experience.  The truth is that men lift weights for many reasons, but one key motivation is unquestionably to improve one’s chances of meeting the women who do cardio.

And while we’re on the subject, let me just add that the women at this gym are in fine shape.  It’s hard not to stare sometimes, in fact, because so many of them are so incredibly sexy.  With all the testosterone and estrogen mingling in the air, it’s a wonder we don’t all emerge from our workouts with newborn babies on our arms.

I go through my 90-minute upper body workout, hitting the major muscle groups first – chest, shoulders and back. Then the minors – biceps, triceps and traps. While I work out I’m listening to a Spotify radio station I created based on the song “Youth of the Nation,” by P.O.D. I recently discovered that they’re a Christian metal band, and their name stands for “Payable on Death,” lol. I guess they’re going for that hardcore image. The song itself is kind of an anthem for teen angst, aggression, and alienation, and even though I’m 42 this genre works well for lifting.

By the end of the workout I’m so amped and there’s so much adrenaline coursing through my body  I’m actually only 5’9″, and I go about a buck sixty-five. But that’s way down from the dark days of several years ago, when I had ballooned to a borderline obese 215 lbs. I literally could have played that I’m ready to take on Conor McGregor, or pillage a village. Just do something manly.

running back in the NFL. I mean Barry Sanders, perhaps the greatest running back ever, was 5’9” and he only weighed 200. The crucial difference though is that unlike Barry, most of my weight was fat and not muscle. In any case, it feels so good to have my body back now.

My goal is to get down to about 155. If my writing career still hasn’t taken off by then, I’m thinking I may shave my body hair, spray on some instant-tan, and try to grind out a few dollars on Instagram with all those other dudes who take their shirt off for money. It’s a long shot, for sure, but I have to think outside the box these days.

 

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I race home from the gym, jump in the shower, and blast music through the waterproof Bluetooth speaker while I wash my hair.  

As I mentioned, I’m kind of a in a challenging place in my career these days. Hence the move to Queens from Manhattan. In point of fact, I do have a master’s degree in international relations from an Ivy. I’ve also worked at the UN and some other cool places. But stuff happens, one’s career takes a turn, and these days I’m just writing, trying to make a name for myself among the millions of bloggers out there.

Irregardless – no, it’s not a word, I just like saying it – I’ve made sure I have all the technology I need in my modest 1-bedroom apartment. Mainly so that I don’t ever have to hear any dreaded introspection-causing silence. I’ve got a TV in each room, the waterproof Bluetooth speaker for the bathroom, and a sound system connected to my laptop in the living room. I still need something for the kitchen though.  Usually I just take my tablet in there with another Bluetooth.

Before I leave, I pack some food for lunch, because like I said, I’m all about that struggle life these days, and I ain’t going to no Manhattan restaurant.  I have some chicken breast in the fridge that I cooked last night, so I make a sandwich. It’s really only a half-sandwich with extra chicken, because I only use one piece of bread, carbs being the devil and all that. I stuff some more chicken into a Ziploc for good measure. One must always have protein at the ready lol.  I grab a non-fat Greek yogurt, and I’m good to go.

As I’m heading out I remember one more thing. I open the coffee table drawer and pull out a small glass pipe and some wacky tobackey. I grew up in NYC and went to public high school, and you typically experience life at a younger age when you come up this way. I’ve been smoking weed since I was fourteen, with a few years off.  Since today is a fairly balmy January day, I figure the herb will add to the outdoor experience.

 

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I’m bound for Hudson River Park in lower Manhattan, one of my favorite spots. I’m expecting it will be the beautiful, quiet oasis by the river that it always is, away from all the noise and drama of the city.  I hop on the N train at 30th Avenue in Queens, and when we enter Manhattan at 59th and Lexington, I transfer for the 5 express going downtown.

There’s an interesting demographic shift one experiences when transferring from the N or R train in northwest Queens to the 4 or 5 on the east side of Manhattan.  In Queens the passengers are mainly those southern European people I mentioned, along with a sizeable group of Hispanic folks, mostly from Mexico and Central America.

When I get on the 5 in Manhattan going south, it’s mainly black, Puerto Rican and Dominican New Yorkers going downtown from East Harlem and the Bronx. On a regular weekday there would also be a large number of upper-class white professionals, the bankers, lawyers, real estate developers and Wall Street types who run the city. But since today is a holiday, maybe the titans of finance have decided to keep it local and stay on the swanky Upper East Side. Or maybe they haven’t yet returned from their country houses in the Hamptons or upstate New York.

I marvel at how quickly my immediate environment changed from one borough to the next. I went from Europe and Mexico to Africa and the Caribbean.

The train is crowded, and two fairly big dudes are taking up a three-seat section using the classic “manspreading” posture. Their knees and elbows are almost comically extended outwards so that no one can squeeze in between them. The MTA actually runs a series of PSA’s decrying just this type of behavior.

The thing is, I just benched 200, and I’m super amped, so there’s no way these dudes are gonna keep me from my God-given right to a seat. I stare at each of them with a little edge, and I utter the classic “excuse me” in a fairly loud, aggressive way. They each look me over once, and then slowly, grudgingly pull their arms and legs in a little so I can sit between them.

Here’s a PSA of my own. The subway staredown and “excuse me” move only works on some manspreaders. I did a split-second NYC subway assessment of these two gents and decided they weren’t “nothing to lose” type guys. And I was right, as it turned out. But sometimes there are folks on the train who are in such a bad place in their life, or just suffering from such a fragile, or injured, sense of manhood, that they’re literally ready to scrap it out over a seat. With these guys, even if you ask them politely to scoot over, you may receive a dead-eye stare in return or, even worse, a “fuck you bitch.”

There’s actually a lot more going on during these kinds of interactions, and it often involves class, race, age, culture, specific country of origin, etc. Or, in some cases it’s just that someone’s kind of a douchebag already, is having a bad day, and has decided they won’t move no matter what.  In these situations, it’s best not to push it. The general rule is, if you have any doubt about a manspreader, particularly if you’re not from NYC and you don’t know how we get down underground, you should play it safe and not force someone’s hand. Then again, I’ve been rolling the dice for a long time against these dudes, and it’s worked out OK so far.  Sooner or later, though, I might come up snake eyes. Or should I say black eye. Ha!

 

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The ride down to the Brooklyn Bridge station in lower Manhattan is fairly uneventful. Except that it’s a NYC subway ride, so there’s always something going on. In the seats opposite me are what I guess to be two brothers. One’s in his late teens, the other is maybe twelve-years old. At first I think they’re Dominican or Puerto Rican, since that’s about a fifth of the city’s population.

But the more I look at the contours of the boy’s face, the more I think he might be from Aruba, or maybe Curacao, somewhere in the Dutch Caribbean. Both of them, but especially the boy, seem fascinated with me.  He keeps furtively looking at me when he thinks I’m not looking.  The older brother periodically peeks my way too, followed by an exchange with his little bro.

If this were a normal interaction in a more tranquil, peaceful setting, instead of a crowded NYC subway car, I might smile at them. In fact I would smile at them. I’m a fairly nice-looking dude, a strong seven I would say. I’ve even been compared to Matt Damon a few times (I wish it were true!).  So maybe they’re mesmerized by my dashing Jason Bourne looks.

But this is the NYC subway, and tension is never far off.  I think it’s mainly because humans weren’t meant to be squeezed together in such a small, confined space with no sunlight for long periods of time.

I suddenly decide I don’t like the way they’re looking at me. So the next time I catch the young kid glancing, I give him my long, hard stare. Or as hard as I can manage.  He bravely locks eyes with me for a half-second, then looks away. After that they both stop looking at me.

Mission accomplished, I say to myself.  Then I wonder why the fuck I just did that. Did I really have to defend my manhood against a twelve-year old kid and his teenage brother? And would I have reacted the same way if they had looked more like me? I tell myself I would have, but I’m not entirely convinced.

I spend the rest of the ride feeling guilty for intimidating a grade schooler. Ahh NYC subway, the things you bring out in us.

[Here’s an interesting factoid about conflict, by the way. A 2015 USA Today Sports study found that out of 67 bench-clearing fights in major league baseball during the past five years, 87% were sparked by opposing players of different ethnicities.  Is there a deeper meaning beyond sports? That’s up to you to decide.  I’m not going there.]

 

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We reach the Brooklyn Bridge station. I exit the train, walk up one long flight to the street, pop in my headphones, and head west. I’m making a beeline for the Hudson River and its namesake park. I’m still revved up from my workout, and despite the holiday, the financial district is surprisingly crowded as I navigate the narrow streets. 

Music – and headphones – are essential for many New Yorkers as we go about our daily business. We’re mostly walking, and with all the car horns blaring, the people yelling, the dudes spitting on the sidewalk, and the general urban chaos of a large American city, it’s best to have some noise protection. 

Some people do podcasts, like my friend Rachel. She likes to learn new things as she’s out and about. I’m a music guy. I like to have my emotions moved when I’m on the busy streets, and to be transported to a warmer, more peaceful place. In that regard, Spotify has been a Godsend. I can pop on top hits, switch to modern folk rock, swing over to 90’s hip hop, and then shift to the 80’s music of my youth. God bless you Internet radio.

I continue west, feeling a mounting urgency to get as far away as possible from the traffic, the noise, the tension, and the drama of the city. I finally glimpse the river between two tall buildings on Chambers Street.  In another block the scenery opens up, morphing from dense cityscape to open vista.  The Hudson is in front of me, on the other side is Jersey City, and a beautiful, tree-lined park snakes along the river’s length. There are benches, playgrounds, basketball and tennis courts, and scenic observation points.

Most of all for my purposes, it’s really quiet and there’s very few people. Yes! Serenity now! I say a silent prayer to myself and thank the planners and builders who’ve been redeveloping the West Side waterfront since the late 90’s.  It was all concrete, highway, and industrial buildings in my youth.  I let out a deep sigh as my blood pressure rapidly drops to a much more pleasurable level.

Even though I’m in my early 40’s, my pop culture tastes can often resemble a teenager’s. Lately I’ve been wearing out this clubby, dancey electronic-sounding song called “Cool Enough,” by Spada.  It’s all over pop radio, and I totally dig it. The chick who sings it sounds super-hot, and I’ve already imagined the two of us getting married and making babies together. Never mind that she’s probably like 20, or 25, and has no idea how the conditions of an IMF structural adjustment loan can affect the price of basic goods in a developing economy, or how the countries that make up the Non-Aligned Movement at the United Nations have repositioned themselves in the post-Cold War era. Does it matter? I don’t want to talk politics with her. I just want to be with her.

I walk along the wide path by the river heading north.  It’s really sweet because it’s around 3 pm now, and the sun is low in the winter sky. It gleams off the Hudson in an almost unbelievable array of colors, and the Jersey City skyline – which is surprisingly impressive – sparkles in the distance.

I switch over to Spotify’s 60’s Music station, and man this is my jam! It totally fits my mood and elevates the chill I’m already feeling.  Hmmm, I think to myself, what could enhance this day even more? Yup, the herbal life. I find an adjoining path slightly out of the way, take a seat on a bench, and pull out my pipe.  

For what must be the thousandth time, I think to myself, goddamn this stuff should be legal here. My brother Paul lives in Portland, where it’s legal, and I’ve taken many a fun trip to the local pot store with him to supply ourselves.  Shopping at a weed store is such a mellow, casual, civilized experience. It’s a million miles away from the shady street corner transactions of my youth, or the somewhat better but still slightly seamy delivery services I and many New Yorkers use.

At the store you can pick out what you want from a large selection of varieties and price points. The people who work there will recommend certain strains based on what type of mood you’re in, or you want to be in. They also make suggestions for folks who have pain, chronic illnesses, disabilities, and other maladies. It’s just a totally pleasant experience.  Technically you still can’t smoke in public in the states that’ve legalized it, but there seems to be a general acceptance of outdoor smoking.

It’s pretty windy by the water now, and my bowl isn’t lighting very well, so I leave the bench and walk north a little to get some cover behind a tree.  After roughly ten failed attempts and a rapidly chafing right thumb, my lighter comes to life for about 1/4 second. I’m able to burn a minute amount of weed, but then the wind knocks the flame out again. This park is mostly populated by couples, some of them with kids, so I’m trying to keep it on the Down-Low for their sake. I’m always looking out for our youth!

I finally get the flame going again and take a good hit. Just as I put the Ziploc bag holding the weed back in my jacket pocket, a father and daughter appear on the path in front of me. Maybe they saw me, maybe they smelled it, but in the grand scheme of the universe, does it really matter? I give them my most friendly, unthreatening smile as I pass by.

 

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I’m now back on the main path, still following the river north. This strain of weed, “Euforia” is what the delivery service called it, is a sativa, meaning it’s more of a daytime, creative, energetic type of high. It’s also a bit of a creeper, meaning that it comes on slow.  A couple minutes go by and then it kicks in and I’m feeling good. “Time of the Season” by the Zombies was just on, and now it’s Simon and Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson.” What could be more chill? It’s like I’m not even in the city.

I start to get hungry, but it’s not from the weed.  I’m way beyond the age where one gets the munchies.  Instead it’s my body, especially my muscles, telling me they need protein after the intense morning workout.  I find a nice bench overlooking the river, pop my sunglasses on to block the rays coming off the water, and dig into my sandwich. Yum! It absolutely feels great to eat lean protein after a workout. I’m aware of how cheesy this sounds, and how weightlifting can lead to an obsession with the superficial, etc., etc.  And it’s also true that I grew up in NYC living on two slices of pizza a day. But these days I’m all about that healthy life, and I’m loving it. A little self-absorption doesn’t have to be a bad thing, anyway.

I finish the sandwich, polish off the extra chicken breast, and leave the yogurt for later. I’m ready to roll. I meander along the path again, passing young couples, old couples, parents and children, and the odd single person or two. Battery Park City, a high-end luxury development, adjoins the park, so a lot of the folks I’m seeing probably hail from there.

I’m enjoying the buzz and the 60’s tunes, and I wonder why I don’t do this more often. The folks at Spotify must really like The Doors, because after their classic “Riders on the Storm,” another Doors tune, “This is The End,” comes on. The more I think about it, this may not have been a human musical choice. It could be an algorithm, like Facebook or Amazon use. Spotify employs algorithms for their “Discover Weekly” playlists and also for created radio stations, so maybe they use them for their Decades lists too.  These days every social media and consumer app is designed scientifically, usually with the aim of separating the user from as much of their money as possible.

I grew up in the 80’s and loved that decade’s pop, but my friends and I also had a reverence for the 60’s and 70’s music our older siblings and cousins preferred. That being said, while I dig The Doors, after a few minutes I’m reminded once again of how fucking long “This is The End” is. Eleven minutes and 41 seconds of trippy, drug-induced guitar, drum and keyboard circle jerk. It’s a great song, and the shortened version – at six minutes – worked well in Apocalypse Now. But right now it’s dragging. A lot. Like, when is the real end, Jim Morrison? Stop verbally wanking off.

Mercifully the song finishes, Jefferson Airplane’s “Somebody to Love” comes on next, and I resume my walk. I’m feeling so good, and so chill, that I start singing out loud as I pass the well-heeled Battery Park folks and their children.

Don’t you want somebody to love, don’t you NEED somebody to love, wouldn’t you love somebody to love, you better find somebody to love you! Well goddamn, this song rocks. I’m single, and yes, to answer your question, Ms. Grace Slick, lead singer of Jefferson Airplane, I do indeed need somebody to love me.

 

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It’s starting to get chilly now, and the sun is fading, so when I reach 14th street, I exit the park and head east for Union Square and the subway home.

As I traverse 14th Street I’m reminded again of how much the West Village, and really all of NYC, has changed since my youth. 14th Street on the far West Side used to be quite seedy. There’s still a little grit hanging on, but now the dominant vibe is one of coolness, hipsters, high-end fashion stores, and general wealth.  It’s a place the beautiful people go to shop, dine, see and be seen.

And just as I’m deep into my sociological musings about gentrification and the city, bang! Joakim Noah of the New York Knicks appears in front of me.  I’m a huge Knicks fan, so this absolutely rocks.

Yes, the Knicks are struggling horribly right now, and roughly two hours earlier and one-mile north at Madison Square Garden, they lost a heartbreaking game at the buzzer to the Atlanta Hawks. Carmelo Anthony had a chance to win it on the final shot, but he missed a 5-footer from the baseline. Ah, the Knicks. Ah, ‘Melo.

Anyway, I figure that after a rough loss like that, Joakim decided he needed to be out and about in the city, among the people. His people, in fact, since he grew up here.

I notice he’s wearing sweat pants, looking tres casual, and he’s accompanied by a super-hot chick. She’s actually, like, model hot, and she’s also wearing sweat pants. Did they just have a quickie at his place after the game, then roll out of bed and hit the village?

They cross right in front on me and enter an ASICS sneaker store on 14th Street and 10th  Avenue. No one recognizes him. Or maybe they do, because he’s about 8 feet tall. But no one bothers them.

I walk by the store, glance through the window, and keep it moving. I grew up here, and I decided a long time ago to mostly let celebrities be. They need their private space too. Plus, if Joakim wants to cheer himself up after a rough loss by buying some new kicks, who am I to get in his way? Let’s go Knicks!

As I near 8th Avenue, I realize I’m still singing out loud to the 60’s tracks. Screw it, I’m feeling good, who cares what these fashionable New Yorkers think.  I stop at a corner deli manned by some lovely South Asian folks. They’re likely from Bangladesh, but it could also be Pakistan, or even India.  In that region there’s also Sri Lanka, Nepal, and who can forget the tiny kingdom of Bhutan. 

Being fascinated by other cultures, I resist the urge to ask their country of origin and instead focus on my hunger, which has reappeared after what was probably a three or four mile walk. I scan the various protein bars, energy bars, fiber bars, etc. and settle on a massive Pure Protein Bar, in Chocolate Deluxe flavor. The label says it’s packing 33 grams of unadulterated whey protein, and that’s just what I need. My biceps second the thought.

I eat my bar as I walk. It’s dark now, and a lot cooler. I reach Union Square and suddenly realize I gotta pee. I’m about to get on the train for a 40 minute ride to Queens, and every New Yorker knows the last thing you wanna do is get on the subway for a long ride when you have to pee.

I hit the Barnes and Noble off the Square and do my business in their lovely bathroom. There’s a homeless guy washing himself at the sink, and I’m reminded for the millionth time how fucking unequal this city is, how much entrenched poverty there is, and how many people are either barely getting by or not making it all.

I mean, the data say that nearly half the city lives at or near the poverty level. Half. Not only is that crazy, it’s absolutely un-fucking-acceptable. I know that Mayor DeBlasio is unpopular these days, but when he talked about “The Two New York’s” during his campaign, he was right on the money. It’s like the Gilded Age of the 1880’s has returned, only this time technology lets each side see how the other half is living.

I’ve always been aware of all this, having grown up here, but maybe I feel it even more today because it’s MLK Day. Trump just slammed legendary civil rights leader and Congressman John Lewis on Twitter, saying he was “all talk and no action.” Which apart from being an insult to Lewis, his legacy, the pioneers of the civil rights movement who sacrificed so much, African-Americans, Americans, and humans in general, is also absolutely moronic. John Lewis was beaten and abused while protesting racial injustice during the 60’s. So fuck Trump.

[I should mention that I have lots of opinions about politics, and in particular the compromises that ostensibly progressive politicians often make.  Don’t get me started on Obama and his ruthless, murderous drone warfare in the Middle East. Or Obama largely letting the Wall Street bankers off the hook after they crashed the economy during the 2008 mortgage crisis.

The thing is, there are lots of valid critiques of Obama, and of mainstream liberals in general. But Trump is bringing the apocalypse, and it begins at exactly high noon in four days, when he puts his hand on that Bible and takes the oath of office. God help us all.  

So that’s my political rap. I’m done.]

I leave the bathroom. As I’m riding the up escalator, I spot Ti-Hua Chang, a local NY1 TV news reporter, with what I assume to be his daughter. They’re on the mezzanine, browsing the young-adult bookcases. As I ride by, he looks at me, and perhaps sensing my recognition, quickly looks away. Even though he’s really just a minor celebrity, I still follow my rule of letting famous or semi-famous people be.

Nevertheless, I can’t help but be slightly psyched that I’ve seen two stars in one day. That doesn’t happen often in Queens. But it does happen in Manhattan. Ah, Manhattan, Manhattan. If my career ever takes off again, I hope to be reunited with you, you beautiful island.

Now I do know that Brooklyn, and not Manhattan, has become the hip place to be over the past decade. And I like the new Brooklyn, don’t get me wrong.  In fact, my brother Ben lives in a beautiful, tree-lined, brownstone-filled neighborhood in that borough. It’s got a hip vibe, a happening scene, and one never has to go far for the latest organic mayonnaise or artisanal cheese.

But despite Brooklyn’s appeal, the crown jewel of the city for me will always be Manhattan. I mean shit, when I was a kid, Brooklyn was a far-off land we Manhattanites only grudgingly ventured to, usually to see relatives or, later, to attend wild high school house parties in sprawling townhouses.

 

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I’m tired now, and my buzz has long since worn off.  I board the N train at Union Square and head north and east to Queens. It’s early evening on a holiday, so the train isn’t too crowded and I get a seat. I finally switch off the 60’s music and put on some pop. I need something to keep me awake for the ride home.

After a few minutes, I notice a Middle Eastern woman sitting across from me with what seems to be her family. She’s obviously tired too, because she closes her eyes and tilts her head back in the seat. I wonder if she made the trip into Manhattan from Queens with her family, perhaps on a rare day off from work. Who knows.  Maybe she’s loaded, lives in a mansion, and doesn’t have to work at all. But there aren’t too many mansions in Queens. What there are is a lot of hard-working people, many of them immigrants. So my guess is she took her family into the city to see the New York that we outer-borough folks dream about. The one I grew up in, where they film all the movies and TV.

Coming of age in New York during the crime-filled 80’s and 90’s, I learned to never fall asleep on the subway, because you just don’t know what could happen. But those were different times, and it was a different city.  So I take a cue from this fellow tired lady and let my eyelids droop. I’m not really sleeping, more like resting with my eyes closed. I open them a few times during the ride and spot what I presume to be a recently-arrived couple from rural China in their early 60’s talking to each other from opposite seats. The woman is smiling, and they both seem awed, as if the Manhattan they just saw was what they had been waiting for their whole lives.

The train emerges from under the East River onto the elevated tracks of western Queens, and everyone immediately whips out their cell, since we get service now. I do the same. I check the New York Times app.  Seventeen of the top twenty stories are about Trump. OK then. I check Facebook, Gmail, then switch to a “Jessie’s Girl” music station I created.  Thank you Rick Springfield.  

A few more minutes pass and we’re at my stop on 30th Avenue. I exit the train, walk down two flights of stairs to the street, and make the five-minute walk to my apartment. Two more flights up to the crib, and it’s home sweet home. I collapse on the couch, exhausted, feeling extremely relaxed and content.  Just another day in the big city.