Drinking East Coast Beer in a West Coast Hat

Leaving, inescapably, begins well before one’s departure.

I began leaving on Sunday, when a French jazz band and a seat at the bar distilled the past few months’ activity into a single element: I’m leaving and I’ll miss New York. That night I already missed unified facades (social and architectural), bars and restaurants that don’t force network television upon their customers, and being able to get home unassisted after having more than one drink.

I’ll also miss driving through the city, which on Sunday and Monday was a perfect, empty Gotham. Steam billowed, fog dropped, and the skyscrapers seemed even taller when crowned with low clouds.

I still haven’t made it to the top of the Empire State Building, but I’ve got one more night in the city and an unflagging appreciation for both oddities and good fiction, so the dream’s not dead yet. If you’re in New York next Saturday, you can join me post-party for a trip into the clouds. Last ride up is at 1:15 a.m.