West Side Line.

I always told myself I never wanted to be that kind of New Yorker who shied away from things far away from the basic radius of my usual life. Brooklyn, okay sure, I’ll go to Williamsburg. Eighty-ninth and Fifth to the Guggenheim? I mean, it's art. Staten Island? Umm, what’s the point. But when friends decide, for their own insane reasons, to move somewhere like West 225th street (literally over the Harlem River!) and want me to take the 1 (local only!) train for longer than I’ve ever been on any subway train since I’ve been living in the city, and show up at their housewarming party with a bottle of Prosecco after having walked ten minutes (lost!) in the wrong direction with not one person (not one!) on the street, and me, looking as out of place as a Midwestern couple with bright neon fanny-packs and huge billowing maps in the middle of Midtown Manhattan...don’t expect me for one up-up-uptown second, not to make the most of it.

Because the things is, you never get quite as drunk or spend half as much time at someone’s party talking to basically everyone in the room, willing listen to the entirety of their life’s story as when a) it took you the better half of the night just to get there, and b) you’re dreading more than anything you’ve ever dreaded in a long while, having to go all the way back home.