Today was the last day that my kids will live in New York City. Tomorrow morning, the three of us will pile into my '99 Rolls-Canardly and head west for several consecutive hours. In fact, I think that once we get over the GWB, there will be exactly two turns, as we breathe in the great breadth of Pennsyltucky.
(Which I mean affectionately. I know not all Pennsyltuckians like being called Pennsyltuckians, and it might sound especially dick-ish from a New Jersey native like me. I think it's just a great word that's fun to say. And really, what other regions can conflate themselves like that? South Dabraska? Massachumpshire? I say, exult in your uniqueness! Texarkana is totally jealous.)
This morning hit me harder than I thought it would. I woke up with a tight chest, and I suddenly felt like taking the kids everywhere at once, to the Empire State Building and the Intrepid and the Staten Island Ferry, then maybe a nosh at Zabar's, then Wave Hill and Conservatory Water and Coney Island, and then to the East Village to get Giants logos tattooed on our clavicles. This will be a day you'll remember, my boys. The day your father showed you this wonderful, magical city that simmers in its own, special, summertime sauce.
(New tourism slogan: NYC is like a mole, in every interpretation of the term: it's a blind, dirty animal; a potentially cancerous bump on your cheek; a spicy, sweet, and savory gravy; and 6.0221415 × 1023 molecules of amazement flubbering around in a confined space.)