When I was in high school in The Bronx, some literature class offered up a bit of Sir Walter Scott that was once highly regarded as an example of really bad poetry. It went:
Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Sure, drivel by today's standards. But this weekend I am in my native land, The City of New York, and it's tearing me up. I love this place beyond measure and I get back so little. There could not have been a more stimulating place to grow up. Not that I'm sorry life set me down in St. Louis with a person I adore but every time I step out of the subway in Manhattan the longing returns. OMG, I'd love to live here again, but life's winds take us where they will. Now my home is near the Mississippi, not the Hudson.
Above, looking up at the Citicorp Building from 3rd Avenue and 53rd Street near our hotel. Below, an iPhone shot in the subway.
