Brooklyn Heights Promenade

A New Yorker In Recovery: When Home Is Just Another Place On The Map

By the time I was 12 years old I was riding the buses and subways all over the five boroughs by myself. That was also the same year that I took multiple solo bus trips from New York City’s Port Authority up to my summer camp in Western Massachusetts. At the time I did not understand the look of horror when other passengers on the bus, all taller than me asked if I was traveling alone. By the time I was 16, I was regularly taking the bus from midtown Manhattan to Upstate New York to spend the weekend with friends. I’m a New Yorker through and through. I can calculate the advanced algebraic equations of the New York City subway system track changes/holiday schedule/interrupted service/switching to local/then possibly a bus/then back on the train at 3 am.  Without fail, every time I get into a taxi cab I am the one giving the driver directions and showing him roundabout ways to get me where I need to go. I’m a New Yorker.

Or so I thought.

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