After 21 years, I’m saying see you soon to New York City. But most definitely not goodbye. Because I don’t really know how to say goodbye to a place that’s such a part of me. From dancing my heart out at Coney Island High and Brownie’s and drinking my face off at Odessa and 2A in the mid 90s, to finally venturing above 14th Street to Columbia and then Fordham for my perma-student years, followed by the lost years (big law), and then the best years—kids and Brooklyn and Condé Nast. It hasn’t always been easy, and I’ve bitched a fair deal, but I wouldn’t trade these years for anything. And, after over two decades, I think I’ve earned the privilege to call myself a New Yorker. This means I will always get a lump in my throat when I see firefighters, I will always think of distances in terms of time spent on the F train, I will always walk at an abnormally rapid clip, and I will always feel most comfortable when surrounded by a sea of people from a dozen different countries with whom I may have nothing in common aside from the fact that we chose New York. So, for now, let’s keep it casual. See you around NYC. You’re the best.