After three months in San Miguel, a colonial Mexican town in the high and hilly desert, New York City is jumbo sized, with large expanses of flat. Clean, swift and vividly familiar, I’m already walking at full speed.
First stop? The Farmers market, where the Northeast apples are tart, like a brisk fall night in New England, our old home. While the Macouns are past peak, they still hold their complexity. And a giant Honey Crisp quenches my thirst.
We buy perfect Bialys — with just the right amount of moist onions at their center — to top with silken “nova” smoked salmon later.
Food is tip of the iceberg here in The Big Apple. Everything is accessible.
Marijuana too. A friend texts a pot biz from the subway. Ten minutes later later a delivery man in architect glasses appears at her apartment, hawking lolly pops along with fragrant bags of setiva. But he’s out of gummy bears.
We decline his offer of strong lollys for the the road, even after his
