This morning we got up early. We ambled outside with our bulky bags and waited for our shared-ride bus thingie. It was raining, naturally, so we stood under the hotel awning. A friendly old man (who may have been tipsy) teased me: "If your mother knew you were outside in a sleeveless blouse on a day like this, she'd give it to you good! Am I right? Am I right? Ha ha!" He was great, but then he and another old fellow took off in pursuit of two older ladies at the end of the block, tapping their canes and laughing about the conquest. The bus was half an hour late—we were in the process of hailing a cab when its smiling grill came around the corner. It was a quick, harrowing ride to LaGuardia as the bus clattered down brick streets and sailed across the bridge, barely missing a thousand obstructions. Didn't take nearly as long as the ride to the hotel.

Is it just me, or does it take way less time going through the airport than they tell you? That two-hour thing is kind of a joke. You get your boarding pass in a jiffy, say bye-bye to your checked bags, and head to the bathroom one last time. You doff your shoes and zip through security. And then you sit. You read your entire Grisham paperback, including the acknowledgments, and then you sit some more. You stare at your fellow passengers and make up biographies for them. I bet that woman is a real estate agent. I bet that guy is having an affair. Before long, though, your fellow passengers notice you've been staring at them, and so you have to avert your gaze so as not to seem like some kind of freak, which, of course, you are. You stare everywhere and nowhere, until your shifty gaze starts to attract the attention of the airport personnel. Then you get out your book, and start to re-read it. You sit so long you start to feel like you've always been there, like you're a character in some Beckett play, waiting for a friend who will never arrive. It's exhausting, really.

That's the irritating part of flying. The part I like is that you can be in a totally miserable, dreary, wet day (which we were), but when you get on the plane you just fly right out of it. Flying makes me giddy and anxious and all strung out. I'm too aware of my mortality to completely feel secure at those heights, but I can't stop looking out the window anyway. The clouds are glorious clumps of confectioner's sugar, or spread out thin like cotton, but always beautiful, and it's thrilling to think that hardly anyone else will ever get to see the top of a particular cloud. But I'm seeing it—30,000 feet above the ground in a metal box that is held in place by impossible forces.

We landed safely, and all our baggage showed up at the proper time. My Dylan record even survived the travel. Overall, it was a glorious trip—I loved every minute of it. The New York I saw was a fabulous, diverse, vibrant place, and although it was uniquely American in flavor, it felt like it contained the whole world.

I want to move there.

Nick's not so sure.