We eat—places like Red Bamboo, Mamoun’s. We drink—the tea shop, the Angelica juice bar. Potent ginger flavor seems recurring. I never learn my way in Greenwich Village. I do learn how to zero in on Union Square from any direction.

The Queensboro is a very attractive bridge with her own set of turrets and a suitably tortured manner of approaching her. I think I had to wend an underground exit like escaping from a conch shell off the FDR and rise up then at least two blocks, maybe 3, to 2nd Ave, where a hard left led me to her skirts. Lower Roadway. Don’t know if I ever accessed the upper, not sure if it exists. As the frame of fall progressed sunsets off the bridge grew more inflamed to less, then stopped.

39th Street in Queens. Parking was a challenge every night, except the first, when I stopped in a spot right outside the building.

I don’t know whether to pull or push the doors. I don’t know how to get in. I don’t know I can enter the little lobby and push “7D” to pay the magic entrance fee. I don’t know any of this stuff the first night. It’s exhausting figuring this out. I get better at it.

I don’t live in New York.