For four days, I am at home.

I realized when stepping out of the cab at my hotel today that I could breathe freely for the first time in a long time.

I learned that New York is the kind of place where one can unexpectedly happen upon a Bastille Day boulle tournament on her way to lunch, where people are drinking champagne and flinging shining silver balls down a sand-covered court in the middle of the street.

I concluded that there are few Friday afternoons better than one spent perusing the New York Times in a favorite French/Brazilian cafe while enjoying a fresh salmon feta omelette, mesclun salad and a glass of excellent Italian pinot blanco.

I realized that New York is a place where you can still find things to do after waking up at 2:00 a.m. from a really long nap, such as finding a slice of pizza, enjoying a glass of wine at a favorite cafe and then taking in a live Pink Floyd singalong under the arch in Washington Square Park on your way home for the night, complete with guitar, flute, bongos and the aroma of marijuana smoke floating in the air.

I realized that New York is where one goes when they cannot wait to have a life at a later time.