The West Side Highway

I got a late start today and little sleep last night, so I don't have much time to muse on, say, how people without children feel about strollers and when a child is old enough to be out of a stroller and how terrible it is to try to get your kid from one place to another in a stroller even if he can walk and speak in full sentences. I mean, some people are really entitled about their children and their status as parents. And some people are incredibly nasty to people with children, whether you're a presuming parent with a big stroller or not. I have stories, oh do I have stories, about the contempt adults show small children in this city and I daresay in this country. Contempt that would shock an Italian, let's say. But I can't get into the details right now. Right now, I want to talk about The West Side Highway. Because I love The West Side Highway. It shoots up the, you know, west side of Manhattan and I'm rarely on it and when I am I'm always thrilled. Because I love watching the neighborhoods change. I love seeing the green of Riverside park and the dinginess of the 50s and 40s and the celebration of downtown. I love how extreme everything feels so far west. It's paved, but it's wild. And it's not like I love cars or driving or being on any highway at all. But I love that road. Maybe it's my Route 66. Flying up it this morning, after leaving behind the choked traffic on tenth avenue, I felt the familiar rush of romance when we passed by the Hustler club and the unfortunate Trump Towers and the Liberty Helicopter pad. All this under the clear Spring sky, and all I could think was: Ahhh, New York, New York!!!