Returning to New York is like running in to a gorgeous ex -- not just any ex, but "the one that got away." The one you left saying "it's not you, it's me." The one that looks like a movie star to everyone else, but all you can see is how they look in the morning, with disheveled hair and coffee breath.
If you want to know New York, get to know its street cuisine. I learned it early. Growing up in Manhattan's Chelsea neighborhood, I would get a lunch of two hot dogs in steam-soft rolls from the guy who set up his stainless-steel pushcart on the corner of 17th Street every morning, rain or shine, Saturdays and holidays, summer-fall-winter-spring.
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