There are some things I love that are uniquely New York. I love that used booksellers line the Upper West Side's Broadway on Sunday afternoons. I love that I can, quite by accident, stumble upon a ten block street fair. I love that in eight years I have never felt like my life would be easier if I owned a car. I love that Chris and I spent an entire commute trying to identify the spoken language of the family that sat across from us on the 1 train. I even love that in almost every apocalyptic disaster movie, I can distract myself by identifying the street corners where things are occurring; after all every end-of-civilization film begins in my beloved city.
But New York will never have my mountains, those majestic creatures rising up from the ground shrouded in fog and crowned in white. Mountains that always welcome their prodigal daughter home.