Courtesy of an impenetrable fog and a closed airport, instead of flying back to New York City after a wonderful weekend in Ottawa, I jumped (well ... dragged my suitcase) onto a Greyhound Bus.
Other than having to endure a cranky but careful bus driver, my trip back was uneventful. I had nothing to complain about and nothing to revel in. Not, at least, until the wheels of the bus began to rumble over potholes, the familiarity of which woke me up. I looked out the window and realized that we were approaching New York City. Or, should I say Oz?
There it was. A staggering array of lights spread out against an infinity of black. Shimmering. Crystalline. Exquisite. Truly, an Emerald City of dreams. A reminder to those of us who sometimes take the greatest city in the world for granted of just how breathtakingly magical Manhattan is.