When I got on a plane for Manhattan last week, it was my first trip out of Boulder since arriving on August 24th. Almost a perfect 6 months. A half of a year. A lot of time by some measures. A blink of time by others. I went with Cole, my ten-year-old. He was a great companion. We slept in the same bed and woke up at the same lazy hour of 9am; we roamed the city up and down and hit a few of the bigger NYC institutions: the Guggenheim, Broadway (Mary Poppins), The Plaza, ABC Carpet and Home, Soho, Dylan's Candy Store, Rockefeller Center and Patsy's Pizza. He rode the Green Line, the Red Line, and the Orange Line subways; he became a regular on the 86th street crosstown bus; he walked and walked, like a true New Yorker, unconscious of the distances or time he traveled. For 5 straight days he didn't whine, or complain or protest. He is at a magical age for traveling--young enough to share my bed but old enough to do all of the adult things that make NYC worth visiting. In some ways, for me, it was just another NYC trip; for us--mother and son--it was a milestone.
