It’s not fair. Why can’t I be a New Yorker? Why do they get to shop at the Whole Foods at Columbus Circle? Eat at Bar Boulud before hanging at the Met? Perch on a stoop waiting for a table at Clinton Street Baking Company? Nosh a hotdog by the Carousel in Central Park? Oh wait – that was me. For three days I made my way like a ping-pong ball bouncing around New York City. And the city was all dressed up in a flowery spring time shift. That was me with my mouth hung open at the Bradford pears and cherry blossoms, bumping into people while I gaped at the crowds of tulips in the tiny pocket parks in SoHo, ducking at the crack of the bat in Central Park, and bouncing along with a spring in my step like all the other New Yorkers.