Having spent three months away, having spent more than one full day in the air, I am back. In the haze of my first day, during which I couldn’t remember how to turn the key in my front door or switch on the air conditioning, during which it took a good, long think to figure out which cupboard the plates are in, there are still some moments that are good. We went to Capsuto for a drink on their porch and Albert, the dapper frère, said, “It’s nice to have you back again.” That was good. Walking up Hudson in the cool evening with Tom trading songs on our iPods was good. Elliott Smith, Bob Dylan, the Jayhawks. “You’re gonna love this,” I told him, and played him “Rosanna.” Listening to Andy Statman and his mandolin in the basement of the Charles Street Synagogue was good, even though sheer exhaustion won out over jaunty bluegrass and I nodded off a couple of times. When the band started up, I said, “Wait, which one’s Andy Statman?” “In the yarmulke,” he said. “I watched ‘Hebrew Hammer’ in Sydney,” I said. Kissing the boy good-bye and getting into a cab at half past midnight was just like the old days, and I even remembered how to tell the driver the route home. Over the bridge and into the night.