It’s officially my favorite three weeks of the year, weather-wise, in New York City. You can sleep without air conditioning and you don’t wake up with your hair slicked to the back of your neck. You can leave point A on foot and arrive dry at point B, without sweating through your clothes at all. The subway stations, while still gateways into an abysmal mess of bureaucratic incompetence, do not make you feel like you’re standing in the gateway of hell. There’s a crisp breeze in the morning, which has necessitated a sweater on early runs to the grocery store, a leaf here and there on the sidewalk and a general feeling, I think, of contentment.
