True story: My wife and I both are former residents of New York City, and on a recent business trip there she was taking a nostalgic walk through the Upper West Side on a lovely fall day, talking to me on the phone about the possibility of moving back there. And then the crusty guy walking in front of her on the sidewalk stopped, dropped trou and took a dump right there on the sidewalk on Central Park West.
“Never mind,” she said.
We live in Texas, where we don’t have any state or local income tax or languish in rodential subterranean subway stations waiting for a train that may or may not come. For me, it was the subways that were the last straw. I had one of the easiest subway commutes in town: from City Hall to Grand Central, a nice straight shot on the express train. When it started taking me as long to get home downtown as it had when I lived in Norwalk, Conn., I decided it was time to get out.