Patrick in New York was a specific kind of wonderful. He moved through the city with the focused curiosity of someone who had heard about a place for decades and was now finally checking the reality against the description and finding both accurate and insufficient simultaneously. "It's exactly what I expected," he said, standing on the Brooklyn Bridge on his second morning. "And nothing like what I expected." "That's New York," I said. "It's always both." "Sydney is never both," he said. "Sydney is exactly what it is. Honest about itself." "New York is honest too," I said. "It just has more layers to be honest about." He looked at the Manhattan skyline. Then at Brooklyn behind us. "I see that," he said. --- I took him to the Cobble Hill bakery first. Of course I did. He stood in the middle of it the way people who understood spaces stood in them. Not looking at the decor or the menu or any of the specific surface things. Looking at the way it held itself. The way the lig
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