Far from home.

I am out in an outer-borough this morning. Once again a stranger in a strange land. Far from the streets, charm and filth of my thin spit of land, Manhattan.

It seems that in the past five years or so half of the world has moved out here. Be-whiskered and tattooshioed denizens in flannel fairly kvell when speaking of their cobblestoned home. I'd wager the Dodgers--who left this borough just before my birth--have more fans in these now-rarefied parts than they have in the City of Angels.

Look! There's Pee Wee Reese. Here's "Oisk" Erskine chatting with Preacher Roe. There's Campy, Junior and the Duke. They're all still here. Still thriving in the land that invented the ironic sandwich and artisinal potato chips.

I, for one, can't pass Delancey Street, in Ol' Manhattan, without whistling Cole Porter. "It's very fancy, on ol' Delancey Street, you know/The subway charms are so/When balmy breezes blow." And Manhattan will always always always be home for me, no matter where I live.

But here I am.

In the Manhattan of the outer boroughs.

If I'm not back in an hour, send out a search party.