At school, I identify Edison to others—non-Indian others, at least— in relation to New York City: twenty-five miles southwest of it as the seagull flies, forty minutes by train, forty minutes by car, and an hour and a half counting traffic. But for all our proximity, I've never spent much time there, nor even wondered why not. I'd always known that I couldn't go to college there; recently, though, I've been disenchanted with the random day excursion to the city, too. One explanation could be that I just inherently dislike its hustle, abruptness, and monstrous enormity. Another could be that I've always felt rootless there. I spill out of the morning train alongside all of the other temporary passers-through, wander mostly aimlessly around the city for the day, hung halfway between gawky tourist and comfortable local, and then get back on the train for the night. Living there for a little while might be an interesting experiment. But no more than a year.