Another morning in Brooklyn, and I am tired. Even though we all went to bed decorously before midnight, I could not fall asleep for hours--possibly because of the giant meal I'd eaten. The five of us had gone out for an extravagant steak dinner in Manhattan, and we spent way, way too much money, but it was a joyous night, so I am refusing to regret.

The kids and I were in town all afternoon: looking at an irritating show at the Guggenheim, eating Israeli falafel on a Central Park bench, marveling at the massive Strand bookstore, whose secrets I barely began to unlock. The weather has been glorious--yes, a brief spot of rain, but otherwise balmy. The city is packed with overflow crowds from the U.S. Open, which meant that the museum was filled with unusually athletic-looking art starers.

Now I am sitting here sleepily in the darkened apartment, a late riser to myself but still the only person awake in this household. Downstairs a program about Caligula is muttering on the forgotten TV. Praetorian guard murmurs the suave English narrator. Scandal he sighs.

In a few minutes I'll pull myself together and walk out into the world; I'll meet a friend for coffee and reenter the noisy clanking shrieking life of the city. Wonders everywhere, and secrets, and old gum stuck to the sidewalk.