It was said that my New York license plates would arouse interest and perhaps questions, since they were the only outward identifying marks I had. And so they did—perhaps twenty or thirty times in the whole trip. But such contacts followed an invariable pattern, somewhat as follows: Local man: “New York, huh?” Me: “Yep.” Local man: “I was there in nineteen thirty-eight—or was it thirty-nine? Alice, was it thirty-eight or thirty-nine we went to New York?” Alice: “It was thirty-six. I remember because it was the year Alfred died.” Local man: “Anyway, I hated it. Wouldn’t live there if you paid
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