Ah, New York City. There is a slight chill. The city is full of Midwesterners, all wearing white Reeboks, all staring straight upward.

My wife and I have just stepped out of our cab, after leaving LaGuardia Third World International Airport. Our cab driver was a nice man who drove upwards of 75 mph with only one finger on the wheel, and that was just on the sidewalks.

Right now, my wife and I are walking to our hotel. Because that’s all you do in New York City, really. You walk. You walk for miles, until the blisters on your feet become the size of U.S. Congresspersons.

Right now, we are stuck walking in a massive clot of people moving like a herd of bison. We are trekking onward, hauling our luggage, dodging cabs.

Even so, my wife is thrilled to be in this town. It is her first time visiting. So she is taking cellphone pictures by the gazillions.

My wife finds important photographic moments wherever she glances. So far, she has taken pictures of our cab’s interior, my half-eaten airport bagel, the plane’s lavatory, and a middle-aged woman walking down the street dressed like a giant marital aid.

I also have this feeling the locals can tell we’re out-of-towners. We have that look about us. I met a cashier in a coffee shop, for example, when I was trying to order a large iced tea.

My tea arrived. “There’s something wrong with my iced tea, ma’am,” I said.

“What‘s wrong?”

“It’s not sweet.”

“So add some sugar.”

“I can’t add granulated sugar to cold tea.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am not a communist.”

Then the cashier asked if I was from Alabama. I was so impressed this lady guessed where we were from.

“That’s amazing,” I said. “How on earth could you tell where we’re from?”

“Honestly?” she said, leaning in to whisper. “It’s your teeth.”

I’ve never been so offended. I paid good money for these teeth.

Something else about New York. Everyone is always trying to sell you something.

On our stroll to the hotel, we’ve encountered salespeople outside shops, standing on sidewalks, beckoning us to buy knock-off handbags, burner cellphones, instant credit cards, imitation Rolexes, or T-shirts that read, “FuhggedAboutIt.”

Earlier, I was approached by a man in shaggy clothes with a scraggly beard, rattling a tin cup. “Got any change?” the bearded man asked.

I dug into my pocket and tossed change into the man’s cup.

The man replied, “Thanks, brother. Can you make change for a hundred?”

If I’m being honest, I’ve never been a fan of New York City. It’s big. It’s loud. It’s an adrenal experience. It’s overwhelming.

The first time I visited, I was 19. I had a mild panic attack while crossing the street in Times Square. I was a hayseed who had never seen a city so big. My friends took me to urgent care. The doctor had a pronounced Bronx accent. He asked what my symptoms were.

“My heart’s racing,” I said, “I’m clammy all over, I can’t get a full breath, I’m trembling, and I feel like I’m going to puke.”

The doctor patted my thigh and said, “Those aren’t symptoms, kid. That’s New York.”

Another time, when I visited, I rode the subway. It was late. I was approached by a man who looked liked a rough customer. He showed me a big knife and said he was going to mug me.

If you can believe it, at that exact moment, a Catholic priest showed up—don’t tell me God isn’t watching. Sadly, I didn’t stand a chance against the two of them.

And so, as we made our way into the hotel lobby, my wife and I were exhausted from our long walk across the Big Applecore.

Out hotel clerk was a snippy woman and, if I had to guess, in serious need of fiber supplementation.

“Checking in?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am.”

“Why not?”

“I find it demeaning.”

“What should I call you, then?”

“Don’t call me anything. I don’t want to bear your children, pal.”

So I gave her the biggest smile I could. Because that is what Mama taught me to do in the presence of rudeness.

The clerk looked at me, as I was grinning dumbly. She leveled her gaze on my mouth.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Alabama?”

Ah, New York.