You can forget these things. It has been 17 days, a multitude of states, three beds and two countries since we’ve been here last. Someone wrote asking about my day. Just fine, can you tell me where my restroom is?

Brian stopped in for a visit with his daughter this afternoon. They were passing through town and we guilted them into a visit. We could not guilt them into corn nuggets. There will be repercussions.

A new thing they are doing at Publix, identifying the local growers. “Hi, my name is Bo and I grow corn because it keeps me one with the earth, and also justifies the vast stores of butter I keep on the family property.”

At the grocery store we were asked six times — six! — if we needed help. How great it is to be home. We must looked exhausted or confused or they’ve forgotten who we are.

We had an interesting conversation about this in New York, actually. The North is fine. Good folks, same as anywhere, really. (In fact each one I’ve met on a personal level in six years of visiting has been kind, welcoming and hospitable.) But their attention is a bit different. There’s the pace, sure, but most importantly there is the distraction of self. Our friend John, who grew up in the Bronx, kept trying to say that people aren’t rude, they are just far, far more concerned about their own little world than they ever will be with you. That’s fine, as far as it goes. They’re in the hustle, the bustle and are completely focused on themselves.

One man asked me three times today if he could help me at the grocery store. One man. Three times! Three of his co-workers also tried to help. We visited a grocery store in Boston and the people were helpful if you asked. Everyone you meet in Boston is very nice. You meet plenty of nice people in New York. A random man walked up and gave us directions as we consulted our iPhone directions in Manhattan. “Go down to 72nd and over one block … I promise.” The pause was such that he knew we were skeptical. But he had no reason to lie about it. We turned that way and he told us to enjoy our afternoon. (He gave us the right directions.)

Conversely you’ll get ran over for even considering reading a sign. And chivalry is right out. They aren’t merely self-centered in their own daily dramas.

Personally I think many they’re miserable and afraid to admit it as a sign of weakness. I like New York, that’s a great town — and the pace doesn’t bother me, I can do fast — but there are too many people and nothing feels your own. Here I have my grocery store. There people have a store that they go to. Here I can be a regular at various establishments. There you’re just one more order and for heaven’s sake don’t stutter. It all feels like the psychological equivalent of hot cotting. That has to grate on the psyche. I suspect I’d have that impression in Tokyo or Beijing or any megaplex. The older I get the more a small town appeals to me.

Sure, Wikipedia says New York City has 88 theatres, and Boston has — well, the Bruins and Patriots, I guess — but I can park a car most anywhere I go. It is a tradeoff.

Nice to see my car again today, too. It cranked and everything! Which is good, because I’ll need it tomorrow.