A good friend of mine is graduating tomorrow. He has earned his PhD and, to recognize his efforts, he shall don a purple robe accented with wide, black, velvet stripes and gold trim; a floppy purple cap with a gold tassel will adorn his head.

“It’s a Barney suit,” he dryly commented.

Later on this year, he will move to New York City to begin his post-doctoral duties.

“You’re going to join me there for your fellowship,” he has confidently remarked. “Maybe we can work on research together. Or teach more doctors about therapeutic interviewing. It’ll be great.”

My first visit to New York City happened when I was around eleven years of age. My father was required to travel to Manhattan for a business trip. He elected to take the rest of the family with him.

I don’t recall the long plane trip from Los Angeles to New York City. My mind cannot conjure up the details of our room at the Sheraton Hotel. There are only two things I do clearly remember: A taxi ride and souvlaki sandwiches.

We took a taxi from the airport to the hotel. My father sat next to the driver; my mother and I sat in the back seat. Night had settled upon the city and the cab was crossing a bridge. The windows of the taxi were rolled all the way down—it must have been late summer or early autumn—and the warm night air pushed my hair out of my face and felt alive and inviting against my skin. The cables of the bridge regularly sliced through the parade of white headlights from the cars on the other side of the divide, illuminating the interior of our taxi like a strobe light: Our shadows shifted stiffly and unnaturally against the dark vinyl of the car seats.

The taxi driver abruptly changed lanes at high speeds, swerving the car unpredictably to the left, then to the right. The cab weaved through traffic with the agility of an expert skier negotiating large moguls. My father was seated uncomfortably upright and said nothing. My mother held my hand tightly.

I stuck my head out the window and smiled broadly.

One afternoon, in the midst of touring Manhattan on foot, my father stopped in front of a metal cart on a street corner. There may have been a large, stiff umbrella over the cart. Maybe the aroma of grilled meat had captured my father’s attention and had lured him to the cart; maybe we were waiting to cross the street and he caught sight of the man preparing sandwiches.

My father briefly surveyed the contents of the cart before asking the man if he could purchase sandwiches. I don’t remember how the conversation proceeded, but I do remember my father asking the man to label the food.

“Souvlaki,” the man had said.

“Sool-vah-kee?” my dad guessed.

“No, soo-VLAH-kee,” the man repeated.

“Soo-vlah-kee. Souvlaki,” my dad said. He laughed—it was a laugh of mild anxiety. He thanked the man, paid him, and then distributed the sandwiches to all of us.

My dad loved it. He could not stop “mmm!”ing for the next half-hour. In fact, he purchased another souvlaki sandwich the following day (more “mmm!”ing followed) and, upon returning to Los Angeles, spoke fondly about the delicious souvlaki sandwiches in New York. This souvlaki commentary continued on an intermittent basis for the next four months or so. He purchased souvlakis (?) in Southern California, but they all disappointed him.

“The quality of the meat just isn’t as good,” he lamented. “The souvlaki in New York was the best.”

My parents purchased a “I (heart) NY” tee-shirt for me. It is the only souvenir I remember from the trip. That tee quickly became my favorite shirt; I wore it frequently and, when the seams eventually came apart, I felt sad. When would I be able to get another shirt like it? When would I ever return to New York City?

Hopefully soon…!

(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)