On Thursday at 7 p.m. we were driving down SR205 in DeKalb County, slicing a yellow and green soybean field in two.
By Friday at 7 p.m. I was in Times Square, New York City, stepping through puddles as we crossed Broadway, dazzled by the lights, caught in the crowd, not minding the rain.
On Saturday at 10 a.m., I was in the Bronx, facing Yankee Stadium(s), the old on the left, the new on the right.
At 11:30 a.m., I was on the streets of Greenwich Village, then Soho, then Little Italy, and back to the Village, drinking a soda in Washington Square.
At 5 p.m., I was at Ground Zero, fences full of bouquets, a pit full of construction.
At 7 p.m. I was walking towards Battery Park at the southern tip of Manhattan, on my way to the Staton Island Ferry.
On Sunday at 10 a.m., I stood at the spot on Wall Street where George Washington was inaugurated.
At 11:30 a.m., I was walking among a moving river of people over the Brooklyn Bridge.
At 1 p.m., I was lunching in Rockefeller Center under a canopy of canvas umbrellas, sipping pink lemonade.
At 3 p.m., I bought toys in F.A.O. Schwartz.
At 4 p.m, I paused by The Pond in Central Park and took pictures of a dozen turtles sunning themselves on a rock.
At 7 p.m., I were flying down interstate 80, the New York skyline in the rearview mirror.
By Monday at 7 p.m., New York souveniers were delivered to those who had stayed behind.
Somehow, I'm still hearing the roar of the subway coming up from the street grates, the guy in the red BMW convertible yelling "A--hole!" to the taxi that had just cut him off, the old man asking for just a couple bucks for his medicine, the jazz wafting in Washington Square, cacophony of Times Square, the quiet in Central Park.
Maybe, maybe, a little of that energy came along for the ride home to Indiana. Maybe.