Forget for a moment that I'm Jewish. Forget for a moment the fact that I protest vehemently the fact that the Christmas season seems to kick off at Arbor Day. Forget for a moment that I can't stand it when the radio stations start playing all Christmas music. Forget for a moment that I willingly fled the Northeast and its snow and cold, and forget for a moment that for eight years, I lived in Boston and to this day still support the Red Sox, the arch-nemesis of New York. It used to be an annual tradition for me to go into New York with my parents around Christmastime. We'd walk through the streets that always seemed to turn into a natural wind tunnel, with the freezing cold wind whipping in off the East River that just cut through any jackets we might be wearing. We'd smell the scent of chestnuts roasting on an open fire on the sides of all the pushcarts that inevitably smelled about a thousand times better than they tasted. We'd battle our way through the throngs of people who are always on the streets of Manhattan, no matter what time of day or year it was. But, despite it all, there is nothing like it, and I wouldn't trade it for the world. The storybook windows at Saks, the giant frickin' tree at Rockefeller Center, the huge snowflake hanging in the middle of Madison Avenue, the way that FAO Schwarz was always done up. If someone were to ask me what my favorite place in the world is, I'd answer -- without hesitation -- it's New York at Christmas. It really is the greatest place on Earth. And I've been away too long. New York is in my blood -- my parents are natives, I was born there, and the accent still comes out when I get really drunk, tired or angry. It's written into my genetic code. I miss it like I miss home, despite the fact that out of everywhere I've lived, I lived in New York the shortest amount of time. And right now, I feel like I'd give anything to be back there, if only for a little while. Billy Joel - "Miami 2017" (live) Right-click and save as, please.