The last day of our road trip, Yudhi and I lounge on a beach someplace for hours, and—as often happens with us—we start talking about New York City again, how great it is, how much we love it. Yudhi misses the city, he says, almost as much as he misses his wife—as if New York is a person, a relative, whom he has lost since he got deported. As we're talking, Yudhi brushes off a nice clean patch of white sand between our towels and draws a map of Manhat-tan. He says, "Let's try to fill in everything we can remember about the city." We use our fin-gertips to draw in all the avenues, the major cross-streets, the mess that Broadway makes as it leans crookedly across the island, the rivers, the Village, Central Park. We choose a thin, pretty seashell to stand for the Empire State Building, and another shell is the Chrysler Build-ing. Out of respect, we take two sticks and put the Twin Towers back at the base of the is-land, back where they belong.

We use this sandy map to show each other our favorite spots in New York. This is where Yudhi bought the sunglasses he's wearing right now; this is where I bought the sandals I'm wearing. This is where I first had dinner with my ex-husband; this is where Yudhi met his wife. This is the best Vietnamese food in the city, this is the best bagel, this is the best noodle shop ("No way, homo—this is the best noodle shop"). I sketch out my old Hell's Kitchen neighborhood and Yudhi says, "I know a good diner up there."

"Tick-Tock, Cheyenne or Starlight?" I ask.

"Tick-Tock, dude."

"Ever try the egg creams at Tick-Tock?"

He moans, "Oh my God, I know . . ."

I feel his longing for New York so deeply that for a moment I mistake it for my own. His homesickness infects me so completely that I forget for an instant that I am actually free to go back to Manhattan someday, though he is not. He fiddles a bit with the two sticks of the Twin Towers, anchors them more solidly in the sand, then looks out at the hushed, blue ocean and says, "I know it's beautiful here . . . but do you think I'll ever see America again?"

What can I tell him?

We slump into silence. Then he pops out of his mouth the yucky Indonesian hard candy he's been sucking on for the last hour and says, "Dude, this candy tastes like ass. Where'd you get it?"

"From your mother, dude," I say. "From your mother." Eat, Pray, Love

公路之旅的最后一天，尤弟和我在某个海滩闲坐数小时之久——正如我们经常做的那样——又开始谈及纽约，它的好，我们对它的爱。尤弟说他想念纽约，几乎相当于想念他太太——仿佛纽约是一个人，打从被驱逐出境后就失去的一个亲人。我们聊天的同时，尤弟在我们的毛巾之间掸开一块白沙地，画一张曼哈顿地图。他说："让我们填上纽约在自己记忆中的一切吧。"我们用手指尖画出每一条大道，主要的交叉路段，歪曲的百老汇街，河流，格林威治村，中央公园。我们挑了一个漂亮的薄贝壳代表帝国大厦，另一个贝壳代表克莱斯勒大厦。我们拿了两根小枝子，把双子星大楼放回曼哈顿岛尖端，以示敬意。

我们用这幅沙子地图来告知对方纽约最让自己喜欢的地点。尤弟现在戴的太阳眼镜是在这儿买的；我现在穿的凉鞋是在这儿买的。这是我和前夫第一次吃晚饭的地方；这是尤弟和他太太认识的地点。这是城里最好的越南餐馆，这是最好的贝果饼店，这是最好的面馆（"没的事，死玻璃——这里才是最好的面馆。"）我画出自己过去住的"地狱厨房"（Hell"sKitchen）区，尤弟说："我知道那儿有家好餐馆！"

"踢踏客（Tick-Tock）、鲜艳（Cheyenne）或星光（Starlight）？"我问。

"踢踏客，好家伙。"

"有没有试过蛋蜜乳？"

他悲叹："喔，天啊，我知道……"

我深深感受到他对纽约的思念，有片刻间使我误认为那是自己的思念。他的乡愁彻底感染了我，使我忽然忘记自己其实在未来哪天能回到曼哈顿去，而他却不能。他把玩双子星大楼的两根枝子，使它们更牢牢固定在沙地上，而后眺望平静的碧海，说："我知道这儿很美……但你想我能不能再见到美国？

我能说什么。

我们陷入沉默。然后他吐出含在嘴里已经一小时的难吃的印尼硬糖，说："好家伙，这糖的味道恶心透了。你从哪儿拿来的？"

"从你娘那儿，好家伙，"我说，"从你娘那儿拿来的。"