If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a crowbar to pull me out of my village once I’ve settled in.

I was reminded of this truth about myself this week because I traveled from my new home in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, to New York the day before yesterday to attend a family wedding that will take place this Saturday.

Yes, of course, I wanted to attend. But even the thought of the trip — the planning, booking, packing, schlepping, waiting, connecting, pulling, carrying, paying, tipping, and so on, on my own, at this age/stage of life — was exhausting. It would have been easier, indeed, to remain in sweet San Miguel and make old-lady excuses: too tired, too poor, too not-up-to-it …  But it wouldn’t have been as much fun.

So here I am now, in my old neighborhood on the Upper West Side of Nueva York, where I spent twenty years of my life and where I learned from this city as if from a wise old uncle. I’ve been spending my time, so far, walking down Memory Lane.

This morning I walked in Riverside Park, where I always biked or jogged in good weather. I remembered the burly man who used to stop me and say, “Oh, you’re here! Whenever I don’t see you I cut a notch in this bench…” He would then pull out a sharp hunting knife to prove his point. “Well, here I am!” I’d say gaily and run, speedily, away.

I visited the campus of Columbia University today, too, and admired the statues at the entryway, what I used to think of as “the pearly gates.” For me, Columbia was heaven. Well, heaven with homework. And I’ll be eternally grateful to have been a scholarship student there and to have learned more than I ever would have otherwise.

I’ve walked along Broadway to Zabars (a food-lover’s mecca) and back, observing the changes — all for the better, it seems. I’ve been meeting with old friends who’ve never left the neighborhood. They are a part of me still; they are family.

This city, especially this section of it, is in my DNA. New York helped to shape me and make me who I am. I’m thankful to be here now and to be reminded of this fact. Sometimes it takes a crowbar to lift us out of our comfort zones and take us to a new — or, in this case, old — place that makes us glad that we have lived and learned and we are still alive.