I remember New York when I was a kid—the salty air of Port Jefferson, the charm of a true sea town. It always felt special just to walk the streets, soaking in the atmosphere, the scent of the ocean mixing with the smell of fresh seafood. There was this one place, The Steam Room, a fish spot where we always ate before boarding the Port Jeff to Bridgeport Ferry. That routine, that moment of sitting there with good food before setting sail, was something I looked forward to every time.

Bridgeport was another world, a place of history and spectacle. P.T. Barnum’s city, a place that felt alive with the echoes of showmanship and wonder. I’ve always admired Barnum—I see myself as a showman in my own right, though life takes us in different directions.

Then there was Danbury, where my mom and dad’s family lived, and right next door, Bethel—Barnum’s hometown. Those towns hold pieces of my past, memories of family, tradition, and the feeling of belonging.

Sometimes, I wish that when we die, we could live those years in an endless loop, to relive the best moments over and over. But that’s just a dream, isn’t it?

Still, those days in Port Jeff, Bridgeport, and Danbury—they live on in my mind, and in the stories I tell.