on the second floor, and sometimes even the one on the fourth. My neighbors never said anything; I was mostly a nuisance to myself. In this particular instance, however, after recently being burned, the pattern played out a little differently. When I yelled at myself in my head -- Geez, it's like you're a tourist in your own home! -- I saw that I was. The West Village wasn't home. I realized that I didn't even like it that much. In fact, I generally hung out in the bars and restaurants of other neighborhoods. I'd hardly decorated my room. The apartment felt counterfeit. So I started thinking backward. If this seemed obvious now, but I hadn't noticed any of it before, then my ignorance must have been willful, which means I'd had an incentive -- one whose imagined worth was so great, I'd gone more than $4,000 in debt paying rent in a neighborhood I couldn't afford. OK, here is where I tell you that I lied one last time. The truth is this: I do know why I moved to the West Village. I was chasing Lou. Finally, finally I'd reached her, and suddenly she was gone again. But in the legendary West Village, I could retrace her steps. Whenever I fancied, I could pop into Magnolia for a chocolate cupcake or go dancing at Automatic Slims. I could eat burgers at Corner Bistro and tell myself with eager eyes, "I bet Lou sat here once . . .in