We are in Nice again, have been for six days, not doing anything much. Indolence is its own reward, isn't it? Feeling relaxed and at home here, and for Peggy it is home, though for me not really. There is always in the back of my mind something nagging me, even after so many years. As if I don't belong here, should be somewhere else. Sometimes I imagine that the only time I have felt really at home as an adult, was during that packed, too short year in the police department being driven through the city in the unmarked car assigned to me sometimes down streets I had played in as a boy.  More than once I looked out the window at the city going by and thought: this is where I belong, I was born here, New York is my city. This is not an emotion I feel in Nice no matter how relaxed and at home I imagine myself to be. One night a guy had been shot and with two detectives in the car we followed the ambulance to the hospital and as we pulled up I realized it was the hospital in which I had been born, and like a jerk I announced this to the detectives. They didn't say anything, and at least I was smart enough to say nothing more, and we all got out and followed the gurney into the emergency room and watched the intern or surgeon or whatever he was dig the bullet out of the guy's leg. After which the detectives got on with their interrogation.