I grew up in New York City in the nineties. My best friends lived in Tribeca, which meant that John and Carolyn were just — around. John John on his bicycle. The two of them walking together outside of Bubby’s with the dog. It wasn’t a sighting, exactly. It was just the neighborhood. They were part of the texture of a specific New York and Tribeca that doesn’t exist anymore: Yaffa’s, El Teddy’s, Harvey Keitel at the bodega on Hudson lending us his cell phone when we didn’t have one, and Robert De Niro on Greenwich Street. Back then, the city felt like it belonged to itself, before everything got louder, more expensive, and more observed.