My wife and I just returned home from a trip to visit our daughter, Sierra, in Brooklyn. She’s doing well, but the ebb and flow, and the fits and starts of work in the film industry can be a bit worrisome at times.

Except for a few sprinkles and a bit of wind here and there, New York in March was pleasant and cool, with a smattering of Spring color starting to raise its head from its quiet slumber into the never ending clatter above ground.

If you are planning a visit to the Big Apple, but are concerned your wardrobe may not be of the fashion deemed fashionable among New Yorkers, don’t be. You can drape yourself in as much, or as little, of whatever your heart desires, and nobody…nobody…will bat an eye.

Remember that new bathrobe of mine that I was carrying on about in the last column? I had hunch those things could be a slippery slope, and that hunch was confirmed in NYC.

One day you write a column in it, the next you maybe stroll to the mailbox, and then one day you find yourself marching confidently, almost brazenly, with the hordes through Times Square at two o’clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday, dress shoes, briefcase, and smartly swaddled bathrobe. That guy was having himself a good day. I batted an eye. I was impressed.

I was laid low by some sort of intestinal issue for the entirety of one day of the trip. It’s an accusation that it pains me to make, but I believe that I may have overindulged in the fine selection of cured meats that presents itself at every corner deli, on seemingly every corner. What’s the son of a butcher to do?

There’s no better way to see the city than on foot, and most days my phone, who apparently has nothing better to do than count my steps, informed us that we had taken over 20,000 steps. My phone was also kind enough to inform me that the 35 steps I took during the salami induced sick day was “significantly” less than the 20,000 steps I had taken the day before. Smartphone indeed.

Sierra’s cats, JoJo and Fester, who were entrusted with my convalescent care while the humans enjoyed gelato and life among the upright, must have been batting my deli-scented phone around during my cold cut coma, because I definitely did not walk 35 steps that day. When you’re sick like that, it’s hard to remember what it feels like to feel good, you just know you don’t want to feel bad anymore. Thankfully, it was just a 24-hour reminder.

I’ve been a bit sausage-shy since. Hopefully this little intestinal disagreement doesn’t harbor the same results as the one I had with Jack Daniels 20 years ago. Sour mash indeed. Old Number 7 and I haven’t spoken since. So it goes.

Something that I noticed this trip, more so than our other visits, was the days don’t seem to have a “feel” in the big city. Any given day or night has that weekend, Friday and Saturday night feel. Maybe it’s just because when you’re on vacation you don’t pay much mind to what the days name happens to be?

They were good days…even the bad one.