Today, I’m sitting at my favorite coffee shop on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, blaming an elderly couple for my lack of productivity.  I have a soy latte and the crumbs of a pretzel croissant I devoured with no self-control sitting on a plate next to my laptop.  Jackhammers are making their own ruckus music between piles of dirty snow outside.  Two baristas are going back and forth between conversations with each other and serving the sporadic stream of customers stomping in the door.  When I look out the window I see buildings across the street that are the kind that initially won my heart for this city -- weathered brick, chipped mint green paint on fire escapes, intricate detail wrapped like a ribbon half way up the side.  When the splash of a yellow taxi is waiting at the stop light in front of them, the picture is quintessential New York City – and I have to remind myself I’m here and not just looking at a post card.