Never in the summer do I ever miss New York, unless you’re asking me specifically about Hell’s Kitchen kisses, watching the ‘Clones play, or the snappy, savory joys of a hot dog by the ocean. Heat bouncing down Manhattan alleys, humidity keeping us all sticky with the sunburnt frustration of eight million people who all need to be someplace. But the Q train was air conditioned, and usually clean, and Coney Island always meant a smile.