Having spent the first 23 years of my life in Northern California, I’m not built for the claustrophobically hot and humid New York summers. I’ve been wilty, like the under-watered tomato plant I’ve been nursing on my stoop. When I have dared to leave the comfort of my air conditioner and brave the so-hot-you-can-fry-an-egg sidewalks over the last week, …
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