he week after the London bombings, it Twas borne in upon slightly anxious New Yorkers that the MTA had spent a mere $30 million of the $600 million it had committed to security.

Any disappointment by New York over its failed Olympic bid had to be reckoned as trivial compared with what the winning city went through.

The day after the summer solstice, there was a full moon over New York. Yet this seemingly auspicious sign was preceded by a series of small disasters across the city.

With a pardonable sense of exasperation, New Yorkers did their best to follow a stadium–cum–Olympic-bid drama that had more false endings than a Mahler symphony.

The week's unseasonable warmth made the air heavy with scents and odors that seemed to call forth primal emotions across the city.

The disclosure of Deep Throat’s identity transfixed the city, and New Yorkers grappled with other revelations of a more local character.

If the week had a moral, it might well have been that the best way of making a good impression is to maintain a demure silence.

A TV celebrity was married, a great museum reopened, and a giant electronic snowflake was installed over midtown.

More smiles were seen on the streets of New York than at any time since before November 2.

As the holiday season officially commenced, New York noticed with some consternation that it had already gained five pounds.