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longer the Russians, but the West German know-it-alls who had nested into the middle of the city.
    In her last post for StyleChicks, Zoe had written: “Bye-bye, Berlin. New York, here I come! StyleChicks is moving across the big pond, dear readers. On Sunday I’ll blog live about my first day in Manhattan. See you soon!”
    Sunday was today, and while Zoe didn’t really want to write about the very pleasant start to her first day, she was happy to blog about the rest. It hadn’t been hard for her to choose a street for her little city marathon, because the oldest and longest street in the city, which crossed it from south to north and was over fifteen miles long, was Broadway. It began right at the tip of the island by Bowling Green and ran all through the city to Westchester. At least, that’s what she could discern from Google Maps. Charmingly, Broadway was the only avenue that broke with the otherwise completely rectangular layout of Manhattan’s streets. Zoe liked nonconformists. After all, ever since her spectacular departure from Berlin, she had counted herself as one.
    It’s totally crazy how a non-dead man can turn your life completely upside down, Zoe thought as she left her apartment. Without BNN, she never would have gathered the courage to move to New York, wouldn’t have gotten the business cards with the clever sounding job title of Senior Vice President—and wouldn’t have had a delightful one-morning stand with a charming stranger on the day after her arrival.
    “Actually, I should thank Benni,” she said to herself. Then, for the seven-hundred-and-ninety-sixth time, she tried to imagine him kissing his old school friend, the avatar. She pictured her having cobalt-blue skin and a pointy nose. She shuddered. “No, actually, I should have strangled him.”
    She glanced at McNeighbor’s apartment door, the sight of which immediately improved her mood. She paused. Allegra’s new favorite catchphrase was “What would you do if you weren’t afraid?” Apparently it was hanging on the wall at Facebook’s headquarters.
    Zoe thought about it for a moment. “If I wasn’t afraid, I’d knock on his door now,” she said, answering her own question. She raised her hand to knock—and let it fall again. If she was honest with herself, she was actually quite afraid, deep down. Not just of knocking, but generally. She was afraid of this whole newfound courage, and this whole new Zoe.
    “Women and self-doubt. No man would allow his brain to constantly think such destructive crap,” Al would have said. Zoe sighed. Unfortunately, Al wasn’t here. She turned and headed for the elevator.
    When she arrived downstairs, Zoe was greeted by Devon the doorman, who was wearing his fancy dark blue uniform with shiny gold buttons. “Did you have a nice first morning here, Ms. Schuhmacher?” he asked. Zoe wasn’t sure if it was just pure American politeness, or an “I know everything, after all, I’m the doorman” type question. She carefully put on a poker face. That is, she did everything possible to repress the grin that was trying to creep onto her face, and she replied, “Wonderful, just wonderful. Thanks for asking.”

    When Zoe finally stepped out of the Four Seasons Executive Residences onto 52nd Street, the puddles were starting to evaporate on the warm asphalt, and it had become noticeably cooler. The air seemed as clear as if it had been cleaned with Windex, and a fresh breeze was blowing. Zoe had obviously slept through the heavy thunderstorms the intern had forecast that morning.
    The HopStop app on her phone recommended that she take the 1 train to South Ferry Terminal. As Zoe took the stairs down to the subway station, she noticed a small alcove in the wall at the landing about halfway down. It was a one-room barber and shoeshine shop with a hand-painted sign that read “Haircut & shoeshine for gentlemen, $16 + $2.” Women were obviously not part of their business model—which was definitely