Sometimes, the solitude of sitting in traffic on I-81 sounds better than standing in silence on a cramped C train. Sometimes, the taste of Dinosaur Bar-B-Que seems sweeter coming from that little shack on Willow than the swanky riverside hangout in Harlem. Sometimes, a beer in the sleepy village dive goes down smoother than it does in the packed clubs of Crown Heights. And no matter how much you try to deny it, those old thoughts sometimes come stumbling back into your brain, making you wish you were home again. No, not your home now, per se, but Home, where you know a little part of you still belongs.