And then Johnny and I went there yesterday. We did exactly the same trip so I knew how to do it and didn't get nervous or even take a pamphlet of PATH information. We sat on a bench on the Hudson and read our summer's poem (having finished Joanne Kyger's On Time, we are doing our first-ever repeat, Thomas McGrath's Letter to an Imaginary Friend, which is just as beautiful and revelatory as it was when we read it a few summers back. We ate brunch at the Hoboken Gourmet Company and were home, door to door, in 3 hours.
It reminds me of our plan to stay overnight in Tarrytown, 30 miles upstate, years ago, when I still had a car. The Sleepy Hollow place was closed, the hotel was unappealing, and we couldn't really find anything to eat. We ended up at loose ends, hugging down by the river. Johnny turned me around to the south and when I saw the New York City skyline, I looked at him, and we got in the car without another word and drove home. He said, "That was the best vacation ever. We went somewhere far away and got to sleep in our own bed."
Sadly, rather than instigating a sense of adventure in him, he's turned me into a homebody. Three hours in Hoboken did feel like we'd been away, and I'm satisfied.