This is one of those routine questions that a person shouldn’t stumble over attempting to reply. Yet I always do. It ends up being a drawn out, rambling mess of an answer that likely makes the acquaintance who asked it wished they’d mentioned the weather instead.
I was born in Manhattan, which isn’t really a city but a borough of New York City. Still, I think of it as “The City” and I believe I’m not alone in that respect. I recently found out that both the hospital where my mother spent an agonizing 18 hours in labor to produce the ugliest baby she’d ever seen, and the apartment where my parents lived at the time were on Amsterdam. I discovered this on my 48th birthday when my father called me.