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Last week I made a sentimental journey home - to Costello's, a saloon that has catered to generations of New York City reporters.
In the dim room, the long darkwood bar was only one-deep with customers. I didn't know any of them, although there was a familiar face behind the bar.
``Haven't seen you for a while,`` said the bartender, a thick, gloomy man. Then he thought a minute and called off my last name.
For a few moments that was gratifying. Then I got uneasy. When a bartender remembers your name after eight years, it means only one thing: You got out of town and off to St. Petersburg just in time.
Everybody knows you can't go home again. If you're a journalist, you can't even go back to your favorite neighborhood bar again. Chances are it's no longer a haven for reporters but for clear-eyed people who work out in health clubs.
Costello's has a dining room with wall murals...