In his 70 years as a resident, his feet barely touched pavement. He probably still thinks the subway takes tokens. He probably never waited on line for a movie, got sick on street fair Belgian Waffles, or felt the thrill of beating everyone to a cab in the rain. He never had a vicious landlord or a predatory boss, and he sure as hell never had the ultimate New York experience of suffering in silence.

I grew up in Queens, just two miles and a few hundred income tax brackets from Trump. As kids, both of us dreamed of living in Manhattan and being real New Yorkers. In the 60s, one of us had parents who got us tickets for Leonard Bernstein’s Young People’s Concerts. In the 70s, one of us took the Q17 Bus and the F Train to Madison Square Garden and paid off ushers to get into sold-out Knicks games. In the 80s, one of us lived in a studio apartment, barely making the rent while somehow going out to dinner out every night then hanging out at dive bars.

Which brings up another consideration: with all its public transportation, New York was always the one city perfect for drunkenness. Yet, the only vice Trump never had was drinking.

He lived in the greatest city in the world and missed out on everything. The same will be true for Florida.