He was sitting there already, among the Saturday afternoon crowd, when I got to the arch in Washington Square Park. Skirting the Village, we made our way through SoHo and its sidewalk sellers and its weekend throng before fortuitously becoming hungry for lunch as we approached Chinatown. At 69 Bayard, where the walls are papered with defaced one-dollar bills, I tried to do that thing with the waiter boss guy where it’s like, Dude, you’re Chinese, I’m Chinese, I know that you know that I know that there are dishes that can be had that may not be on the menu. “Dou miao?” I ventured. “No,” he said, “kang kong.” “Um, xiao bai cai?” “Kang kong.” Ah, okay, sure, sounds good.
We continued downtown downtown after, past the row of pigeons on a wire fence, past the wrinkled Chinese shoeshine uncles sitting on a street corner shooting the breeze, past City Hall Park and Trinty Church and the old stone buildings that make me think of that Crimson Permanent Assurance scene in “Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life,” and then we were by the water, with the breakdancing boys and their boombox on high; the skater boys with impatient eyes, lining up to grind a bench; the makeshift stands hawking black-and-white prints and “I heart New York” T-shirts and miniature yellow cabs.
On the ferry to Staten Island, our boat honked that mournful boat honk, and we were off, the city skyline behind us, and a wise old seagull perched up high to navigate the seas. And I thought we were just going to ride there and back, because that would have been adventure enough, because who doesn’t like a boat?, but then we got to the ferry terminal on the other end and the boy made a move to debark. “Wait, you actually want to get off at Staten Island?” I said. “Sure,” he said, “why not.” “I guess— well— I mean— okay, cool.” And, really, I was excited, because I’ve never actually gotten off the boat at Staten Island. “Maybe Staten Island will be full of Italian cafés serving good coffee,” he said. “And cannoli!” I said. And, oh, how the gods must have laughed. Because we got off the boat to an underwhelming bus station and the browngreyness of what looked like abandoned train tracks, and, twenty minutes later, having walked by the Chinese restaurant and the shop selling Exxxotic Toys, the empty carpark and the green house leaning to the right, the Sri Lankan Grocery and Videos and the hairstylists specializing in braids and buzz cuts, we were on the 62 bus back to the terminal. On the ferry to Manhattan, the setting sun painted a watery yellow stroke over the horizon.
And then it was dusk and cobblestones, and we’d been on our feet all day, and what we needed was a sit-down. At the Wall Street stop, the 2 train arrived like a present as we reached the platform.
Heading to the Pavilion down Prospect Park West, we swapped dreams of skiing, and of spiderwebs, and of swimming through the air. Two Rasta jellyfish and a box of Milk Duds later, it was cold enough when we got out of the cinema that I danced silly shivering steps down the block.
There was toast and butter and raspberry jam for a late snacky dinner. Les Rita Mitsouko. He tasted of tobacco and chocolate.
We continued downtown downtown after, past the row of pigeons on a wire fence, past the wrinkled Chinese shoeshine uncles sitting on a street corner shooting the breeze, past City Hall Park and Trinty Church and the old stone buildings that make me think of that Crimson Permanent Assurance scene in “Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life,” and then we were by the water, with the breakdancing boys and their boombox on high; the skater boys with impatient eyes, lining up to grind a bench; the makeshift stands hawking black-and-white prints and “I heart New York” T-shirts and miniature yellow cabs.
On the ferry to Staten Island, our boat honked that mournful boat honk, and we were off, the city skyline behind us, and a wise old seagull perched up high to navigate the seas. And I thought we were just going to ride there and back, because that would have been adventure enough, because who doesn’t like a boat?, but then we got to the ferry terminal on the other end and the boy made a move to debark. “Wait, you actually want to get off at Staten Island?” I said. “Sure,” he said, “why not.” “I guess— well— I mean— okay, cool.” And, really, I was excited, because I’ve never actually gotten off the boat at Staten Island. “Maybe Staten Island will be full of Italian cafés serving good coffee,” he said. “And cannoli!” I said. And, oh, how the gods must have laughed. Because we got off the boat to an underwhelming bus station and the browngreyness of what looked like abandoned train tracks, and, twenty minutes later, having walked by the Chinese restaurant and the shop selling Exxxotic Toys, the empty carpark and the green house leaning to the right, the Sri Lankan Grocery and Videos and the hairstylists specializing in braids and buzz cuts, we were on the 62 bus back to the terminal. On the ferry to Manhattan, the setting sun painted a watery yellow stroke over the horizon.
And then it was dusk and cobblestones, and we’d been on our feet all day, and what we needed was a sit-down. At the Wall Street stop, the 2 train arrived like a present as we reached the platform.
Heading to the Pavilion down Prospect Park West, we swapped dreams of skiing, and of spiderwebs, and of swimming through the air. Two Rasta jellyfish and a box of Milk Duds later, it was cold enough when we got out of the cinema that I danced silly shivering steps down the block.
There was toast and butter and raspberry jam for a late snacky dinner. Les Rita Mitsouko. He tasted of tobacco and chocolate.
Labels: Travel: New York
posted by stellou at 4:49 AM
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