I was sitting on the ottoman yesterday morning in my pyjamas, leaning against the wall, a French dictionary on my left, an English dictionary on my right, L’education sentimentale on my lap, when Andrea said she thought she might head to Coney Island. Maybe thirty-two minutes later, our faces were washed, our teeth were brushed, and we were both on the F train to the end of the line, which was a good thing for some of us who are visiting from Singapore, and whim and madness for others of us who needed to be at school, in the complete opposite direction, in a couple of hours.

But here’s the thing about Coney Island. Sure, it’s great in the summer, what with the sun and the rides and boardwalk chock-a-block and the hot corn-on-the-cob and the swirly soft-serve ice creams in pink and green. But come November, when it’s coldish and the clouds are coming in over the coast, when the Cyclone falls silent on its normally rattley wooden slats, when the dull metal gates have been brought down over the food stalls, there’s still a something in the air—something faded, something quiet, something that’s a hint of a something.



We shared the boardwalk with the seagulls—one who stood out for being unkempt and extra mean-looking, and at least two for being bigger than my head. I reckon it’s that steady diet of fried clams and candy floss maintaining their figure.



Stevie Wonder was on the speakers at Nathan’s, and it was very warm under the heat lamps. A ruddy woman with three round children ripped a hamburger in half with her bare hands. Over on the right, by the mustard and ketchup dispensers, another woman carried a Wayne Thiebaud tray lined with hotdogs.

The sun came out, shyly.