Walking east on Saint Mark’s Place, a guy behind me said to his lady friend: “I just can’t believe they take a hot dog and wrap it in bacon and fucking deep fry it!” Then he burped, a deep watery burp like the sea. I crossed the street.



At Sympathy for the Kettle, there are lavender walls and a tea called Paris. They play The Pretenders, and the shopgirl brings you your tea with honey and frothy milk in a big round mug along with a plate of chocolate-covered macaroons, two of them for two of us.