On Saturday I wandered up to NYC with my Dad and little brother for a Yankees game. With all of the insipid construction, the subway was nearly more difficult to navigate than most of the foreign undergrounds I’ve traversed in other languages. Starting in Brooklyn and headed toward the Bronx, I needed assurance that we were going the right way. And so, I approached a rather large Italian cop wearing awkward shorts.
Me: “Excuse me, officer, could you help me find my way to Yankee stadium?”
Cop in awkward shorts: “Yankee stadium? Fuggedaboutit! It’s about so easy, you can just fuggedaboutit!”
Me: [caught off guard by the hilarity of his helpfulness] “I’m…I’m…already fuggedin about it!”
Cop in awkward shorts: “Take the 4-5-6 to 125th, and then it’ll go local alltheway to 161st.”
I couldn’t stop thinking about how appropriate awkward-shorts-man was as a welcome mat for my week in New York. His classic fuggedaboutit-ness with a thick Brooklyn accent made me so happy for the rest of the afternoon that I barely noticed how miserably the Yankees played against the A’s. (And it was really miserable, sports fans.)
I must say that as soon as I entered into the city, I exhaled quite noticeably. In some way, it felt more like home: international people everywhere, alternate smells, thousands of holes-in-walls offering good eats. I am feeling fresh new life breathed into me in this raucous metropolis. Particularly after eating phenomenal pasta in Little Italy and getting cupcakes and cold milk from Magnolia’s bakery. (I hope they’ll all be served at the Wedding Banquet of the Lamb.)
I shall post other highlights as they are squeezed out in fluorescent yellow over the next few days.
(Little Italy photo by Funkybug)