My roommates and I were hanging out in the Big Apple this weekend (which is my latest excuse for not posting). (Also, a preemptive apology: I'll be travelling Thurs. through Mon., so this blog is in for another dry spell. Thank you all for hanging in there when I so often string you along on so very little.)
We took the Lucky Star bus from Boston to Chinatown and immediately began looking for Dim Sum. My bags were heavy, so I wanted to walk fast and get where we were going, but not everyone on the sidewalk was in such a hurry. There were vendor stands everywhere, and little old ladies, and no passing lane. Ten minutes off the bus and already I was the most impatient person in New York. I also thought it might be good to learn some useful phrases in case I had an altercation with one of the many taxicabs; I wanted to ask my roommate, who speaks Chinese, how one would say, "Hey, I'm walkin' here!" It's probably good to learn that in a few different languages, since New York is such an international city.
We stayed in the apartment of the aunt of my Texan roommate, which was right on the water in Tribeca. I don't know what becas are, or why there are three of them, but they sure have a great view. Teeny tiny apartment, great big skyline. Didn't spend too much time hanging around inside, though, because my crazy companions thought it would be nice to see the city instead of watching cable. So out we went. It was cold and sunny -- finally, after African rainy season we'd been having.
I had promised myself that I'd spend some money on fun things after selling my car. This, for some reason, is incredibly hard for me. I'm naturally stingy, and years of low-paying work has taken this trait and multiplied it several times over. So everyone was really proud of me when I bought a sweater and a hat. Oh, did I say I bought a hat? Yes, yes I did! Tex found a cream-colored one that went with my coat, so my head was snug for the whole weekend. And the best part is it covers my ears. No point in getting a hat otherwise, as far as I'm concerned. Mom, I promise it doesn't look like the Elmer Fudd hat.
Our dinner destination was Little Italy, by far the most decorated part of town. The Italians do like their Christmas lights. I say this proudly, as a 1/4 Italian, and I freely admit that I liked it. It was also educational. Across the street, under the big "Seasons Greetings" (note the lack of an apostrophe in "Seasons!" For shame!), were the words, "Sorrento Cheese." They sponsor Christmas in Little Italy. Who knew Christmas had a sponsor? Or that it wasn't Macy's? [Now that I'm thinking of an Italian-American Christmas, I've got the song, Dominic, the Christmas Donkey in my head. Anyone know it? Chinkety-chink, ee-aw, ee-aw, Italian Christmas Donkey... You should listen to it. I wonder if they have it on itunes. The Dean Martin Christmas album ain't bad, either. Goes well with spiked egg nog and martini-covered olives.] My birthday is coming up in a couple weeks, so my roommates, inspired by the many celebrating people before us, got the waiters to sing happy birthday to me. I got a piece of cheesecake with a sparkler in it. The waiters were enthusiastically tone-deaf (or tone-deafically enthusiastic). Either way, it was fun. And it drove a stake into the heart of the stereotype of the opera-singing Italian.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Uh, Sweetie, was there supposed to be more to para 3?
Post a Comment