Big fat pain in the Apple

Manhattan is like Boston, Los Angeles, and Europe all put together and on steroids. There is a 45-minute wait to get a piece of cake at 10 p.m., but you can get a manicure if you want.


I come up the stairs from Penn Station, hungry and in need of some sort of caffeine. A breakfast place is steps away.
“I’ll have the French toast,” I say to the man behind the counter.
“That’ll probably take a while,” he says.
“Oh. Really? Okay. Well then um, I’ll have an egg bagel and a cup of…”
“We don’t have egg bagels.”
“Oh. Okay. Well then just a sesame bagel.”
“Cream cheese?”
“Yeah.” (What, am I going to have it plain?) “And some uh, lox. And a decaf hazelnut latte.”
“We don’t have decaf hazelnut.”
“Okay, just regular then.”
“I thought you said decaf.”
“No. Just…wait…okay. Just a small decaf coffee.”
“That’ll be $9.50.”


If you are walking towards someone on the sidewalk, somebody has to move but it probably won’t be the other person unless they get an inch from you and then angrily brush you as they pass. Nobody holds doors, unless of course they’re getting paid.

There is a store that sells nothing but olive oil imported straight from the Mediterranean.

Is it blue tooth or schizophrenia?


Walking to the subway station, there is a man sitting on the sidewalk with a crowd gathered around.
“I’ll take a dozen,” a lady says to him.
When I get closer, I see that he has a box full of carrots and is selling nothing else other than the shavings of those carrots. Duh.


Going back down the steps to the subway station the smell of urine invades. There is a man with dirty fingernails playing Spanish guitar hooked up to an amp so that it echoes through the concrete. Waiting for the train I imagine being in Spain, frizzy-haired, sipping wine…

Once the train comes screech, I realize I might be at the wrong place. The lady in the kiosk looks absolutely miserable. When I ask her where to go, her face lights up and she is all of a sudden bursting with information, get on the N, off at 36th, then to the W, the R or the Z, off at 8th…

I get in the elevator, and immediately regret it. God knows, by the look and smell, what has happened in there, or when it was last cleaned.

At the correct train, a lady with a massive turban, a sari and a suitcase is walking toward me. The train is approaching, but before I get on, she veers toward me more and taps my arm.
“Hey you,” she says.
"Yeah?"
“MOVE!!!”


Getting off in Brooklyn, I don’t need to know where to throw away my coffee cup because it appears that I am already in a landfill.
The breeze swiftly moves trash from one end of the block to another. I have to dodge a couple pieces as I walk. A man with no teeth wearing a stained wife beater is screaming something in another language to someone across the street. A group of men feet away are standing in a huddle and yelling. Hard to tell whether its friendly or not. I turn right and see a group of Hasidic Jews walking out of a kosher meat market. It is the land of toothless wife-beater clad people and lots of Jews. Then there are more. Then lots and lots more. They’re like ants. And not just regular Jews, but SUPERJews too. Even the babies have curly locks of hair and yamakas. Even the school buses have Hebrew letters.


Looking down over the next two blocks, there are more kosher meat markets, automotive supply places, and convenience stores.
“Is there anywhere like a little restaurant or coffee shop close by?” I ask a guy in the convenience store. He smiles, also without teeth.
“Not really in this neighborhood,” he says.
Two and a half hours later I am done walking the streets and can finally go to my appointment.


Leaving New York feels like leaving a hurricane. My hair has gotten bigger, and when I wash my face, there is visible grime that comes off.

When I lie down I smile. Feeling the ache of my body, I know I can’t wait to go back.


Other things worthy of acknowledging: New England foliage of course.

On the trail behind Aunt Becky and Uncle Nick's house:

Haavaahd: