Day 1: Arrival to NYC
On a Saturday morning at 7am, Providence is empty; even the usual roar coming from I-95 is but a whisper drowned by the birds. Kennedy Plaza, as usual, with its share of shady characters waiting in line. And, once again, I make a mistake that would leave me walking for two miles to the workshop to pick up my loyal Newport. Back home, my partner, nervous about her first show amongst great personalities of the game world, eating the remnants of yersterday's velvet cupcake and some hot tea.
"It is drivable, but the ball is not there". Oh no. Anything but the ball. The dashboard, the rear seat, anything but the ball, that magic hunk of German metric engineering destined to take my trailer home. It took good part of an hour to get it set up with the wiring, but soon Newport took off with its bumper moldings missing and its reverse lights hanging freely.
The drive to NYC was pleasant. I did not notice how green the trees had gotten since I last took control of the wheel. The brutalist architecture of New Haven, the crumbling bridges leading to the NY border, the impeccable glass structures. Landscapes of the East. We stopped at Columbia Univesity to drop my partner's table games, and after a session of snobbish color picking and printer hijacking, we headed South for the Trump Towers in the Upper West Side, home to my friend Z.
If there is anything that is quintessentially New Yorker it is to have a hot dog and a papaya juice at one of the multitude of posts throughout the city. 32 solemn ounces of juice. Open sunroof, cool breeze in our hair. The yellow sharks they call taxis, the infinite towers of commerce, a blocked street that the police fenced because a man threw himself into the void. I do not wish to live here.
All those thoughts, seasoned by sweat, and congestion, being written on this cold screen next to the warm glow of a small lamp, and the lights of New Jersey, and the multitude of lights, of lives, in the Manhattan rooftops. The hum of traffic, down below, while my friend's stereo plays some anonymous jazz in the background.
On a Saturday morning at 7am, Providence is empty; even the usual roar coming from I-95 is but a whisper drowned by the birds. Kennedy Plaza, as usual, with its share of shady characters waiting in line. And, once again, I make a mistake that would leave me walking for two miles to the workshop to pick up my loyal Newport. Back home, my partner, nervous about her first show amongst great personalities of the game world, eating the remnants of yersterday's velvet cupcake and some hot tea.
"It is drivable, but the ball is not there". Oh no. Anything but the ball. The dashboard, the rear seat, anything but the ball, that magic hunk of German metric engineering destined to take my trailer home. It took good part of an hour to get it set up with the wiring, but soon Newport took off with its bumper moldings missing and its reverse lights hanging freely.
The drive to NYC was pleasant. I did not notice how green the trees had gotten since I last took control of the wheel. The brutalist architecture of New Haven, the crumbling bridges leading to the NY border, the impeccable glass structures. Landscapes of the East. We stopped at Columbia Univesity to drop my partner's table games, and after a session of snobbish color picking and printer hijacking, we headed South for the Trump Towers in the Upper West Side, home to my friend Z.
If there is anything that is quintessentially New Yorker it is to have a hot dog and a papaya juice at one of the multitude of posts throughout the city. 32 solemn ounces of juice. Open sunroof, cool breeze in our hair. The yellow sharks they call taxis, the infinite towers of commerce, a blocked street that the police fenced because a man threw himself into the void. I do not wish to live here.
All those thoughts, seasoned by sweat, and congestion, being written on this cold screen next to the warm glow of a small lamp, and the lights of New Jersey, and the multitude of lights, of lives, in the Manhattan rooftops. The hum of traffic, down below, while my friend's stereo plays some anonymous jazz in the background.
The city that never sleeps!
A beautiful view to wake up to!
Find Waldo (ahem) Newport, the surfblau wagon!
No comments:
Post a Comment