Epistle to New York

I remember having bad vegetable dumplings with Ben, Alina, Lia, Lauren, and Mollye. The place looked like a rectangle. From the windows it seemed like they only sold trays and cups.

I remember Alina bicycling into a crowd of people, her blue blouse flapping in the crisp autumn evening before disappearing.

I remember walking back from Café Loup with Ben and grabbing cheese fries and hot dogs at Papaya Dog.

I remember going to Papaya Dog one night and being completely flabbergasted by an angry guy who was upset because they wouldn’t let his girlfriend use the restroom and he told the African American cook behind the counter to “Go back to Africa.”

I remember walking by either beautiful people or the raging mad.

I remember we went to the bad dumpling place because someone outside said “It’s good. Really good.” And we believed him.

I remember talking about how bad it was to eat greasy late-night snacks, yet still doing it.

I remember having strong coffee and soy milk while sitting cross-legged on Ben’s apartment floor.

I remember Ben asking me to buy him some rice crackers and being worried I bought the wrong kind and at the same corner store being asked if I was from India.

I remember hearing sounds coming from one of the apartments near Ben’s and him saying, “I’m not sure if she’s masturbating or is just crazy.”

I remember having pastrami on rye with Ben at Katz’s Deli and feeling both at home and homesick for Schwartz’s Montreal smoked meat.

Greg Santos
Paris, France
November 22, 2010

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