walking down manhattan makes you feel a lot of bizzarre things. you watch it on television, read about it in the papers, see it as a backdrop in almost every movie, and you know you want to go there. you wonder what the lofty buildings are going to be like -a musty smell of glass, ceramic and concrete paws your sensation. you imagine standing in Times Square -hoping against hope you'd meet your favorite actor or sports person. and you know you want to breathe New York city. and i've been fortunate. although my cab driver from new jersey to la guardia was a stout brazilian man with a brawny physique and an overpowering attitude, he was quite an enthusiast about showing me around manhattan -and luckily enough didn't charge a single cent for it.
things don't always come free.
and i saw new york city slipping away from my vision, in bits and pieces, in the quiet of a sunday morning. walking down 5th avenue and the universal studios administrative building, with the sunlight combing through tree tops, a bunch of african americans swagger past. fresh paint from graffiti stained on their shirt cuffs. a couple of corporates curve past central park, breathless and apprehensive. and you see the boutiques, the fashion houses, the crockery stores and the restaurants. and the mexicans, the lebanese, the afghans and the japanese milling about the pavements, huffing and puffing on a lazy sunday morning. you scan 360 degrees around, and you see the empire state glittering in the morning sun. and the clouds floating around, and you hear the peppered hush-and-chirp of exotic birds. the trump towers looming in one corner, and a hundred bank-tops silhouetting against the lousy sky. and in the midst of this heaving richness, you hear a piercing sound of tin cans. you wonder why.
things don't always come free.
and i saw new york city slipping away from my vision, in bits and pieces, in the quiet of a sunday morning. walking down 5th avenue and the universal studios administrative building, with the sunlight combing through tree tops, a bunch of african americans swagger past. fresh paint from graffiti stained on their shirt cuffs. a couple of corporates curve past central park, breathless and apprehensive. and you see the boutiques, the fashion houses, the crockery stores and the restaurants. and the mexicans, the lebanese, the afghans and the japanese milling about the pavements, huffing and puffing on a lazy sunday morning. you scan 360 degrees around, and you see the empire state glittering in the morning sun. and the clouds floating around, and you hear the peppered hush-and-chirp of exotic birds. the trump towers looming in one corner, and a hundred bank-tops silhouetting against the lousy sky. and in the midst of this heaving richness, you hear a piercing sound of tin cans. you wonder why.
