New York, I love you, but you're bringing me down...
I'm vibrating invigoration and exhaustion. My brain has been over-eating on every sight, sound, smell of you. My mind is drowsy with the tryptophan of Manhattan. There is so much crammed into my brain, every road of it as stuffed as Times Square. I'll start with the story of the perfectly ruined perfect eclair.
New York, I love you, but you're bringing me down...
We were on Mulberry Street and what's left of Little Italy, wandering through it like you do a graveyard, wondering after its ghosts and the what might have beens of our own family, wondering what it was like when it was crowded. I sniffed the air for the ghost of parmesan. (I found it in the oldest cheese shop in New York, which - by the way - smelled every bit like it was the oldest cheese shop.) Men stood out on the sidewalk in front of their respective restaurants, hawking rigatoni like Rolexes, ravioli like newspapers.
Get your pasta here!
Best in town!
New York, I love you, but you're bringing me down...
We were searching for stuffed artichokes, settling for Chianti and other people's lasagna (not our family's). Every bite was a comparison and a memory dripping in nostalgia ragu. I bought a mini eclair from Ferrara's - my sister chose a lemon meringue tart, her daughter chose a mini tiramisu - and we wandered into Chinatown like we were characters in a video game, going from one nation to another just one street away.
The desserts sat there while we ate dumplings and spring rolls and turned down at least a hundred offers to see purses and watches. They were patient while we huddled into a tiny shop with its counterfeit Ariels and cartoon characters.
New York, I love you, but you're bringing me down...
They did not scold, they did not sigh when I left them on the counter without saying goodbye.
I want to think that they turned to one another - In their bag like on their stoop, a couple customary to the carelessness of overwhelmed tourists - and shook their heads and muttered: that's a shame.