(June 15-20, 2001) MANHATTAN
A man with a Rastifarian do parked at a Midtown bus stop in a fancy
blue
convertible applying matching blue polish to his nicely manicured
nails.
As I approached two men of another race on an otherwise
deserted
avenue in Chelsea, one interrupted their post-Midnight conversation to
greet
me with a cheery “How y'doin'?” I responded positively as I neared
them.
He warmly touched my shoulder as I passed.
A woman, also of another race, in a doorway on The Block
of
Forty-second Street was engrossed with a Yuppiefon. As I neared her, I
sneezed.
She looked up and said “God bless you!”
An enormous Black man, probably straight, clad in
leather
and chains, decorated with tattoos, couldn't decide whether to board an
elevator
thus blocking my way. I was unconsciously Following his to and fro
movements.
He eventually stepped aside, effeminately flipt his hands near his
shoulders,
and high-pitchedly said “My bad!” with a wry smile that caused us to
share
a chuckle.
A post-performance theatre crowd blocked my passage. I
pushed
through it. Among those I somewhat rudely shoved was Matthew Broderick.
An elderly couple just missed their Uptown bus. The
driver,
leaning to be seen around me, ordered them to “Get in! I'll catch him”.
They
didn't get it. “Come on, I'll catch your bus.” They climbed aboard and
started
fumbling for the fare. “No!” said the driver, blocking the fare box
with a
hand. A man in mid-bus laughingly said “This is New York?!?” thus
brightening
an already light moment for the score of us witnesses. I thought,
but
did not say, 'Yes, indeed! This is New York. New Yorkers
are
great!' At the next corner, the driver blocked the other vehicle's
movement
and waited for the grateful couple to board.
From a bus I saw the highly recognizable Tom's
Restaurant,
hangout of the characters on the television program Seinfeld.
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ITALY
(May
4-24, 2001)
A high-heel'd Roman woman wearing a black dress slit up to glory
awaiting
a green light, her long blonde hair flowing from her helmet, supporting
a
motor scooter with a gorgeous, fully-extended, mesh-hosed leg.
Unfortunately,
other traffic made a photo impossible.
A grandmotherly woman on a Siena bus embarrassed a
couple
of young women by loudly demanding that they arise from their seats,
reserved
for war veterans, the infirm, and the elderly, so that my girlfriend
and
I could occupy them. We were grateful as we were very tired from the
day's
activities.
A motorman in Milano gave directions to a woman outside
the
streetcar. When the man in her company started to dispute the
information,
the motorman crawled under his protective bar and, with stereotypically
broad
gestures, loudly exclaimed “Dio mio!” in a tone of voice that painfully
crackt
up us dozen or so passengers. He continued with something that sounded
like “You ask for directions, I give you directions, and you dispute my
directions?!?
Go to Hell!” He huffily returned to his seat, closed the door, and off
we
went, we fortunates in his presence enjoying a few familial minutes.
A Florentine couple insisted that we share their food
after
my girlfriend enquired about their dish.
A woman at a Bolognese Chinese restaurant, whose Italian
sounded more fluent than her Cantonese, asked me the English for
“anitra”.
She said “Duck-uh”. I said “Duck”. She said “Duck-a”. I said “No,
Duck”.
She said “Ducka”. I said “No! Duck!” She said “Duck . . .”
“STOP!”
It was close to a warm Midnight when we finally got to
Rome's
Spanish Steps that were obscured by the hundreds of people sitting on
them.
Near the bottom were four men with guitars. We positioned ourselves
next
to one of the two flanking singers who were leading the crowd in
English-language
song. When the correct beat and tempo were swung, we were
surrendered
the little space we needed to dance. The crowd roar'd its
approval of
each of the simple basic steps we did. At the end of the
number
there was a roar that can only be described as an ovation.
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