If there is nothing else to be learned about New York City, learn this: living here is like living in every country on the surface of this beautiful blue-green ball all at once. Half of the time, especially in the outer boroughs, I can’t read most of the signs. And in a matter of blocks, I still can’t read the signs, but the language has completely changed. Quite often I find myself wondering if it’s a language at all. Then people walk by having some kind of debate in what I can only assume is the vocalization of the current set of hieroglyphs before my eyes. I’m not sure if you can call this city a true melting pot, though, as the cultural sections of town are pretty definite in their invisible and unspoken territorial dividing lines. But with so many different groups clumped together in such a tiny space, there is only one certainty.
The food here is the bomb.