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.
