Cultural Encounters: The Suburbanite Wants 7th Avenue
Having not grown up in New York City, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I am not too familiar with riding the city bus. Yesterday, I found myself with the need to, and to my shock, it was running well behind schedule. (Actually, I have found that all forms of public transportation in the city are late, it amazes me though that the Staten Island Ferry always leaves on time when I happen to be a minute or two behind.) Anyway, following a couple of stops in the Grand Central area, I found myself trekking out to the public library on 50th and 10th in search for a book that they had available. Never mind the fact that I had no idea where it was in the city that I was going, it was already past five o’clock and it was getting dark. By the time I had checked out my book, it might as well have been eleven o’clock (it wasn’t, it was only about a half past five, but it very well could have been, judging from the limited light). As I waited at the bus stop, an ensemble of various characters emerged from who-knows-where, first a drunk from a nearby bar, and a woman waiting with me at the bus stop (she had situated herself in a corner and covered herself with her jacket, her presence was not comforting). Then out of nowhere appeared a rather odd man who, in his twenties, started questioning me about the M50 bus, where it went and how often it ran (I had no clue what I was saying). Then another shady male appeared out of nowhere at which point the ‘odd’ one cuts off his conversation with me, shakes hands with the ‘shady’ one and heads into a nearby building. I knew they were up to no good when an even shadier man left the building minutes later. Moments after that, a policewoman upon a horse came strolling down 50th street, figuring though that she had little interest in my lead, I kept it to myself. Then the bus arrived and I left what turned out to be the Hell’s Kitchen part of the city.
Afterward, upon reflecting on my experience that night with a reasonable mind, it hit me that in April I had been in Hell’s Kitchen, not too far from where I stood waiting for the bus, at an Italian restaurant. (Their pizza was excellent: very thin, with a focus on the sauce; I recommend the Margherita pie, though you may want to bring somebody else to foot the bill.) Ultimately my lessons from the experience are threefold: 1) It’s probably not a good idea to explore unknown parts of the city by oneself at night, 2) Don’t count on the bus to be on time (already knew, just reinforced), and 3) No matter where you are, a good pizza pie is always around the corner.
