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Sep. 23rd, 2005 01:18 amWent into a Burger King in East (i.e. Spanish) Harlem today, and had their "Angus Steak with Swiss 'n' 'Shrooms" burger. It was great, but took some walking off. There were adverts hanging from the ceiling advertising the Triple Whopper, with the strapline "Just how HUNGRY are you?" In the case of the Triple Whopper, which could safely be used for stuntmen to land on from tall buildings, that should read "Just how hungry ARE you?"
I got a slightly odd look from the girl at the counter, but that may well have been less the accent than the fact that I was ordering in English at all. Everyone else there hablaron español. On the other hand, my accent instantly told the woman who asked me for directions outside Brooklyn's Borough Hall that she wasn't on to a winner, even before I'd finished my sentence (in full: "I'm so not from round here").
Sadly, no bastard (including me) appears to have thought to take a decent picture of the view from the north side of the reservoir in Central Park; at least, if they have, they appear to have selfishly chosen not to display it on the internet. Amazing, though, as the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan loom over the trees on the other side of the lake, against a cloudless and, frankly, too sunny sky. My excuse is that I didn't have a camera in the first place. Then again, if I had decided to photograph everything worth preserving a picture of, I'd still be snapping away on the middle of Brooklyn Bridge.
The friends I'm staying with—and indeed whose wedding I'm over here for—live in north-west Brooklyn, meaning that on Tuesday morning I was able to idly wander over the bridge to the centre of Manhattan. If you ever get the chance to do this, do this. Later that day, in a web café in Greenwich Village, a complete stranger gave me a glass of the wine he'd just bought. I woke up eight hours later in a weak punchline. No, that was the weird thing: there was no ulterior stuff, nothing floating in the fluid; just a random, bemusing act of niceness. To offset this, apparently, a while later (to the tune of "A Nightingale Sang...") a bird shat on my leg in Union Square.
I got a slightly odd look from the girl at the counter, but that may well have been less the accent than the fact that I was ordering in English at all. Everyone else there hablaron español. On the other hand, my accent instantly told the woman who asked me for directions outside Brooklyn's Borough Hall that she wasn't on to a winner, even before I'd finished my sentence (in full: "I'm so not from round here").
Sadly, no bastard (including me) appears to have thought to take a decent picture of the view from the north side of the reservoir in Central Park; at least, if they have, they appear to have selfishly chosen not to display it on the internet. Amazing, though, as the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan loom over the trees on the other side of the lake, against a cloudless and, frankly, too sunny sky. My excuse is that I didn't have a camera in the first place. Then again, if I had decided to photograph everything worth preserving a picture of, I'd still be snapping away on the middle of Brooklyn Bridge.
The friends I'm staying with—and indeed whose wedding I'm over here for—live in north-west Brooklyn, meaning that on Tuesday morning I was able to idly wander over the bridge to the centre of Manhattan. If you ever get the chance to do this, do this. Later that day, in a web café in Greenwich Village, a complete stranger gave me a glass of the wine he'd just bought. I woke up eight hours later in a weak punchline. No, that was the weird thing: there was no ulterior stuff, nothing floating in the fluid; just a random, bemusing act of niceness. To offset this, apparently, a while later (to the tune of "A Nightingale Sang...") a bird shat on my leg in Union Square.
