Ah, New York City. There is a slight chill. The city is full of Midwesterners, all wearing white Reeboks, all staring straight upward.
My wife and I have just stepped out of our cab, after leaving LaGuardia Third World International Airport. Our cab driver was a nice man who drove upwards of 75 mph with only one finger on the wheel, and that was just on the sidewalks.
Right now, my wife and I are walking to our hotel. Because that’s all you do in New York City, really. You walk. You walk for miles, until the blisters on your feet become the size of U.S. Congresspersons.
Right now, we are stuck walking in a massive clot of people moving like a herd of bison. We are trekking onward, hauling our luggage, dodging cabs.
Even so, my wife is thrilled to be in this town. It is her first time visiting. So she is taking cellphone pictures by the gazillions.
My wife finds important photographic moments wherever she glances. So far, she has taken pictures of our cab’s interior, my half-eaten airport bagel, the
plane’s lavatory, and a middle-aged woman walking down the street dressed like a giant marital aid.
I also have this feeling the locals can tell we’re out-of-towners. We have that look about us. I met a cashier in a coffee shop, for example, when I was trying to order a large iced tea.
My tea arrived. “There’s something wrong with my iced tea, ma’am,” I said.
“What‘s wrong?”
“It’s not sweet.”
“So add some sugar.”
“I can’t add granulated sugar to cold tea.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am not a communist.”
Then the cashier asked if I was from Alabama. I was so impressed this lady guessed where we were from.
“That’s amazing,” I said. “How on earth could you tell where we’re from?”
“Honestly?” she said, leaning in to whisper. “It’s your teeth.”
I’ve never…