Strawberry Fields Forever

“The innanet? Ow I doen know. You could try over dere”.

Error the 1st: assuming it would be a breeze to sort out some accommodation once I’d touched down at JFK.

New York is a brash beast. Once you learn the codes to function in this town, you’re a brother. Until then, you’re an alien, a legal alien …

Amongst the movement of the masses lies the occasional sanctuary, like the parks, the leafy alleys around NYU, and the cobblestoned lanes around the Village. I wander for hours half in awe, half in wonderment at what all the fuss is about.

Subway juice, reminscent of the scent of dad’s garage when he’s working on a project on a Sunday afternoon, rises through grates on the pavement and billows into the parade.

Tunes sway through my ears to reflect the palimpsest of this community. Confused as to which district of Manhattan I stand, I arch my neck until I lock onto a street sign: Mulberry Street. Instead of cross-referencing this information with my map, I walk on, singing.

And so in my small way
I’m a big man on Mulberry street
I don’t mean all day
Only at night when I’m light on my feet

Through back streets to the Theatre district (musicals musicals musicals) and onto Broadway and Times Square. Less geometric than the name suggests. Touts for tourists perhaps, but the energy that pulses through the Square sears through my veins.

Scaffolding: I bought up big. Shopfronts all across town proudly display their latest scaffold designs, so I think I’m on to the next big thing back home.

I was down at the New Amsterdam, staring at this yellow-haired girl …

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