They're heeeeere
It is Monday night, and I am walking down 47th street heading for the R train after another great day at the office. Broadway is an undulating mass of pedestrians and I can’t figure out why. It’s Monday, not matinee Wednesday. Then I look in Sbarro’s and see a line of people stretching out the door and it hits me.
The New Year’s tourist army has already arrived.
Yes, there they were lining up for their authentic New York pizza experience at a chain joint in Times Square. Well, I suppose one person’s authentic is another person’s fraud, and in any event the pizza at that Sbarro’s is still probably better than the local Papa John’s or Domino’s that they order from back home. Location lends a bit of credibility too; why I remember rushing to visit the Howard Johnson’s that was right across Times Square from that very Sbarro’s when word came that it was closing. HoJos. The very symbol of the generification (and yes, I mean "generification", not "gentrification" though the two are related) of America’s roadside eating habits. And there I was zooming in to eat their fried clam strips. Which, I might add, were awful. My takeaway from eating at the late, lamented HoJos was that I had missed nothing all those years except for the atmosphere. It looked like the place opened in the mid-50s and that was the last time it was cleaned, never mind renovated.
So all in all, who am I to criticize if the out of towners want to wait half an hour for Sbarros? It’s their experience. And heartburn.
Later, I am riding on the Staten Island Ferry. It was one of the new “gondola-class” ferries and I am on the Hurricane deck, middle-back. I take a copy of Gourmet out of my bag. A couple of fine and upstanding Staten Island residents sit down with their urchin three or four seats down the bench obviously fresh from a trip to see the larger-than-life stick in midtown. The husband glances over at me and what I’m reading and makes a face. Since it’s not the Post or Daily News and instead is some frou-frou food magazine he’s undoubtedly thinking “that guy’s some kind of fag.” Then I pull a Molson oil can out of my bag, my beverage of choice for ferry crossings after particularly annoying days. The can is 25 ounces and the ride is 25 minutes so the symmetry appeals to me, not to mention the alcohol content.
Suddenly Mr. and Mrs. Townhouse scoop up Little Townhouse and move on to a section of the boat untainted by the presence of grown-ups taking the medicine they require to deal with the realities of the 21st century. I look up from my reading and resist the urge to run after them waving my beer at the kid. “Hey kid!” I want to say. “I am the ghost of Christmas Future. Stay in this town and grind your way through decades of commuting to reasonably paying but ultimately unsatisfying office jobs and this will be you. THIS WILL BE YOU!!! Boo!!!”
I have not had anything else to drink at this point, so I resist the urge. Besides, any sudden movements on the ferry in the post-9/11 era would probably get me shot or at least maced and arrested.
Oddly enough, the tourist count on that particular ferry run was lower than normal I noticed as I looked around. They must have still been waiting on line for Sbarros.
The New Year’s tourist army has already arrived.
Yes, there they were lining up for their authentic New York pizza experience at a chain joint in Times Square. Well, I suppose one person’s authentic is another person’s fraud, and in any event the pizza at that Sbarro’s is still probably better than the local Papa John’s or Domino’s that they order from back home. Location lends a bit of credibility too; why I remember rushing to visit the Howard Johnson’s that was right across Times Square from that very Sbarro’s when word came that it was closing. HoJos. The very symbol of the generification (and yes, I mean "generification", not "gentrification" though the two are related) of America’s roadside eating habits. And there I was zooming in to eat their fried clam strips. Which, I might add, were awful. My takeaway from eating at the late, lamented HoJos was that I had missed nothing all those years except for the atmosphere. It looked like the place opened in the mid-50s and that was the last time it was cleaned, never mind renovated.
So all in all, who am I to criticize if the out of towners want to wait half an hour for Sbarros? It’s their experience. And heartburn.
Later, I am riding on the Staten Island Ferry. It was one of the new “gondola-class” ferries and I am on the Hurricane deck, middle-back. I take a copy of Gourmet out of my bag. A couple of fine and upstanding Staten Island residents sit down with their urchin three or four seats down the bench obviously fresh from a trip to see the larger-than-life stick in midtown. The husband glances over at me and what I’m reading and makes a face. Since it’s not the Post or Daily News and instead is some frou-frou food magazine he’s undoubtedly thinking “that guy’s some kind of fag.” Then I pull a Molson oil can out of my bag, my beverage of choice for ferry crossings after particularly annoying days. The can is 25 ounces and the ride is 25 minutes so the symmetry appeals to me, not to mention the alcohol content.
Suddenly Mr. and Mrs. Townhouse scoop up Little Townhouse and move on to a section of the boat untainted by the presence of grown-ups taking the medicine they require to deal with the realities of the 21st century. I look up from my reading and resist the urge to run after them waving my beer at the kid. “Hey kid!” I want to say. “I am the ghost of Christmas Future. Stay in this town and grind your way through decades of commuting to reasonably paying but ultimately unsatisfying office jobs and this will be you. THIS WILL BE YOU!!! Boo!!!”
I have not had anything else to drink at this point, so I resist the urge. Besides, any sudden movements on the ferry in the post-9/11 era would probably get me shot or at least maced and arrested.
Oddly enough, the tourist count on that particular ferry run was lower than normal I noticed as I looked around. They must have still been waiting on line for Sbarros.
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