First brush with the big apple

This city is very confusing even being in my own country I feel immersed in foreign unknown things
Half want to photograph half want to be a new yorker swept up one if them…
Smells from the big apple:
An overwhleming smell of hot dogs
Smoke
Perfume: white flowers, vanilla, Chanel no 5, tuberose
Roasted nuts
Trash: diaper, rotting fish, mildew, fungus, unidentified odors…

And Jersey, let’s not forget Clifton, where Sopranos episodes were filmed, and the deepest sewer system in the world. The Gates of Hell?
It’s hot. It’s humid. I’m sweating thirty seconds out of the shower and I can’t dry myself off.
I leave the house and lock the doors. Four locks total. I store the loose keys in a ziploc bag.

A walk thru new jersey to bus terminal what stands out
The bulldog shits in his yard just as I pass him. He looks at me and I imagine he looks like his owner, except his owner carries a 6-pack and Marlboro.
The beware of dog signs.
The litter.
The fat mechanic whistling flirtatiously. (Fat mechanics shouldn’t flirt.)
The old mexicans sizing me up with lascivious looks.
The weasel or cat with guts splattered in the street.
The Mexican dance music.

Did you know North NJ embroidery capital of the world since 1872?

Radio announcers transitioning flawlessly between Spanish and English.

The bus arrives in New York, pulls up in fron of the New York Times building. I love the font. I love the swarm of people, the hot dog stands, the little dogs on leashes, the accents.

More Big Apples:
Breeze from Hudson, Liberty is a blurry smudge on the horizon
MOMA
Crazy hairdos
Lots of plaid
Lots of hair retired from pantene commercials
Many old cathedrals hugging skyscrapers
Cute taxi bikers with winning smiles
Toddlers in central park getting one on one pilates classes…
Young girls in mini skirts and big glasses sashaying down the street in hopes of being spotted by a talent agent…
The stilettoes and platform sandals
The crowds short and tall, and mosaic of languages
Radio city music hall
Rockefeller center
The sunset down 42nd street between broadway neon lights

Both are melting pots of ethnicities an smells.
I’m feeling hopeful to be more and more
Myself and shed this bashful guilt.
Is it guilt?
the tired shell, dripping off. Thank god for the heat.

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