If I were to be banished from New York City and was given one experience to leave on, I wouldn’t chose a stroll through the MET.
I wouldn’t want to sit in Central Park on the most perfect Fall day.
I wouldn’t care to ride the subway across the Manhattan bridge or take a taxi through each borough.
I would want to stumble into a diner in Downtown Manhattan at 2:40 in the morning after the rain.
I want to slide into a duct taped vinyl booth and be handed a questionable menu with 150 items from 4 different continents.
I want my waiter to be an old greek man holding a stub of a pencil in his left ear.
I want him to be grumpy because he’d rather be taking a drag from a cigarette than taking my order.
I want to ask for a turkey club with a side of mayo and a huge Coke with tiny pebbled ice.
I want to pour way too much ketchup on my plate from a glass bottle of Heinz.
I want to finish my meal with a slice of chocolate cake that’s picked up some funky flavors from sitting next to an apple pie all day.
I want to watch the man behind the counter figure out my tax using a calculator with huge numbers for his bad eyes.
I want to leave my tip underneath the small plate of coffee creamers.
I want to experience New York how I want to experience life.
Not in the ideal picturesque moments, but by taking joy in the seemingly mundane.