An iconoclastic adventurer, lost in a New York he never made, reports on drinking, women, and drinking and women.
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Saturday, September 27, 2003
Terminal
Since I need to leave for the airport around rush hour, the best way is through the city streets the whole way, rather than any highway.
It becomes a fitting and sentimental tour of the city I love, through weird remote neighborhoods I don’t know as well as weird remote neighborhoods I do. Libraries, bodegas, and plenty of semi-detached homes with aluminum siding in creative patterns, including one block with what seems to be a full catalog. As I am driven through the variety of worlds within New York, I feel like my namesake president, Mr. Kennedy, on his final train ride in a casket.
And then I’m at his airport: Kennedy Airport, Terminal One. Air France, Japan Air Lines, Lufthansa, Alitalia, Korean Air. But somehow all the announcements are from Alitalia. The Italians are the ones in all the trouble. “Passeggero Roberto Benigni, ripeto, Signor Benigni…una bella finestra….”
by Jack, September 27, 2003 10:08 PM
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