special delivery from the departed (pt.2)
this is a farewell, and a welcome to the next chapter: SPECIAL DELIVERY.
(continuation of part 1)
It was American Thanksgiving and we had no light (the power went out), no gas (but we got 15% off our rent), and no turkey (we're pescatarians). So we went to the part of town we visit almost every public holiday: Chinatown.
There's only 1 spot worth going to and that's the Wo Hop on the ground, not underground (that, for some reason, always has a line of tourists out the front). The one I talk of has those 50s diner booths separated by Covid-friendly, neon-coloured plexiglass.
My favourite subway activity was shoe watching. I would take meticulous observations, field notes and all.
We are loyal to this place for a number of reasons:
The waiters seat you immediately.
The waiters ask for your order immediately.
The waiters are unapologetically frustrated when you take your time looking over the menu.
The waiters nod approvingly when you wave away your spoon for chopsticks instead.
The waiters hand your cheque as soon as you put your chopsticks down (they decide that they're down for the final time.)
But at least the waiters serve your cheque with freshly cut orange slices and 2 fortune cookies.
The final hurrah to why this establishment was our place of choice: the 27min walk home is precisely the time needed to digest our go-to order: (1) fried mushroom rice, (1) broccoli and eggplant stir-fry, and (1) ginger scallion lo mein.
FIELD NOTES / LOCATION: subway / CATEGORY: the usual observations
Odd shoe choices. I never knew the world could produce so many types of shoes.
Center of gravity. Is he going to balance or sway to the right at ignition of the cart; will he hold the rail with his elbow, hook just his index, or matter-of-factly grab with his whole palm the pole that now long-gone men have held along their journeys, commutes, and runaways?
I have an incredible skill of overshooting any block that lays beyond Lafayette and Spring. So much so that the way I know to get to one of our favourite places is precisely to take the long way of 2 detours, mistakes already calculated in the ETA. This to say, my spearheading of our journey to Wo Hop relies heavily on the man who plays his flute on the corner of Canal and Mott every evening that we've been there (he plays on public holidays). The sound of the flute is a tune that you do not hear, until you do. And when you do, you can't stop hearing it.
One evening, we went on our 27min walk and it was raining. And I severely overshot because the man was not playing his flute. Public holiday or not, there is no performance if there is rain.
I have not heard him since, but we have already walked past beyond him, and the detours, and the neighbourhood, and the island. We’ve moved past beyond the borough, and the city, and the state that carried this particular life of ours, this particular year-long chapter of ours, that has seen us grow in ways we never thought were humanely possible. We are now in places we dreamt of while being with you, New York, the Dream of all dreams, and we humbly thank you for we never could’ve gotten here without you, no matter how difficult it was to live with you.
Dear New York,
This is to new beginnings: to new places, new people, new stories, and the occasional reminiscing over memories and souvenirs of our past lives. Here’s to SPECIAL DELIVERY, the new (and hopefully final) newsletter here to stay.
On to the next chapter,
R