A Year In New York

Scrambling around on the asphalt with an airhose, trying to fill the tires of an old borrowed Camry, I got that deflated feeling of getting nowhere. No matter how much I pumped the tires seemed to sag a little more.

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Early this morning I passed a pigeon lying belly up on sidewalk with its feet stuck in the air. I dismissed it as a feathery corpse but a few steps later I stopped. That bird was looking at me. Was that bird looking at me?

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Today I reported for my first session at Paragraph, a haven for writers that sits above a funky lamp store near Union Square. New York is a city of extremes and Paragraph occupies its own special niche: It is a very, very quiet place.

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You’re at a wine bar called Buceo 95 on the Upper West Side, the kind of place with red lounge lamps suspended from the ceiling, and it comes time for everyone at the table to boast or lie about what they do for a living.

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