I just got back home from a quick, but very fun, trip to New York City. A NY trip isn’t a trip without some sort of Fung Wah story. After sprinting a mile through the crowded sidewalk of Canal Street, with fifty pound bags on our back, we made it to the 5:30 p.m. train. I was delighted thinking we’d make it back to Boston earlier, not really thinking of the millions of people in their cars wanting to get home from work at about that same time. It was a longer than usual trip back to town.
Fortunately, there was just enough room on the bus that those who wanted their own seat could sit alone. Some I wish would have sat alone. To my left was a very hairy-legged girl, who cast evil dagger eyes at me as I ate my murdered-meat sandwich (turkey and swiss), and her elfish boyfriend. They alternated between hushed arguing and kissing and reading their own books and arguing about why the one is reading a book instead of talking and then more kissing.
After the rest stop, the elf-boy took the outside seat where I was privileged to the perfect side row seating to his theatrical crying. Yes crying. The Chinatown bus from New York is not the place for tears and sentimentality. I think the gist of the arguing and tears was the lack of direction in the elf-boy’s life and how the hairy-legged girl was only trying to help him achieve his dreams. I’m not entirely sure as I really did try to read my newly purchased book.
And I say this as one who has a tatoo: Why do some people respect the body of a cow, more than thier own?
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