On Sunday, I did what I normally do on Sundays: walk aimlessly around New York City trying to get over a monster hangover.  But since the weather was so nice and my hangover wasn’t too bad, I decided to bring my camera along.  I’ve long been wanting to give you a better idea of ChiLita (Chinatown + Little Italy, where I live) and generally what I’m all about and decided there was no better time than the present (or the past, as it were).  Also, my camera was on my desk because I had taken some naked pictures of my friends during the night.  So there’s that, too.

I live on a street that runs perpendicular to Mulberry Street and Mott Street.  Mulberry Street is Little Italy.  While Little Italy was once much larger in area, the ability of the Italians to procreate was far surpassed by the ability of the Chinese to bring in relatives from Beijing and hide them in their closets.  More and more Chinese started coming into the area and now Little Italy is reduced to one street (Mulberry) stretching from Canal up to Kenmare.  Only a few short blocks.

Mott Street, on the other hand, is full of Chinese and one of the main thoroughfares for markets in Chinatown.  I joke with visitors that I live on a street between a touristy area of Florence (Mulberry Street) and a fucking Beijing street fair (Mott Street), as the contrast between the two is so stark.

On this particular Sunday, I made a left out of my apartment to walk up Mott, deep in Chinese territory.  I’ve been trying to think of ways to convey this gently without offending either my neighbors or the Chinese-American community (and more importantly, readership) but facts are facts.  Chinatown stinks.

Welcome to Chinatown, Lady on the Right Clutching Her Face and Wretching!

This does not mean that the Chinese people themselves smell; on the contrary, they smell lovely (I made out once with a Chinese girl and she was at once one of the loveliest and best-smelling girls I’ve ever smooched).  But this is an offshoot of the fact that Mott Street is filled with these open-air markets where all matters of nasty fish and shit are sold.

Mmm…fish.

I like fish as much as the next guy, but I’m not sure that it’s such a good idea to leave fish laying out all day in the hot August New York City sun.  And by the way, there are about 500,000 per square mile.  Dead fish + heat + thousands of people = it stinks.

In addition to fish, you can find other nasty things in these markets around the corner from my apartment.  For example, if you’re looking for innards, you can get them for only $4.39/pound in Chinatown!

Mmm…whatever the fuck this is (guts? mussels?)

But maybe fish and fish innards aren’t your thing.  Well, you’re in luck.  In keeping with Chinatown’s unofficial motto ("If you want it, we sell it"), you can also buy yourself some frogs on a Sunday afternoon. 

 
I don’t think they sell these for pets.

The frogs, even moreso than the fish, fish guts, and vegetables that I had only previously read about in the stories of C.S. Lewis, are the most difficult thing for my friends visiting me to understand.  But that’s just how they roll in Chinatown.  If it lives, it can be eaten.  I’m certain if you knew the right codes words, one of these Chinese vendors would take you to the back of his store where you could buy your very own unicorn (at the negotiable price of $8.99/pound).

After Chinatown, I headed north.  Typically, my walk is about the same: I walk from my apartment up to Central Park and back.  It’s a good walk – about 11 miles in total – and takes a few hours.  It’s a tremendous way to waste time.

I’ll pick different avenues each way though, so that I don’t get tired of the scenery.  For example, I might take 1st Ave up to 59th Street, walk over across the park, and then take 8th Avenue down.  And yes, I really am this lonely.

I took Madison Avenue up to Central Park, stopping and enjoying various tree-lined streets and a NYC street fair on Madison in midtown.  I also took the time to taunt an old enemy.   

These mother fuckers have been after me for years.

But soon I was at Central Park.  It’s a cliche, but I love Central Park.  I’m a city boy for sure, but maybe it’s because growing up I didn’t have a yard and the first time I saw a horse I thought it was a really big dog that I appreciate (or at least enjoy) nature so much.  And Central Park is pretty much all the nature we have in NYC.

But that’s what makes it so special - it’s an oasis in the middle of a metropolis.  The contrast between scenes like this and towering buildings nearby and masses of humanity around it only adds to the beauty of the park.  It’s fucking awesome.   

And then there’s this:

Mmm…junky hair.

This is a lock of human hair I found on the street not 25 feet from where the previous picture was taken.  I am certain that this hair once belonged to a junkie who, in the middle of the night Saturday night, ripped it out of her head in a meth-induced mania. (I’m certain of this because I actually sold said junkie the meth and watched the whole thing – it was totally fucking awesome.)  God I love New York City.

I walked away from Central Park, ready to return home to ChiLiTa, via 8th Avenue.  There, I spied my favorite building in NYC: the Hearst Building.  

Fucking sweet.

Rising like the cock of the walk just 8th Avenue, you can’t beat the Hearst Building.  It’s got it all: size, class, and cool hard angles.  Kinda like me. 

At this point I was getting pretty tired and was thus unable to operate my camera, needing to conserve my energy for the five mile walk that stood between my location in midtown and my apartment.  So I hunkered down, drank six Diet Cokes, had a minor heart attack, and was soon back in Little Italy. 

 
Little Italy: Always Something Fucking Going On.

Oh, good ol’ Lil’ Italy.  There are times when I hate living there – like when I’m coming from the gym, covered in sweat, and I have to walk through two blocks of tourists gorging themselves on nine kinds of sausages when I have Lean Cuisine baked chicken waiting for me at home – but then there are other times when I love it.  Sure it’s crowded and loud and the food is overpriced and really not that good, but when I see the joy that brings that couple from Kansas or that family of guido assholes from Long Island, well, that makes me happy.  For a while at least.

This sign also makes me happy. 

"Eh – whaddya want from me?  I’m eating my spaghetti and meatballs!"

This sign sits outside a restaurant near by apartment.  I’ve written about this restaurant before (though I can’t find where in the archives), saying that it was the first to employ attractive women as hosts/employees who run up to you on the street sticking menus in your face, whereas all the other restaurants use pushy guido/Eastern European/Costa Rican men for this purpose.  Though the talent has fallen off considerably this summer (I can only assume that last year’s super-hot hostesses were "discovered" and are now living with divorced stockbrokers in their late 40′s in New Jersey, exchanging affection and semi-violent blowjobs for ice and Lexuses), this restaurant is still always packed.

But back to the sign: my friends and I have taken this sign and run with it.  This is going to lose something here because it’s a private, "you had to be there"-type joke, but needless to say, whenever we pass it we immediately play off the look on the guy’s face and put on our best Italian-American accents and go off, ranting about "Eh – what do you want from me?  I’m eating my meatballs!" and "My wife says, "Whaddya want for dinner?’  I said, ’Marie, we been married twenty-eight years and every night I eat the same thing – my meatballs and my pasta!  So that’s ‘a what I want!"

…

I told you you have to be there.   

At the end of a long day, I wanted to crash in my apartment.  But as I approached the place, I noticed it was louder than normal.  The reason?  The radio station Mix 102.7 was broadcasting live from the restaurant I live above.  Of course.  How could I have not expected that?

The view from my window.

So I had to sit in my apartment, watching morons congregate outside, masturbating to said mornons, and listening to dance music.

So yes, it was the perfect Sunday.  I love New York.