It is with evil glee that I post this photo on my blog.
Not that it's even one of my favorite New York shots. At all. But I had to show you. Because the woman who was selling this pottery would hate that I'm sharing it. And she was mean. So here it is.
A little back story:
Kitty Cat and I had just left the show Stomp, after only watching for a few minutes. Kitty Cat hated Stomp. Of course she hated it. She detests loud noises.
Somehow however, J. and I decided that, though the drummers in Seattle's Thanksgiving Parade scare her and the flush of a toilet makes her cringe, she wouldn't mind being crammed into a small, off-broadway theater listening to 10 adults banging brooms and trash can lids.
Not surprisingly, from the first clang, her hands flew to her ears. Soon she was wailing. So I scooped her up and whisked her out and we walked around (the?) East Village.
We went into a café for a smoothie. That part was nice.
Afterward, we strolled several long blocks. We spotted a clean bench in front of a pottery store and decided to rest. I proceeded to snap photos of Kitty Cat, and whatever else was around, because that's what I do.
Right after I took the pottery picture, I sensed someone rustling through the front door. Crap, I thought.
"No pictures," the woman yelped, as if I were trying to capture potter's trade secrets to sell. (Or, you know, plaster all over the internet).
"Okay," I said, amicably. "We're just tourists."
Unluckily, at that very moment, Kitty Cat happened to find the bent frond of an outdoor plant, and was (gently) stroking it.
Angry words were exchanged, during which the woman barked at Kitty Cat, I told the woman to drop her tiresome cranky act and the woman explained that apparently, crankiness was necessary because we were such ingrates. Or something. I didn't hear the end of her tirade because I was consulting with a fully inked and pierced guy across the street about taking out her pottery with one toss of his huge, black boot.
Finally, we met the rest of the family back at the theater. Fruit Bat loved Stomp, as we knew he would. I learned that J. had already seen it in Seattle (but then got to watch it a second time yesterday. he was appropriately abashed.) And I found myself fighting tears on the train ride back to Brooklyn.
Thankfully, these things blow over pretty quickly. Soon we were eating dinner outside and trying to decide if we should go back to Prospect Park to chase fireflies like we had the night before.
It's a different world here, with its warm, chewy bagels and crowded brownstones and mosquitos and humid heat. It's good to visit. And my sister- and brother-in-law couldn't be more hospitable.
But I miss my wine sweet wine (we're in what you call a dry house). And our sweet space at home. And the sweet, silty smell of the Sound.
I guess it's a good sign that every time I travel, I'm always ready to go back. It means I'm in the right place.