Central Park (New York City)

New York City was tittering on 27 degrees Fahrenheit and -3 Celsius in late January but the sky was cobalt blue and the sun was shining. So I wanted to take a brisk walk and find a coffee shop to write. So I grabbed my free copy of the New York Times from the hotel hobby and slung my laptop bag over my shoulder and walked out onto West 55th. The Artic wind nearly knocked me down.

I was still a little fragile from the drinks at Barcelona Bar last night. It was a bar two blocks down from the Dream hotel. I spent most of the time having a conversation with a woman who was mix black and Mexican. She lived in Washington, DC.

I had told her, “You are every minority.”

“Yeah,” she said and we toasted one another.

“Why are you here?”

“This is my best friend’s bachelorette party.” And she looked over her shoulder and laughed when she saw someone. “Her.”

I turned and saw a beautiful blonde girl making out with some guy with a fashionable trucker’s hat.

“I hope that is the future husband to be.” I said.

“I plead the 5th.”

Then the lights came on full blast in the bar. Everyone swiveled on their stools like cockroaches scurrying. “Everyone out! Bar is closed.” The barmaid yelled out.

There was a collective moan.

“Nice to meet you. What was your name?”

“Mona.”

“Nice to meet you Mona.” And we shook hands. “Enjoy your trip home.” And then I hopped off my chair, head spinning, and hit the cold night air full force.

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