Day Time Coney Island
Around 2:30 this afternoon, I left my room with the intention of going to the park to sit and read at the fountain. But it hit me that today, 77 degrees, it was too beautiful even for Washington Square Park. Central Park, I decided and headed for the subway. As I turned onto Lafayette, I realized, I had a place I still needed to go, so I went. Coney Island was beautiful today. In the April sunshine, it was far more inviting than it was on that cold March evening.
First stop was Nathan’s for a frank with saurkraut, and then on to the beach. I stopped off at the boardwalk to sit and eat my frankfurter, but no sooner had I sat down than my peaceful independence was assaulted by a tourist.
“It’s a beautiful beach isn’t it? This is my first time here.” He crouched next to me. Dressed in a footballer jersey, he seemed eerily remniscent of a certain Chilean I met last summer, who was impossible go get rid of. “Are you from New York?”
I nodded, twisting my hair behind me so it wouldn’t blow in my face.
“Are you from Coney Island?”
“No.”
“Where are you from?” he asked as I took an enormous bite out of the frank that occupied my mouth for several seconds.
He laughed, and I didn’t know what to do, so I did the rudest thing. I pulled out my book and began to read, blowing him off entirely.
He didn’t say anything else, but hovered for a bit, pacing between the railing and the bench where I was sitting. He walked away, and I sat feeling guilty, wondering if rejection kharma would come back to bite me later.
A few pages later, I’d finished eating, so I was ready for the beach. I walked across the powdery sand to the water. I sat on a rock to remove my shoes and walked on under a pier through the water so cold it seemed to burn my feet. Children’s pants were soaked to the seat as they ran from the small waves crashing around them. I sat myself on the damp sand and closed my eyes, letting the wind mess my hair and blow sand at my legs.
At about 5, I walked toward my shadow. The wind blew the soft sand in ghostly rivers around me. I found the rocks again where a couple of parents were snapping shots of their daughter with her bucket and shovel. I put my shoes back on and walked slowly across the sand, back to the boardwalk.
I rode the F train back towards the city, my foot resting on the pole in front of me. As is usual in New York City, almost no one on the train was speaking English. The two men who took a seat across from me were no exception. From Avenue P to Jay Street, I wondered to myself what language they were speaking. Hebrew, it seemed. Could they be Israeli? The one looked almost Indian.
We crossed the river into Manhattan, and one of them, with a beard stood up, holding his camera in front of him.
“Do you mind? We’re tourists from Israel. We were wondering if we could take your picture? We think you’re very beautiful. It’s alright if you don’t want us to.”
“Um.” My picture? I thought he was going to ask me to take their picture. “S-sure.”
He took my picture, probably of me blushing, and I went back to my fake sleep. I had been wondering why he’d taken his camera out and turned it on. I need to learn more languages so I can tell when people are talking about me.
It was all I could do not to laugh when he caught my eye as I stood to get off the train at 2nd Ave. I love travelling alone.
Tags: 7A. New York City
Drea
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