There’s nothing comfortable about a wet butt. I was reminded of that messy lesson this morning when I carelessly sat in a puddle on the PATH train. Hopefully, that won’t be the metaphor of the day. After the train arrived in New York, I tried to act appropriately disconnected to the world as I walked up the stairs to 6th Avenue. No one tapped me on the shoulder to say, “Hey mister, your ass is wet.” And for that I’m thankful, though I never would deign to say something similar to another person in the same circumstances. There but for the grace of God …
My point in discussing that embarrassing moment is to say that New York is back to being New York. The busses and trains are back at work; as far as the strike is concerned, it’s all over but for the signing and the recriminations against leadership. My walk over the final couple of blocks included few belching busses, an abundance of taxis, and a carpenter’s union picketing a job site on 15th Street. They’ve been there as long as I’ve been working in New York, and now that the MTA strike is over, I’m starting to wonder what their point is. All part of life in the big city, I suppose.
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