Luckily, I don’t really care about seeing the Statue of Liberty. I don’t have anything against it, it’s just that there’s not enough going for it for me to brave the crowds and the heights.
No, the tourist trap I really want to see is Coney Island. In my mind, it’s still 1907 there; full of freaks and mystery, squeaky boardwalks and cotton candy, people in striped swimsuits that go down to their knees. Conveniently, my aforementioned stylish friend Tommy has to report on Coney Island for a news segment as part of his job, and AK and I are going to tag along.
That’s on Sunday—between tomorrow (when I leave) and then, I have about 87 meetings. But all I’ll have to do is close my eyes and imagine fire eaters, noisy impresarios and fake mermaids stored in jars of formaldehyde, and the time will fly, I’m sure.
Hasta la 25th, my friends.