I’d like to think after six weeks, I’m a bona fide New Yorker.
This weekend, however, I realized I am far from it.
It’s not just because I ended up in a different part of Queens because I forgot the hyphen in the street address (yes, 40-17 Broadway is quite different from 4017. Is that not obvious to you?). It’s not because I still manage to come out of the wrong exit at the 34th Street stop which is always, always, always closed on weekends.
Well, maybe it is. However, the realization came when a man offered me candy on the L train.
It was a wrapped Starburst. Red. Still in the original row, though the outer packaging was torn open.
My companion stared at me once he realized it was already in my mouth. “Did you really eat that?” he asked.
“Yup,” I mustered with teeth half-clamped together.
“I would’ve never eaten that.”
Still a newb, my friends. Still green. And apparently still in need of reviewing my stranger danger kindergarten education. Oops.
P.S. It wasn’t laced with coke.