Winter Walk

I had been meaning to write something today for several hours now.  Here it is.

I walked out of my house to walk to the Starbucks five minutes away.  It’s one of the only ones in the Bronx, and I was craving a Soy Chai.  And I wanted to write really badly.  For some reason, I was convinced that I was going to find someone in Starbucks and just start writing about them.  I got there, all the seats were taken, and the hideously ghetto barista was chatting it up with two of her friends before she got to my order.

So I guess that’s what postponed this whole writing thing…

Anyway, so I decided to walk around, sipping on the grande Soy Chai that was keeping my hands warm.  Along the 1 train tracks and the perimeter of the projects, I thought about the arbitrary term of “home.”  I pondered these thoughts as I took my slow strides up Broadway.  Everyone else seemed to be in so much more of a hurry, including a very displeased Puerto Rican girl who was complaining aloud about missing the train or something of the like.  I nodded in approval, took another sip of my drink, and watched as she and the others passed me.

I passed the 99-cent stores with their wide assortment of cheaply made goods, the bodegas obnoxiously advertising the 355 Million Dollar jackpot for the Mega Million lottery, the African store proudly displaying an array of wooden sculptures and colorful dashikis which I’ve never had the balls to enter, and the Hispanic restaurants which smelled of rotisserie chicken when you walked by.  The ground shook as the train passed overhead.  I finally reached Garden Gourmet, my favorite independent market that I frequent far too much.

I got a tomato and cheese focaccia and ingredients for a magnificent eggplant parmesean.  Oh, and kiwis.

Basically, all of this, this completely boring and ordinary night, made me realize how much I love being “home.”

Don’t know what else to write anymore.