Wednesday, May 8, 2013

A Metaphor for Post-Industrial New York (or something)

We're tired of standing in line (and just standing) on the pier beside the Intrepid Air and Space Museum, and we duck around behind the food trucks to take a load off. The cruise ship in port next to us looms hundreds of feet high, a giant floating city of rooms, and we watch a few small figures strolling on its outer decks in the creeping dusk.

Some portholes down near the waterline light up while we sit on the stone bench, and I say, "That's where the lower-class Irish are doing jigs in their wooden clogs."

I imagine their "betters" above, waltzing through gilded ballrooms in tuxes to the gentle strains of Strauss, the ship so large that they can't even feel the tide.

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