The driver made a crucial error in where he's placed his GPS, because now, every time he drives right into the red outline indicating traffic jams, we can see the route he should have taken.
Beside me, Katie's fuming is threatening to burst into flame.
The increasingly erratic driver, in a move that baffles us, turns down a seemingly random Chinatown side street, and suddenly we are careening down a narrow alley lined with spherical, brightly colored paper lanterns and signs covered in flame-like letters we cannot read.
My mounting frustration is forgotten in the novelty of the view, until we end up at Canal Street, arguably the worst street to be on during rush hour traffic, and I can almost hear, from across the back seat, the sound of Katie grinding her teeth to powder.
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