Sunday, 08 September 2002 | Feather

I took a picture of a man on the platform who had his arms full of peacock feathers; Martin thought we ought to buy one of the man's feathers for agreeing to pose, and so we traded a dollar for one of his stash. We didn't actually want the feather; it was awkwardly three feet long, and we'd just left the house for the day and weren't up for carrying it around everywhere. So we walked through Union Square, looking for a deserving little kid to surprise with the mating plumage of a large exotic bird. We ended up giving the feather to a four-year-old Asian girl who seemed rather terrified by Martin and his gift. Her parents were appreciative, though, and we were rid of the feather.

Around the corner, on the other side of the park, we ate fruit and watched as several kids and a few adults did impromptu salsa dancing to the music blaring from someone's portable stereo. It was incredible how smooth and quick the kids were, as they moved their hips and spun each other, long dark ponytails whipping around. They were smiling and laughing as they danced, and the crowd of onlookers that cropped up around them grew steadily, until the group stopped their cassette and peeled away.

Today we lugged our cameras to Coney Island and walked around and marveled at the crowded beach, the trash cans overflowing with cups and greasy wrappers, the rickety wooden roller coasters, mini casinos, and rows and rows of ugly stuffed "prizes." Except for an ice cream cone and a ride through an exceptionally primitive haunted fun house, we didn't participate in Coney Island; we floated through it and examined it. The weather was beautiful, and I had a really good time, despite the fact that I found the whole place rather depressing.

On the way home, a man wearing a homemade donkey sang "La Bamba" and "rode" through our subway car, asking for money. A stop later, we could see him in the next car, silently singing and galloping and shaking his cup full of change.