Thursday, 28 October 2004 | Pretty

"Your feet sure are pretty," the man slurred at me. "Her feet are pretty," he said, more quietly, to his friend. The three of us were sitting on a bench in a hall of bathroom tiles and fluorescent lights, waiting for the late-night G train. I was glad I hadn't put on my headphones.

"You can't even see her feet," his friend replied. I looked at the red boots I was wearing, confirming to myself that my feet were indeed not visible. He turned to me and said, "You'll have to excuse my friend. He's a little drunk." A few more rounds of pretty feet accusations followed, countered with logical replies. I smiled.

The sober friend had corn rows braided in his hair and a tired face. We sat together on the train and exchanged facts about ourselves, but I don't know why. We talked about where we grew up (very different places) and what we currently did for a living, and how we were both waking up early the next day to go to the Bronx.

It's probably what I like most about New York: random interactions, based on as little as opaque shoes. He got off the train first and politely lied, "See you around."

...

The first set of Mexico photos is online (of three). Thanks to Michael Brown and php for making it much less painful to put a million photos online. Yes, a million.