Last night, racing along Roosevelt Avenue in a big blue SUV, the two Irishmen in the front seat began singing “America” from West Side Story at the top of their lungs. In the backseat, the Scotsman next to me laughed, while I giggled until tears streamed out of my eyes. We’ll forget, for a moment, the bit where the big Irishman that I’ve begun dating actually took his hands off the wheel to do the attendant clapping.
Small moments of beauty to pull me through an otherwise difficult day.
And there is just something really entertaining about sitting in an Indian diner with myself, two Irishmen and a Scotsman. These are the moments I love best about New York; where the cultures clash so completely and harmoniously and nonchalantly.
Mataar Paneer for me, please. Hold the Taj Mahal beer – I take lassi.