Bicycling in Central Park

I bicycled in Central Park on Saturday.

I realize that all over New York and New Jersey there are hundreds, no, certainly thousands, tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands or even millions of people who would respond to that statement with something along the lines of, "Oh, how nice. Isn't that a pleasant outing?" Because, of course, they live there. And because thee live there, They Don't Get It.

Bicycling in Central Park is not just nice. It is not just pleasant. It's totally amazing, utterly cool, friggin' mind-blowing, fucking unreal.

Normal people do not get to bicycle in Central Park. We normal people, we live our normal lives in normal places like Paducah, Kentucky, or Lombard, Illinois, or Grand Rapids, Michigan or Lima, Ohio or Cedar Rapids, Iowa or Jenks, Oklahoma or Walnut Hills, California--or Baton Rouge, Louisiana. We, the people of Paducah and Lombard and Grand Rapids and Lima and Cedar Rapids and Jenks and Walnut Hills and Baton Rouge, we see people bicycling in Central Park in movies or on tv, and they look normal and ordinary like us, but we know they're not. We are not fooled. We are not fools. We see the difference. There is New York. And there is Us. We're prose, they're poetry. We plod in polyester, they soar in silk. We intone dirges, they belt out Broadway melodies. They eat food we've yet to hear of and get their hair cut in styles we 've not yet dreamt of and they laugh loudly at jokes we do not get and they swear with words we do not understand. Even the taxi drivers and doormen and waitresses and subway attendants bear the traces of fairy dust, that New Yorkyness.

So now I'm back in Baton Rouge. Normal. Ordinary. OK. But on Saturday I bicycled in Central Park. And life is just that bit more magical.