College Homecoming Weekend” or “Paul Simon in Central Park,” odds are it's an American in front of you.
Danny takes comfort in a stranger's Habitat for Humanity T-shirt as he walks back to the hotel. It is his way of keeping in touch with home.
Elijah leaves the Biennial and walks straight into an adjacent park. There are flowers everywhere. Elijah knows it's quite simple, but such things make him happy anyway. Old people sit on benches and talk boldly to one another. The women in particular make an impression on Elijah—old women in America don't seem as loud and animated and free. On the streets of Manhattan, it always seems like they travel alone, stooped, on their way from the grocery, toward somewhere equally unpleasant. But the Italian women don't look like abandoned grandmothers. They appear in flocks. They seem to know more.
Walking slowly, Elijah passes a man taking a picture of someone else's clothesline. It is, like all snapshots, a stolen image. The man clicks the shutter, then leaves guiltily.
The afternoon has now dimmed into evening. Candles are lit on cafe tables. The alleyways grow ominous, the crowds more unruly. It is as if twilight unleashes a darker undertow. Elijah feels the turn as the day goes from wistful to stark. The streets are so narrow they cry for confusion and claustrophobia. They desire speed, the rush of running through a maze.
It is like a movie
, Elijah thinks.
A James Bond movie.
There is no speed limit for pedestrians. It isn't like he's poolside—
no running allowed.
Unencumbered by packages, still high on the day, Elijah decides to bolt.
Bystanders are surprised. Elijah has been casually walking along. Now he runs as if he's being chased by KGB agents. It isn't entirely like a James Bond movie—he is careful not to knock down passersby or vendors of fruit.
As he gains speed, the streets seem to narrow further. The buildings threaten to cave in on him. The corners are sharper than before. The back of his coat trails in the air. Elijah wants to whoop with joy—running every which way, catapulting himself over bridges, a fascinating streak in a photo that will be developed weeks from now. He is tired, but he's free. He is living, because he's in motion.
Exhilaration.
Acceleration.
Exhilaration.
Acceleration.
Stop.
He almost runs into the wall of people. He is flying along, and then the crowd looms like a dead end. He could turn around, but curiosity encourages momentum. He touches the back of the crowd and then makes his way forward.
“Doctor?
Medico?
” a small female voice cries from somewhere in the front. Elijah pushes forward some more and then sees the girl and her distress. She is holding the same travel dictionary that Danny carries. “
Può chiamare un medico, per favore?”
From her accent, it's clear she took French in high school.
At her feet, a guy lies bleeding. Elijah steps back. He stares at the wound and then traces its trail to the pavement. The guy and the girl, both easily American, are no more than a year older than Elijah. The guy is bleeding, but he's also trying to smile. Elijah immediately feels a kinship and offers help.
He looks at the young man's wound. It doesn't seem too serious—the girl explains that he tripped on a wet stone and hit his head. She wonders whether he should be moved. No one inthe crowd seems to have the answer—many are starting to walk away.
The young man rests his head on an L.L. Bean backpack. Elijah introduces himself and pulls a Kleenex out of his pocket to help stanch the flow of blood. The young man—Greg—is calmer than his partner—Isabel. As she frantically procures a handkerchief from a shopkeeper, he tells Elijah it's really not so bad.
“Liar,” Isabel says. “The shopkeeper said help is on the way. Do you know what the Italian word for ‘stitches’ is? It's not in this stupid dictionary.”
Just then, help arrives. Elijah almost laughs. The “ambulance” is a wicker chair placed on a
Danny takes comfort in a stranger's Habitat for Humanity T-shirt as he walks back to the hotel. It is his way of keeping in touch with home.
Elijah leaves the Biennial and walks straight into an adjacent park. There are flowers everywhere. Elijah knows it's quite simple, but such things make him happy anyway. Old people sit on benches and talk boldly to one another. The women in particular make an impression on Elijah—old women in America don't seem as loud and animated and free. On the streets of Manhattan, it always seems like they travel alone, stooped, on their way from the grocery, toward somewhere equally unpleasant. But the Italian women don't look like abandoned grandmothers. They appear in flocks. They seem to know more.
Walking slowly, Elijah passes a man taking a picture of someone else's clothesline. It is, like all snapshots, a stolen image. The man clicks the shutter, then leaves guiltily.
The afternoon has now dimmed into evening. Candles are lit on cafe tables. The alleyways grow ominous, the crowds more unruly. It is as if twilight unleashes a darker undertow. Elijah feels the turn as the day goes from wistful to stark. The streets are so narrow they cry for confusion and claustrophobia. They desire speed, the rush of running through a maze.
It is like a movie
, Elijah thinks.
A James Bond movie.
There is no speed limit for pedestrians. It isn't like he's poolside—
no running allowed.
Unencumbered by packages, still high on the day, Elijah decides to bolt.
Bystanders are surprised. Elijah has been casually walking along. Now he runs as if he's being chased by KGB agents. It isn't entirely like a James Bond movie—he is careful not to knock down passersby or vendors of fruit.
As he gains speed, the streets seem to narrow further. The buildings threaten to cave in on him. The corners are sharper than before. The back of his coat trails in the air. Elijah wants to whoop with joy—running every which way, catapulting himself over bridges, a fascinating streak in a photo that will be developed weeks from now. He is tired, but he's free. He is living, because he's in motion.
Exhilaration.
Acceleration.
Exhilaration.
Acceleration.
Stop.
He almost runs into the wall of people. He is flying along, and then the crowd looms like a dead end. He could turn around, but curiosity encourages momentum. He touches the back of the crowd and then makes his way forward.
“Doctor?
Medico?
” a small female voice cries from somewhere in the front. Elijah pushes forward some more and then sees the girl and her distress. She is holding the same travel dictionary that Danny carries. “
Può chiamare un medico, per favore?”
From her accent, it's clear she took French in high school.
At her feet, a guy lies bleeding. Elijah steps back. He stares at the wound and then traces its trail to the pavement. The guy and the girl, both easily American, are no more than a year older than Elijah. The guy is bleeding, but he's also trying to smile. Elijah immediately feels a kinship and offers help.
He looks at the young man's wound. It doesn't seem too serious—the girl explains that he tripped on a wet stone and hit his head. She wonders whether he should be moved. No one inthe crowd seems to have the answer—many are starting to walk away.
The young man rests his head on an L.L. Bean backpack. Elijah introduces himself and pulls a Kleenex out of his pocket to help stanch the flow of blood. The young man—Greg—is calmer than his partner—Isabel. As she frantically procures a handkerchief from a shopkeeper, he tells Elijah it's really not so bad.
“Liar,” Isabel says. “The shopkeeper said help is on the way. Do you know what the Italian word for ‘stitches’ is? It's not in this stupid dictionary.”
Just then, help arrives. Elijah almost laughs. The “ambulance” is a wicker chair placed on a
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