I hate Canal Street, people swarming around confused and weighed down by fanny packs. Endless blocks of low rent "shops" filled with key chains and unattractive sunglasses. But this was the destination, the meeting spot. The pavement was swallowing up my feet by sheer warmth. My pale skin cried out for sunblock.
The line for the grody Subway bathroom stretched to the door. It just wasn't a viable option to start saving my epidermis from a red and painful demise. So Mike and I decided to stop in front of an apparently renowned dumpling restaurant. The Zagat Rated stickers and articles from 1998 prove to passing pedestrians the legitimacy of their meat filled dough. I began to apply the lotion, as if this were a concrete beach. I glanced into the window to make sure I had blended the protection adequately across my face. A couple looked up at me from their booth, confused. If nothing else, this created conversation at points where lulls were inevitable. I was not embarrassed one bit, exhaustion trumped any dignity at this point.
We soon caught sight of the tourist couple. They wore "New York" baseball caps to block out the brutal sun. (And to show their love for 'The Big Apple') They walked purposely in our direction; on the lookout for the best deals. They were a large breed, perhaps Mid-Western. At the very least I am certain they hailed from a place similar to Dutch Country, Pennsylvania. The Asian sales representative of knock off bags quickly approached them. She is seasoned, but moreso pushy and talented at spotting the easily impressed. A new marketing tool is shoved in their faces. It's a tiny, well designed color brochure showing what is available to them. Louis Vutton, Prada, Gucci, all at stunningly low prices. Never mind they are manufactured in sweat shops, and the faux tags generally fall off immediately after you've surrendered your 30 dollars.
The wife nodded at her husband. She made a gesture at the bag hawker which indicated interest. The vendor shot up her pointer finger, asking them to hold on one second. She walked away, but quickly returned to her customers. They followed her, much to our surprise, into a Dodge minivan. The sales rep slid the rear door shut. I panicked for a moment. Are they being kidnapped? For what purpose? Were they going to bring them to a factory in Hong Kong and show them what it means to manufacture these bags they so desire? Guerrilla lesson teaching?
I quickly walked up to the driver's side window, expecting an unsavory character to start the engine and peel off with this naive pair trapped inside. I breathed relief when I saw no such person. As quickly as it began the couple exited the van. The husband clutched his backpack for dear life. He was protecting their investment. The woman barely nodded to them as they sauntered away. She was already on the lookout for her next target.
My phone rang. It was Kat asking for our location. I still had suntan lotion smeared on my hands so Mike had to answer the phone and hold it to my ear. We laughed obnoxiously, maybe even made a small scene amongst the chaos. But we were headed to Coney Island, the ultimate Freak Show. We approached the wrong subway station and turned around, NOW who looks like the tourist?
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