Oh lordy. Right this minute, I’m hearing an old commercial for Ovaltine on Air America. It’s the one where the mother puts the strange emphasis on “chocolate milk.”
I have been expanding my Range Of Familiarity in the city. Where when I first arrived, a three-to-four-block jaunt to the market was akin to a stealth operation through enemy territory and I was gasping and faint when I returned, relieved that I made it home unscathed, I now am comfortable enough to spend hours on foot, poking through the streets, trying to get a sense of relation.
Today, on my way back from that hyper-left-wing indie bookstore near Little Italy, with the surrealism and philosophy books right out front and anti-Bush displays in the window, I found my head fuzzing a bit. I needed something to drink, soon. Since I was near the financial district, I strolled down Montgomery: the border street, where I knew there were at least a few coffee shops. On the intersection with Pine, I encountered and customed a juice store. From there, I needed only head west on Pine, to arrive at my origin.
So West, I went. And that’s when I hit it.
And now I know.