The Purple Cow

Recently at a party of some sort, I was asked if I had a favorite café or bar in the city. A sort of real-life Central Perk, so to speak, where my friends and I would hang out over coffee after work and indulge in that ever-elusive light hearted banter. A place where the bartender would know you by name and call out your drink before you could ask for it. It was, I was told, one of those several little signs that make you a New Yorker – as opposed to the throngs of wide-eyed tourists milling around outside wearing too much make-up and I heart NY t-shirts, always wanting to get in.

What can I say, I fail miserably in this little test. A few months back, when the Afghan chap who runs the coffee cart outside my office smiled and gave me a New Year’s card, I convinced myself I had formed one of those wordless New York relationships which you keep hearing so much about. He disappeared last month though, and the new coffee chap who took his place smiles indiscriminately at everyone so I’m never quite sure. Besides, he is white and wears a baseball cap – which you will agree doesn’t really have the same pseudo-melancholy-romantic edge which Yusuf Arakzai of the trimmed beard and wild eyes from Helmand brought to that coffee cart.

I don’t particularly mind the tourists either, although I am told it is another of those kosher things to do when you are a New Yorker. I run into scores of them every day, while passing through Times Square on my walk back from work. I keep my stern face on, so no one asks me to take their photographs but I am sure I am in countless picture albums on computers in every country across the world; one in a multitude of faces in the background while the main protagonists are busy pouting and flashing the V sign. It gives me an odd sense of satisfaction, that.

Times Square itself, I have gradually learnt through conversations in fashionably inconspicuous bars in the East Village, is supposed to be some sort of a tourist trap hell, whose gaudy lights and commercialism undermine the beating heart of the city. I try my best to dislike the place, but the lights are seductive – often I gawk at them while walking back from work leading people to think that I am, horror of all horrors, a tourist. I am then stopped and offered comedy club tickets or elevator rides up the Empire State building. To be fair, these road side salesmen aren’t really the best judges of touristocity. They once cornered M, even when she was carrying her Brooklyn-hipster yellow handbag which no tourist could possibly own.

Commercialism has its own little charms, though. Last week, on one of my famous walks back from work, I saw an animated conversation between a Latin American girl and a person in a Spongebob Squarepants outfit. The girl had squealed when she saw old Sponge bobbing around Times Square- she was apparently a big fan- and had rushed to get her photo taken with him. She didn’t, however, have a dollar bill for the tip bag which was being held out suggestively- would Mr. Squarepants have change for a 20? At this point, the top half of the outfit came off and a wizened Chinese lady emerged with a wad of dollar bills in her hand. I invite any Times Square haters reading this to Beat That.

Back to the party; No, I told the chap with a mildly apologetic smile. No favorite café, no bar where I can flop down after work and mutter ‘the usual’ under my breath. I still stare at the skyscrapers and blink at the lights and get confused on the subway. I’m working on the whole New Yorker thing though. Last Saturday, M and I spent the afternoon lounging around Bryant Park quietly reading our books in the sun– instead of stuffing ourselves with rava dosas in Saravana Bhavan. I felt I had crossed a milestone.