You haven't really arrived in New York until a man behind a deli counter starts making your coffee before you ask. Light and sweet. Small cup. Two Splendas. I didn't even know I was that person until he made me that person.
My bodega is on the corner of 137th. There's a cat named Miso who sleeps on the bananas. There's a flat-top griddle that has been seasoned by approximately forty thousand bacon-egg-and-cheeses. There's a list of numbers to call taped next to the register for when something breaks, which is always.
The owner's daughter does her homework at the counter. She's twelve and smarter than me. She corrected my Spanish twice this week.
This is my favorite kind of New York intimacy. The kind that doesn't need your last name. The kind where, if you don't show up for three days, somebody notices and asks the next person in if you're okay.
Find your bodega. Tip your bodega. Learn the cat's name.
Love,