Tuesday, July 29, 2003
It happened in a cheap pasta place on Bleeker Street, where I was having pesto for the very first time. Outside, the midwinter weather rained down on the passers-by. Through the window, I saw someone cross the road, seeking shelter. Italian probably, a couple of years older than me; long, black curls, dark, almond eyes; lean of figure, wearing Levis and a battered yet stylish black leather jacket. Whoever he was, pre-Raphaelite minstrel, or Botticelli courtier, I recall thinking how lucky he was to be young and free and living in Manhattan.
Just a five seconds' glimpse, nearly nineteen years ago. Astonishing how sometimes the fleetest of images stays with you for the rest of your life.