hong-an tran

I’m fairly certain that when my parents think of New York City, they imagine something like this: there are always already trashbags on the street, waiting to be — or, in my parent’s imaginations, never getting — picked up; there is a nonsensical collision of architectural styles (what is up with that pagoda roof on the right side?); strange doorways jut out from the sides of buildings; and people put the strangest things in their windows.  Oh, and there’s always a small puddle of murky, mosquito-y water.  And though you can’t see it, in my parents’ minds, there are always cars honking their horns, and — well, this is certainly true — the whole place smells a little funny.

This, however, is also New York City:

Much more serene, except around 7:50 any weekday morning, when my alarm goes off and I moan to…

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