That’s a camel in the street, alright. Real camel, real street, America.
Here’s what happened: At the last second, a ticket to Book of Mormon opened up, so I flew to New York for the weekend. (Really long flight, turns out. Who knew?) After the show, on Sunday, I wanted to take a quick stroll around Central Park before heading back to the bus station to make my flight back to Vegas.
On the way to the park, I walked by an Israeli Pride parade. Thousands and thousands and thousands of children wearing matching Sunday School t-shirts and waving Israeli flags. Also, randomly, a handful of African American marching bands.
Everyone was in a great mood, despite the pending rain, and it put me in a good mood, too. Well, until I asked the police officer how I was supposed to get through the parade to get to Central park.
“You can wait until it’s done or you can walk around it.”
“How do I walk around it?”
“Walk back down to forty-sixth, then cross to sixth, then walk back up to the park.”
He said it as if it were no big deal.
The walk took forever, and by the time I got to Central Park, it was raining, and everybody was rushing out with jackets and newspapers pulled over their heads. So I only got to spend a couple of damp, depressing minutes at the park’s southern tip.
But I did get a consolation prize: I got to pet a camel. There were two of them, hanging around a side street, waiting to join the parade. Poor things probably wanted to be in Central Park, too.