Sunday, at the excited encouragement of our new friends Joe and Nicole, S. and I made our way to China Town for the Chinese New Years festivities. Swirling around us were bursts of fluttering confetti and streamers in every color of the rainbow, large Chinese dragons dancing rythmically to the sounds of exotic instruments and drums, and what seemed like millions of people and photographers bustling around in a frenzy to make every moment last a lifetime. S. bought us two of the biggest firecrackers they had. They looked like long golden metallic wrapping paper tubes, and the plan is to aim them off into the blue, twist the tube with all of your might, and then feel it frantically jerk and pop back into your abdomen with a loud startling noise as you grunt and then watch the contents blast into the sky. Multi-colored squares of tissue paper, long snake-like ribbons, and even tiny parachutes then flutter and swirl about as everybody cheers and congratulats you on a cracker well fired.

Struggling to find a great place in which to have lunch that wasn’t insanely crowded, S. and I looked for what felt like ages in the cold. We finally got to the point where we would have eaten just about anywhere just to warm up a bit. Making our way down a corroding metal stairway into a discreet basement, we sat for some awful noodle soup. I couldn’t help but notice that a gentleman at the adjacent table looked familiar. I racked my brain to try to place his face, and when I heard him laugh and saw him smile I instantly knew. It was an old friend from highschool, from nearly 15 years or so ago. Michael was as sweet and friendly as ever, and it made me happy to see him doing so well here in NYC! I hope he stays in touch with S. and I. It really is a small world.

The highlight of my day was when I had one antique market in mind, and inadvertantly asked to go to another. When we got there, I was dissapointed to realize that I had directed us to the wrong one. I wanted to go to the bigger one in the Upper East Side, and instead we were at the tiny one in Chelsea. It was too late to correct the blunder, so I scanned the tables, saw nothing, and with a pout began to walk away. S. called after me excitedly, and pointed to a drawing locked within a glass cabinet. We summoned the owner over and were careful to not appear too eager. We haggled him down a bit to $35, and walked away the proud owners of a framed black and white ink drawing of the Moai on Easter Island, sketched sometime in the 1930s. (I forget the date now, but it is marked). The title of the drawing is “In The Beginning…”

And thus continues our new beginning.