Unfortunately, Sunday came quickly on our weekend getaway to Brooklyn and before we knew it we were finishing breakfast and heading back to Midtown to catch our bus back to DC.
And now, bear with me for a moment while I get sentimental. Saying goodbye to these wonderful friends is always bitter sweet. We know that regardless of how life intervenes, we will always find ways to be together, whether it be traveling, visiting or just the occasional Skype. We take every opportunity to fill one another's lives with the laughter we've come to cherish between us. I know all that, yet I never want to say goodbye. This weekend was no exception. I could have comfortably settled into the hotel for a prolonged period to continue enjoying the company of our wonderful friends. Amy and Tony, we would have gladly had you as honorary hotel guests with us too (even though I'm sure life in the little pink house is more comfortable than a hotel). Thank you all for a wonderful weekend.
But back in reality-land we had to get moving to make our bus out of NYC. We lucked out on the subway walking down just as the R train pulled up to shuttle us back to Midtown. We boarded, took seats close to the door, balancing our luggage and coats between us and settled in for the 35 minute ride back to Manhattan. Enter the American hipster. From every door. At every stop. I don't know how I'd failed to notice this on every other train ride. Possibly the euphoria induced by fantastic company clouded my vision. I have no other plausible explanation other than short-term blindness which I feel I would have remembered.
All around us the train was filling up with the hallmarks of hipsters. Cropped coats, thick framed glasses, pixie haircuts, vintage clothing, army surplus shoulder bags. Just as my eyes were adjusting, a kid boarded the train. He couldn't have been more than 14, yet he was dressed in head-to-toe hipster, as though he'd just walked out of an Urban Outfitters. Hand-me-down boots - check; skinny/vintage worn-in jeans - check; knit cap - check; stripped cardigan over a vintage concert t-shirt - check. This kid had it all. And then he whipped out his Iphone to blare Indie Rock. The deal had been sealed. And the best part? He wasn't out of place. He wasn't a polar bear in the Sahara. He was a gazelle, leaping through the tall grasses of the Serengeti. He was in his natural habitat and no one but me batted an eye. In DC, this kid would have been an aberration, an embarrassment to his uptight, gray suit wearing parents as they wondered between them when he'd "grow out of this phase." In New York City, he was just another teenager meeting his friends. Oh how I love New York.
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