"Is that your turkey?" my husband asked pleasantly.
We were walking alongside Battery Park to the Staten Island Ferry. A turkey with a mild expression was pecking amongst the grass. It was not a distressed or unhappy turkey. While I was taking photos a cheerful commuter told us as he passed, "She's the park turkey. She's lived here for five years." I thought it was lovely that he took the time to tell us, and that he knew it was a girl turkey.
Earlier in the day we had been to Coney Island. It was bitterly cold, raining and a wind of razor wire all around us. Sydneysiders are a little smug when it comes to beaches; show la plage on the Cote D'azur or Brighton Beach in Sussex or even one of the lovely jewel coloured things in Southern Thailand and we do get a little sniffy. Not as nice as Avalon, we'll smirk inwardly. We both sniffed when when we finally got to the beach at Coney Island but I envied the little town its urban landscape. It is shabby, tacky, gaudy coloured and cheap, but also has the optimism that an used, unoccupied thing will have. All the rides and shut tight food stands seem hopeful that the desolation is just temporary and that the noise and people will return with the sun.
The Stanten Island ferry completed our maritime adventures. We marked each side of the journey with hot chocolate in a pitiful attempt to ward off the effects of the freezing rain.
Another notable thing is that I had steamed vegetables for dinner last night and ordered, on a foolish gluttonous whim, a side order of disco fries. These are fries served in a puddle of gravy, topped with cholesterol-coloured processed cheese and placed in a crematorium for a few moments until it has all glued together. Not only did I eat this mess, I actively enjoyed it.
The veges were good too.