"I came to New York for a vacation," I grumbled, "not to try out for the New York Mets."
The man with the large nose and squeaky shoes told me I had "quite misunderstood" and indicated the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which I'd been standing in front of for twenty minutes unwittingly.
"I want to know if you'd like to join the New York Metropolitan mailing list."
"I think I'd rather try out for the New York Mets," I said. "I've got a mighty swing - not unlike Julio Franco's, truth be told."
I was only kidding, of course. I love the Met Museum; I'm just not one for mailing lists. In any case, the man with the large nose and squeaky shoes had pointed it out and now my vacation in New York was off to a roaring start, complete with an odd miscommunication and the prospect of indulging in the finest of culture.
Later, as I took the Metro back to Newburgh, New York City faded away like an angel in a dream from which I was slowly awaking.
