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Betty is a friend from Los Angeles. She's a half and half--one of those hapa kids that people
like so much. With new glasses and her old-school digital watch, she's working on Wall Street,
eating nice panini sandwiches among the movers and shakers who make people panic. Profiled is
her man Dylan from Sacramento. They'll both be moving back to Los Angeles giving up the best
apartment view you can get in New York--even better than Seinfeld's spot across from the Natural
History Museum. Their door even says "DiMaggio" on it, left by the last resident. It's a
220-degree view of New Jersey and the river between Manhattan and them, complete with boats,
two bridges (one of them has trains going to and from), the World Trade Centers, uptown, and
the Empire States building. There are tons of rooftop hangouts where Ghost Dog probably could
have lived. At night, it's all lights that look like gold glitter from the usual haze below the
black carpet of sky, occasionally pierced by planes and helicopters.
The area around the couple's residence is mixed, but mostly Jewish. It's on what I call the
far lower east side. The best thing is probably seeing the Jewish ladies walk around with canes
along side of their worn-down husbands. Some waddle in and out of the building, scared of me
standing near the door, with their rich brown curls covering their thinned hair. You can still
see the sides of their heads, but they feel younger. The wigged ladies outnumber the non-wigged.
It's like a fashion statement; you need one of these to belong. It's Grand Street.
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