Stir-crazy and wracked with cabin fever, I finally decided to brave the storms in hopes of finding a satisfactory cup of coffee. And boy howdy, was it drizzly out there. Even with the aid of a slick, navy umbrella, the rain managed to permeate the especially penetrable canvas of my sneakers. This is where that back-up pair of socks would have come in handy. Note to self.
Although the subways were about to shut down, many noble merchants continued to stalwartly tend their shops. Even as the raindrops pummeled my plucky little bumbershoot, I was afforded myriad dining options from falafel to Popeye's fried chicken. Say what you will about the general American work ethic - the folks in this neighborhood do not back down to a spot of liquid.
It's good to know that, even in the face of a big ol' wet mess, New Yorkers have their priorities straight. Every coffee-brewing establishment I passed was mobbed. I wouldn't like to think about the riots that would ensue during any sort of coffee shortage. Lines aside, the mission was a resoundingly damp success.
Despite the trickles of rain, there hasn't been any floodwater yet. That's comforting. I think it's a safe assumption that New York City floodwater would be the most vile liquid imaginable, comprised primarily of feces, rat moisture, and Coney Island whitefish. Blerf.
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