Two men in dark coats, speaking some type of Slavic language, brushed past me. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of cigarette smoke emanating from them. A child ran past me, giggling, with an irritated older sister following in its wake. A man in a green windbreaker stood with a hot dog admiring the view. I walked by where a group of cranky parents stood with their cups of coffee, and the smell of cheap espresso filled my nostrils. My stomach grumbled. The taste of toothpaste combined with the bite of my friend’s bagel was lingering in my mouth, and I wished I had not forgotten my gum back in the hotel room.
I made my way over to the rusted mounted binoculars. The quarters clanked metallically as I put them into the coin slot. I put my hands on the chipping green paint and bent over to put my eyes to the viewers. Looking through the glass, I had a great view of the Chrysler Building and, turning the heavy hinges of the binoculars, got an idea of the immensity of Central Park. The wind had slowed and my white button up shirt rustled softly against my skin.