Last Exit to Brooklyn       Monday was bright, sunny, warm. I sat in the morning sun on Karen's fire       escape and watched the world go by. Karen had a great idea; a walk over       the Brooklyn Bridge on it's pedestrian walkway. We walked from the Village       through the interesting and frightening smells of Chinatown to the crowded       bridge. It seems that all manner of tourists had the same idea as the flow       of people was heavy. We walked over the bridge dodging angry and self       righteous byclists and had lunch at Grimaldi's...reportedly the best pizza       joint in NYC. We ate under a disturbingly large collection of photos of       Bob Costas. I wanted to take some photos of the skyline so Karen led me to       a spot she knew down by the East River.       As I snapped away we were suddenly surrounded by a gaggle of foreign       tourists just off a guided tour bus...the London double decker style. I       finished my roll and we started to walk away. The foreigners were drfting       back to their bus...engulfng us. I reloaded my camera and a an behind me,       the bus driver it turned out, asked me if I got an good pics. I said "sure       did"...and looked at Karen. The con was on. He thought we were with the       tour. With head signals we decided to board the bus for a free and       comfortable ride back to Manhattan. We slipped aboard and took unobtrusive       seats on the lower level. I clutched my camera tightly and tried to look       bewildered...a competent disguise.       Unfortunately the bus was not headed in the direction we wanted and went       further into the wilds of Brooklyn. The tour guide was demented and should       not have been allowed access to a microphone. I think in retrospect that       since almost all of his passengers were foreign, he could say whatever he       wanted. He went off on an anti Guliani, anti police, anti Manhattan       diatribe that began to get scary mean. He may have been drinking. Karen       and I shared concerned looks as he made remarks about caucasians as we       entered a mostly black and hispanic area. It felt like a kidnapping...any       minute angry zulu warriors were going to storm the bus and flay us alive.       We decided to bug out. The bus stopped for a restroom break and we slipped       away and hopped the subway to midtown Manhattan. I don't know what became       of that busload of foreigners but I suspect few made it out alive.       We exited the subway at 42nd Street. After just a few disorienting minutes       outside I noticed the change in the city immediately. I'm still not sure       it's all for the best. Most shocking of all was Times Square....from shady       free fire zone to homogenized and sanitized shopper's paradise. Gone are       the porno theaters, fake ID shops, hookers and dealers. Now it stands as a       glitzy, shiny momument to capitalism and bad taste. I couldn't have been       any more shocked had I seen a Pottery Barn on Bourbon Street. Every chain       store and restaurant you can imagine has parked itself in the new Times       Square. It looks like an outdoor mall. It has no character. Crime may be       down there now but at the loss of everything that made this most famous of       squares unique. My disappointment bordered on outrage and I felt like       commiting a felony for principle's sake. I had been here many times before       yet I didn't know this place. From now on I think I'll refer to Mayor       Guliani as The Spoiler.       I needed time to reflect on this upset some more so Karen and I walked       from Times Square down 5th Ave through Union Square and back to the safety       of the Village.

Back to the Port Authority on Sunday night. It had been fun to be back in       New York but I wasn't sure if I liked the direction the city was heading.       Crime was down, the homeless hidden away...but Mussolini made the trains       run on time too. Karen saw me to the terminal and I made my way towards my       bus. I needed to make a phone call before boarding so I looked around for       a payphone. Seeing none I asked a janitor type employee. The elderly gent       responded with "What do I look like, an information booth?" But he still       pointed me in the right direction. I laughed out loud and thanked him       profusely. He looked at me like I had Paul Lynde's head growing out of my       neck. I made the call, boarded the bus and came back to Boston.       Wherever that janitor is I thank him again. His helpfulness couched in       almost sterotypical and none too serious rudeness clued me in to       something: No matter what Guliani does or says, New York, and New Yorkers,       will always be New York.