New Yorkers don’t need translation — horns, sirens, and hand gestures are a universal language
You know, I’ve lived in New York long enough to expect the rats, the subway delays, the pigeons with better aim than Robin Hood—but nothing, nothing prepares you for the annual migraine they call the United Nations General Assembly.
Every September, Midtown turns into a parking lot with delusions of importance. It’s like somebody put Times Square on a gluten-free diet: no movement, plenty of gas.
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