you better watch where i point this thing

Note to aspiring spies: When trying to be inconspicuous while taking candid photos of strangers in the subway, it is best NOT to wear a yellow rabbit fur coat with an enormous sheepskin collar OR use a pink camera.

Hm. I think that was pretty self-explanatory.

I finished the rest of my prime rib from Tavern on the Green this morning with another soft sandwich of beef and cheese. It smelled like the faux Santa Will Ferrell's character suspiciously sniffs out in the movie Elf. Breakfast was again served at around 3pm before I braved the world to head to the Focus Features office to pay another visit to the boys of film: Mr. Kansas and Felipe.

On the B train, I saw this boy who very much so would not take his mind away from his cookie. You can't really see it clearly in the photo but he bore an expression of wry curiosity with a bit of aloofness.

I arrived late enough that the boys could leave for the night and we walked along Bleecker to the Village. Felipe commented on my hurried gait. It's happening. I'm becoming one of them. The fast-walking, no-bullshit New Yorkers who spit and swear at the slightest provocation. But I did neither because we were headed to Pinkberry where Felipe and I plucked Mr. Kansas' Pinkberry flower.

The shop looked the same as the others in L.A., the green striped windows and the pebbled floor. But the yogurt was different. It was fluffy and full instead of cool and clean. I ordered a medium original with strawberries, blueberries and raspberries but got mango instead of the latter. When I mentioned it, they gave me a small cup of raspberries on the side which we all enjoyed. Mr. Kansas liked his first taste of controversial frozen yogurt. Red Mango was across the street. The competition in this city is thick.

Mr. Kansas took his leave early and Felipe and I got a moment to ourselves to speak and wander. He is lovely. Tall. Beautiful. Kind. An ex-lover made a bad choice when he decided to let Felipe go. No one should let someone of his sweetness walk the earth alone. If only I were a boy. Sadly, my burping and farting without apology does not a boy me make.

We parted ways at the West 4th train station and I made my way to Golden Unicorn for Chinese New Year dinner with a friend and her NY entourage. The F train was bare except for what I named "The Snob and the Sleepy Trio of Grey Knitted Cap Wearers". The station at East Broadway was vacant. I walked behind this woman through the tunnel to the street I needed.

Above ground, I consulted my Streetwise map many times to figure out the way to Chinatown. The shops were all closed for the celebration. I walked cautiously as men passed. There were photo opportunities here but somehow I felt unsure of my surroundings enough that my vigilance stifled my inner journalist.

Dinner with strangers is always interesting for me. It is a challenge to connect over a meal. I met four new people this evening and the conversation was never awkward or still. We spoke of coincidences and similarities and bonded over our collective inability to read the Chinese menu. But this was only a minor obstacle as we did order a grand list of foods my parents would deem excessively decadent for a regular dinner. But it's a new year, baby.

We started with roast duck wrapped in rice flour buns with scallions and plum sauce. The duck skin was oily and crisp. Fantastic. We also ordered sweet and sour pork chops, a mixture of duck, pickled vegetables, sprouts and mushrooms, e-fu noodles with crabmeat and chive blossoms, Yang Chow fried rice, steamed fish with ginger, scallions and soy sauce, sauteed pea shoots and salt and pepper shrimp. Everyone was ravenous. We spoke and ate until movement became laughable. For me, the highlight was the women's restroom where the door was decorated with a glass plate that displayed an inlaid rose with a pair of lips at the stem. It was the most romantic restroom door I'd ever seen.

Stuffed and sleepy, we were a caravan of Chinese kids who can't read Chinese headed for the trains. On the D (which I thought was the B) I saw this woman sitting across the aisle from me. She seemed worried and I couldn't stop looking at her. I thought she needed consolation. I wondered what troubled her. At moments I thought she might cry. I wanted to wish her well but I refrained. Something kept me silent. Eventually, she closed her eyes and looked to be dozing. This brought me some relief as if she were truly distressed, sleep would not come so easy on the express train that didn't stop at 110th St.

I didn't realize I was on the wrong one until we breezed through my station and I had to switch to a downtown train. There, at 125th Street, I saw these kids with their father and his friend. The boy in the brown jacket splayed himself on the platform bench with a preternatural swagger. The girls, possible siblings, were haughty and stoic. I tried to take their photo without any to do but their father noticed and seemed to be upset. I couldn't hear him through my iPod shuffle but I could feel his displeasure and caught what sounded like muffled unkind words about me. He was a father who kept his children out until midnight on a school night but nonetheless they were his children and I was the girl in the fur coat who so brazenly and obviously was taking pictures of them. It made me regretful. I am not impervious to the annoyance I may cause. I skipped the train that came in order to avoid a confrontation with the father and also with two drunken Korean boys who asked me if the A train stopped at 86th St. It seemed rhetorical. I sensed their mischief. All these factors made me feel nervous so I called the cop and he met me at the station near our apartment.

Seeing him at the top of the stairs was a moment of relief. We walked in the cold night to our home and I felt safe and protected. He'd had a bad day so I tried to dote on him a bit. Boys are funny that way. They want you to know that they're down but they can easily refuse your care. How bold.

The chefs returned late and our nightly ritual of jokes and anecdotes began at 2am. We come together from the corners of the city and we eat. We laugh. We commiserate. We are a family. I asked the cop if he could smuggle his uniform home so that we might each wear a piece of it and take a portrait. A portrait of my safety in a city that grows increasingly more fascinating and frightening each day. I love to come home and as for our portrait, I'm sort of a big deal when it comes to taking photos with a pink camera, you know.