I’m in New York City for the next three weeks.
On one stretch, between my office on 35th to the bus on 42nd, I hear not one – not two – but three Hebrew conversations.
I get on the bus, there’s a six pack of hard lemonade in my seat; former passenger leftovers. I drop everything and carry it over to the bus driver. Then I walk back to my seat and feel guilty that if it’s laced with explosives, I just killed him.
Yeah, that never gets old.