just call him "Ms. World Cup"
We departed the PATH train from Hoboken on 9th Street and 7th Avenue, weakened and wearied from the long weekend. The sidewalks and streets were choked with revelers who had splintered from the parade route into the narrow arteries of the West Village. Swathed in spandex in a spectrum of colors, the partiers waved miniature rainbow flags or draped larger versions across their wide backs. The Village--and Christopher Street-- had turned into a circus, complete with corn dog stands, peddlers pushing bottles of water, and cheesy photos ops. And then there were the freaks: A six-foot-five man decked out in nothing but leather chaps and suspenders (I think I'd seen him before). Two boys, walking shoulder to shoulder with chihuahua-size rats pearched on each shoulder, and one in each hand. The boys laughed and I screamed as they walked on by.
As we weaved our way throughout the masses with bags at our hips and a bike by my side, I wished, for a second, we lived somewhere--anywhere--else. But then we got home and closed the windows and turned up the A/C, hushing all of the outside noise. I sunk into our couch, fell asleep, and by the next morning all was quiet once more.
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