One day of life cute american town: work, home, food, shopping. And one mysterious castle.
“No, no, sir,” said Mr. Adams, “you must not be angry. You are in a small American town. " Ilya Ilf, Evgeny Petrov. "One-story America." Eighty years ago, journalists Ilf and Petrov sailed to America on the ship "Normandy" - to denounce capitalism. A year later, they released a book in which a demonstrative fixation of vices and a carefully hidden, but still obvious respect for the achievements of another civilization were surprisingly intertwined.
They traveled almost all of America, I hooked only a tiny part. And today I want to tell at all about a grain of sand - a small town in the middle of an island in the state of New York. But single-storey America consists of such grains of sand - this was 80 years ago, this is how it is now. It is even surprising how little has changed since then.
Normal sunny winter day safe American town. The life of one street. Work and home. Food, binge and shopping. Alive and dead. And one mysterious castle.
Instead of joining
The first time I saw him was in the summer. I took a taxi from New York to the island - to my school. It was early morning. We turned off the freeway and entered a small town. Red brick, closed restaurants, silence. Rabbits were jumping on the lawns. I grabbed my phone and sent an SMS to Moscow: “I see rabbits !!”. To be honest, they impressed me as much as Times Square.
Over the months in New York, I have seen many of these towns. In the summer - with the Chinese woman Sally, who occupied all my weekend, trying to squeeze the maximum out of the Russian, who had come in large numbers, who was lucky for adventures. We left our car on the only street of the next town and went deep into the evening. Dine in a restaurant, dance in a bar, look at the locals. Go out to the ocean if there was an ocean next to the street.
I wandered down the street and thought what it was like to work in such a town? Know the majority of customers. Is here too, idle talk with a manicurist about the personal? However, in the "village" lives about 20 thousand people.
During my six months in the United States, I didn’t often come across American-born people in bars. A respectable lawyer with Italian roots in an expensive restaurant in Manhattan drank whiskey and was not very fond of talking. The owner of a small car service in a bar on the island - German dad, Italian mom - drank ale and discussed geopolitics with inspiration. A pick-up artist in a New York club (British parents) quickly drank vodka with friends. A cheerful kid in a hipster bar in Miami was playing a liter-ball with friends for something strong. I saw a bar where there is no longer any need to talk - on New Year's Eve. And if I were asked to summarize, I would say that in American bars they prefer beer - in bottles of zero three, in the presence of orderly rows with taps of delicious, slightly bitter draft ale. I don't understand this for sure.
“Healthy”, “Organic”, “Useful” - stores compete with fashionable signs. This town is quite rich. Here you can afford organic. I am sure that the big supermarket on the corner will put pressure on "nature."
Surprisingly, right at the entrance are gingerbread cookies.
And baking. You will not pass by.
It became interesting, honored composition. The composition took half of the package on the back. Margarine, sugar, palm oil, a long string of capital letters and numbers. I am not paranoid at all, but the cakes are taken to each other.
Went to the green - to admire. If confused with proper nutrition - not a question. Primordial greens:
Tomatoes - organic and not very.
Aunts from Downton Abbey.
For those who are too lazy to cook - ready.
When the supermarket - nook overlooking the street. You can have dinner without leaving the counter.
Much of the product is made in the USA. On the packages in large letters stated - a farmer such a syakoy. “Local” cheese, ham, yogurt. In the supermarket giant local I did not come across.
I pushed the door and entered. In this store it was impossible not to stare. From the very first window counter, I grabbed gloves. They were wonderful. She stood in front of a showcase with jewelry.
Went through a coat hanger with clothes. And only then I remembered the saleswoman. She was standing in the far corner, behind the cash register, talking animatedly about something with a girl with a child. I did not even notice how the girl entered. Because she entered through the back door - like all normal people in this town. The back doors are in shops, restaurants, banks. Because behind them - parking, which stretches parallel to the entire front of Seventh Street.
I stopped under the nose of the girl and the saleswoman - to pull the rings. They greeted, smiled, asked how my day was. I climbed into the box with slippers. It was a store where I liked everything. I spent there at least half an hour.
Behind the cabinet of the locker, I saw a brooch. I called the hostess:
- Can I see?
“What are you asking,” she laughed, “it's open there!
The first time I left with gloves. A week later, she came back again and bought slippers and a ring. The hostess greeted me like an old friend. Sit me in the fitting room to measure sneakers.
Wrapped shopping in a wonderful crispy paper, praised my English, the weather, my bag. And she nodded easily to me: “See you!”.
In this store, inexplicably pulled to buy. For some reason, it seemed to me that the little things from this store would bring me luck.
Here is the story of all locally significant wars, except that minus North and South. World War II, Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan.
First World, Korean.
The names of the villagers are carved on the monuments. On "Iraq and Afghanistan" - one. The Second World War has a huge list. The entire dark stone in the middle of the composition is dotted with names. Can't understand if so many villagers took part in the war?
Point six. House
"Residenzhel-part", the residential part of the city, is already completely deserted. The silence is broken only by the rustle of the tires of passing cars. Men work in their "business center", housewives do the cleaning. Vacuum cleaners hiss in one-story or two-story houses, furniture moves, the golden frames of photographs are wiped off ...
I went further, turned left - to the highway - and immediately understood everything. The school reigned on the dais.
But I was attracted by another - a little further along the highway. Abandoned, scary, of course, red brick. I stood at a traffic light and eagerly drove my eyes over it. It was only 10 minutes before the train, and I still had to run to the station.
The owner said that this building appeared here at the end of the 19th century. It once housed a boys' school. I am a master at presenting all sorts of nasty things, so I, as in reality, saw echoing night corridors, classrooms with lancet windows, boys locked in ancient basements. I was just about to write this post when I saw in the feed a story about such a school for boys in England. She even looked much the same. The author (if I allow, I will put a link), according to her husband, told how "a hefty teacher hung him out of the window by his feet and promised to let go of his hands next time." I can easily imagine. Out that window on the third floor, for example, right above the tree-top.
Now the school is boarded up. The hostess said, local authorities can not understand what to do with it. Repair is expensive, and they don’t want to give it to private hands.
I wanted so much to come closer, but I had to run. Someday, another time. Perhaps I will return to this town again, eat my lunch, go to my shop, buy a fruit salad at the pharmacy. Or maybe it will just remain in my memory. A small town of one-story America.