The Only Living Boy in New York 4
One of my favorite New York traditions is planning and then ultimately failing to go to the San Gennaro parade in Little Italy. For the 4th year in a row, as September rolled around, I made a solemn vow to not miss this sausagey powder-sugar-coated extravaganza, as I did the year previous and the year before that, and so on. This year I even put reminders into my iPhone, or as I came to call it, my San Gennaro Feast Day Alert Device. But all to no end. The official parade was yesterday, and I was at home packing a bag to go to Nashville, visions of a roof hopping Don Corleone dancing in my head. I swear when I woke up this morning, I caught the faint smell of zeppole as it wafted from Mulberry street, but all I tasted was the salt of my own tears. Maybe next year, but probably not. Perdonimi, San Gennaro! Perdonimi, per favore!

One of my favorite New York traditions is planning and then ultimately failing to go to the San Gennaro parade in Little Italy. For the 4th year in a row, as September rolled around, I made a solemn vow to not miss this sausagey powder-sugar-coated extravaganza, as I did the year previous and the year before that, and so on. This year I even put reminders into my iPhone, or as I came to call it, my San Gennaro Feast Day Alert Device. But all to no end. The official parade was yesterday, and I was at home packing a bag to go to Nashville, visions of a roof hopping Don Corleone dancing in my head. I swear when I woke up this morning, I caught the faint smell of zeppole as it wafted from Mulberry street, but all I tasted was the salt of my own tears. Maybe next year, but probably not. Perdonimi, San Gennaro! Perdonimi, per favore!

20 September 2012 ·

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