The Loiter Report

I want to be careful about what that means.

Went down to Pier 25 on a Tuesday because the office was unbearable and the Hudson, in late May, is doing its best work. The volleyball nets were up. The volleyball players were what you would expect: shirts off, sunscreen unevenly applied, taking the game extremely seriously in the way only people in their twenties can.

A girl from Brooklyn — I know this because she announced it twice, unprompted — was teaching her boyfriend how to set the ball. He kept apologizing. She kept laughing. I sat on a bench, did nothing for ninety minutes, and thought: this is a thing the city does correctly. Free pier, free volleyball, free Hudson, free June. A martini after costs eighteen dollars and that is the trade we have agreed to. I do not love it, but I understand it.

Five stars for the pier. Two for the martini.

A question for everyone in Williamsburg ordering the martini with three of them.

The spritz, in this city, has lost its plot. Once a thing you ordered because the day had earned it — sweat on your collarbone, the sun still indecent, a chair in the shade you had earned by sitting in it long enough — it is now something you order because it is on a menu and you have a phone to photograph it with. The result is the same orange beverage. The premise is gone.