Midtown’s central maw is avoided by most New Yorkers for the crowds, ads, and tourist traps.
And, almost everyone there is taking pictures. Most are tourists standing in front of the Port Authority Bus Terminal and blocking sidewalk traffic, but photographers too.
Leicas are tightly strapped to the wrists of men with leather gloves and pocket squares.
I am also taking pictures.
A Chevy Avalanche sits along the road north of Lebel-Sur-Quevillon in French Quebec. The forests have disappeared, wide open spaces sprawl into a marshy green and low trees.
A large man waves his arms by the Chevy. My car squeaks along and shudders as I begin easing onto the brakes. I end up passing him but see him waving his arms over his head desperately from the middle of the road in my rearview mirror.
I turn around and turn my window down one stiff crank at a time. He walks up to my car and I’m a little surprised when my English lands.
“Are you alright?”
“Uh, yeah, do you have a smoke?” he replies.
