Yesterday in the afternoon, Dutch Street smelled like weed when I stepped in. Three twenty-somethings were sharing a joint under the scaffolding covering half the alleyway. Two guys are talking excitedly and a girl stands with her head thrown back and her eyes closed. The guys stop talking and eye me languidly as I pass by. The girl does not stir. I emerge onto the bright and busy Fulton. A Hasidic jew with chin-length sidelocks is pushing a black bugaboo stroller down the street, his wife trailing... read more
