It’s 21 degrees outside, one of the coldest evenings of the year, and a frigid wind is whipping up Bleecker Street, scattering trash and making black plastic bags fly through the air like witches.
Oh! City of wonders: There in the window of Pinkberry’s late this Sunday evening sits a trio of friends, and they’re wolfing down the frozen yogurt.
Maybe they’re like takers of homeopathic medicines, irritating their bowels with cold yogurt to gird themselves for the even-colder outdoors. But what strikes me as I tack back and forth in the fierce wind, is how happy Edward Hopper would have been painting this bleak winter apparition.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on January 25, 2009