Guide Queens Dont Stand on the Corner

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Had a good time. We're so happy you guys were able to enjoy a bit of gambling with us even in a crowded casino. Las Vegas. Profile JOIN. Log in to get trip updates and message other travelers. One of the four corners - Four Queens Casino. Four Queens Casino. One of the four corners. Review of Four Queens Casino. Date of experience: December Ask nicthegreek about Four Queens Casino.

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Don't You Know Queens Don't Stand on the Corner

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Review tags are currently only available for English language reviews. Selected filters. Updating list Paradoxically, intimacy is harder to find on a walk.

The rhythm of running makes it easier to talk about what gets in the way. I had a few partners I ran with during the years I lived in New York; they knew me better than my friends did. We ran past people working in the community garden just south of 95th, and saw crocus and daffodil shoots, then summer palettes of flowers, complicate the bare ground. To our left, before the tunnel under the West Side Highway, Roman arches were cut into a cliff and covered with metal grates.

I never knew what was inside those caves. Once, at dusk — my favorite time outside — I was running with a gay friend and we saw flickerings beyond the grates. He explained to me that those were not fireflies. People clicked on lighters, he told me, to let other people know they were there. This was just before the time of AIDS. Running collapsed distance and made the city feel manageable, even small, beyond the traffic and subway noise. We met at the beginning of each day, if briefly, to trade the anxiety of a life still in progress for a sense of freedom, speed and possibility.

Nothing felt right when I opened the door to our apartment that evening.

Don't You Know Queens Don't Stand on the Corner

The lights had been turned down, and the steady current of contentment that ran daily through the place seemed muted by some invisible dimmer. Candles flickered everywhere, wicking away at some truth in the air. He stirred and slowly crouched forward, looking pained and unnatural, like a mannequin trying to sit. He babbled something about how lucky he was to have me, and then began to confess:. There was an instant muffle of all sound and senses, an audible snuff to the candles.

Everything halted, hung in the air awaiting further clarity. I had the disoriented but absolute conviction that I was getting the story line terribly wrong. You had it early, before you got serious or hurt or infected or whatever it was that was coming to you. We argued, we failed to find sense and soon I was out on the streets, with no mission but to get as far away from that apartment as I could. I was new to the city, had few friends here and hardly knew my way around. How could I tell them that my first serious gay relationship had ended in tears and viruses?

So I walked in a dull stupor. I made my way from our apartment on 17th and Irving Place down to Union Square, where the park was alive with purpose. Skateboarders, drunks, a man yelling about the tyranny of skateboarders and drunks. I sat on a bony green bench as the last light faded away and let the shock run through me. I stopped at a pay phone on the north side and called my best friend in California. He told me not to panic or spend time rushing to my worst fears. Did I have money for a hotel?

I did not. I headed down University to Washington Square, sticking at first to the public comfort of parks. Soon I was spending every night with him, hanging out with new friends, introducing him to my parents, a first. So I gave in to it, another first. Walking became a kind of somatic therapy that night.

It was the grid of New York that kept me going. I wanted to feel it under my feet. To know it. If you are lost, wandering, there is something fixed and unyielding about the layout of New York streets that is comforting, that does not require you to have bearings. You can walk it and learn it, learn to know it, as you go. I walked every inch of what I thought of as Greenwich Village — not the West or East Village, Greenwich: across 13th to Seventh, back around 12th to University, then to 11th, back and forth, east to west, again and again, as I moved south, sticking close to the grid, like a lab rat hugging the sides of his maze.

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And I was testing the city. There was a moment — actually, it was hours — when I convinced myself: This is it. New York is over for me.

I tried it. I walked most of that night, staying up into the wee hours, tracing and retracing my steps, stopping once at the French Roast cafe on 11th Street at 2 or 3 a.

Don't You KnowQueens Don't Stand on the Corner? by Diana L. Carpenter

I remember people staring in through the glass, surprised to find another person still awake to their misery or lost in the consolation of a bottomless cup. A while back — it feels like yesterday, but it was a few years ago now — my doctor called me back very quickly after I had left a message and told me to get to the emergency room, right away.

I needed a spotter. My landlord was there; he is always mostly there.

The Queen's Croquet-Ground

But now it was slow and, as I remember it, magnified. I still see us making the turn, he with his hands in his pockets, his body language concerned, I a knot of anxiety, my chest constricting, my legs disappearing. I remember holding on to his metal gate with my still-good hand as I waited for him. Starting down the block, a long block, with a church that had recently been struck by lightning at the end, a man killed by fallen debris.

The street dips down a little, where an old stream entered the harbor, and then it runs up through what used to be a farm, to the hospital that was, coincidentally, on high ground. Sandy had hit just a few weeks earlier, and I had been thinking about things like year flood zones, the extent of disasters. I was in there for a week. I did walk home, even more slowly, this time with my wife and son. A few weeks later, I would walk on my own, though differently, of course.