The story of me Part 4

Continued from here. Don’t be lazy pants and read all previous sections first.

We landed. Due to previously intelligently conducted arrangements, we had some people that were meeting us at the airport. These were not relatives, nor acquaintances but some people from my mom’s hometown that migrated to New York some years back, were identified by some word of mouth, haunted down and asked for help. For whatever strange reason they agreed. However, now I know that once an immigrant it will become your automatic duty to assist all the new arrivals. I’m letting you in on secret local, native-born residents. That’s how we survive. So, if you want to stop immigration, you would need to cut off the source of assistance, which would be impossible because we’re already here. Na nan a na na.

 

Anyhow, not only these people met us but they acted excited to see us. And we acted excited to see them. We were probably just excited in the general type of sense, sort of we made it this far, and they just happened to be the physical objects on which these emotions could be laid on. But we started hugging each other and slapping one another on the back. After we got that out of the system, we hopped into a yellow cab. Drove some distance away from Manhattan. This was nighttime already and I only saw some vaguely glimmering lights. Was told that is New York. Became somewhat skeptical of this whole moving to America thing and for a good reason. Because then we arrived to Brooklyn. Now, nobody shows you this shit in the movies. Or maybe they do and I just never paid attention to that part, but I was expecting high-rises obviously. In my understanding the whole city consisted of them. And then we unloaded in Bensonhurst…and four-story buildings were the best I would see for a while. Seriously. I decided to deal with this misunderstanding later. Here’s a fittingly depressing, actual view from my window.20150721_202356

 

I’ll skip the part of how, but by the time we arrived we had a rented apartment waiting for us. Wait for it. A two-bedroom one. Now, recall form before up until 13 I was used to living in a studio with all the immediate members of my family, and some. This was an incredible twist of events. I think for that moment I started believing in God, miracles, and unicorns. My sister and I got a separate room with an absent door that could be visible form living room at all times, but still. We each got our own bed. Now, don’t cry for me Argentina but we shared a bed with my sister up until that point. Eww, I know. There are people that poor. So having own bed and somewhat private premises was pretty fucking awesome.

To be continued.

 

P.S. I think I got one of them air-conditioning colds. Which sucks and makes you feel there is no justice in the world. I’m probably being a tad too dramatic.

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