I enter Paterson over the Broadway hill past Eastside Park, where as a kid I biked on clear days, turning to gaze at the Manhattan skyline a dozen miles away. The park is where I caught fireflies in a jar on hot summer nights and belly-flopped on a sled on cold winter afternoons, where I sold sodas to picnickers on Sundays and once tried out, unsuccessfully, for the high school baseball team. Read more
Memoir of Arab-American Life In The 1930s by Fred M. Saidy.I have just returned in weary triumph from Mrs. Nazrallah's candy and pastry shop on Hollywood Boulevard, where by dint of careful diplomacy I succeeded in buying five pounds of baklava. Baklava is not what it sounds like, the name of a central European village where a war broke out at one time or another, but a Syrian pastry, which - if it could be distributed to the armies of the world - would probably end war all together.(click here to read the entire article)