The day before the fourth of July, I went on a walk in Prospect Park with a friend and we got caught in a thunderstorm. Totally romantic — if it had been “The Notebook” and she’d been Ryan Gosling. But story of my life is getting caught in romantic situations with awesome girlfriends for whom I have no romantic feelings. Anyway. It was one of those rain showers where you have no umbrella or other defenses so you just have to accept that you are going to get soaked and revel in it as best you can and laugh a lot as other people who’ve properly anticipated the weather pass you by and shake their heads.
So we walked around in the rain for 40 minutes and then Yelped a BYOB Turkish restaurant nearby and towed along wine and soggy clothes and runny mascara to go sit in a garden under Turkish bazaar-like drapes on plastic lawn chairs and dig into grape leaves while the three New Zealand tourists next to us marveled at seeing their first firefly. And on the way there, the sky opened up and I saw the first rainbow (double actually) I’ve seen in New York, right over a giant American flag. It seemed right.