In a New York Minute

Here's the thing:  anybody craving a donut in New York doesn't have to walk far to find a bakery.  There are donuts on nearly even street corner.  Bakeries--particularly bagel factories--are as plentiful as fleas.

Every morning, during our stay at the hotel Pennsylvania, my wife and I would rise early enough to beat the crowds to the "free" continental breakfast fare at the hotel coffee shop.  We were not disappointed. 

In addition to some fine New York-style coffee (which we both enjoyed immensely) we were impressed by the fresh donuts and pastries we could select.  I grew to love the cheese danish . . . and I'm sure these arrived fresh each morning from a local bakery, probably located around the corner.

The great thing about eating donuts in New York--particularly if one is a tourist--is that even the stingiest metabolisms are no match for the amount of energy required to traverse the subway or press forward through the masses on the sidewalks.  A tourist must walk for miles--and be willing to endure pain, hardship, humiliation, and the occasional drunk or panhandler or pick-pocket, in order to arrive at the new destination.

Donuts are not a wimpy fare in New York, but a necessity.  One must have calories to burn, carbs to fuel up the heavy pace of a day filled with stifling noise, obscenities, irate cabbies, and the energies required to stand in long lines for hours in the scorching sun. 

Donuts are not for wimps.  That's why I eat them: to remind myself that real men eat dough and frequently dunk.  It's not about gaining weight.  In New York it's about clinging to one's sanity.