Boston strikes a low blow against NYC

After this weekend, I've come to realize the true culprit of the ongoing feud between Bostonians and New Yorkers. It's not that we've destroyed the Yankees' hope of a World Series the past couple years; it's not basic East Coast rivalry. In fact, it's not lingering thoughts of the curse of the Bambino.

It's the curse of the Indian food.

After (no lie), a 5.5 hour bridal shower in an upper East Side apartment in Manhattan, and 4 full days of rest (which I readily admit my knee still needed), I was ready to RUN. After the Indian food of the night before, with dire consequences. Here is my letter of apology:

Dear surly Pizza Nova owner or worker,

I must apologize for what surely seems to you to be an unforgivable breach of manners. I am, of course, referring to the atrocity of your toilet. What happened was this:

A resident of Boston (though I harbor no ill will toward you and yours, in baseball or any other arena) and a runner training for the marathon in less than a month, I found myself in Manhattan this past Saturday. Coming off a lengthy rest on behalf of a stiff knee, I was, needless to say, ready to hit the promenade for a lengthy run along the Hudson.

An hour into said run, I started to feel the effects of the previous evening's Indian food. I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say that, while delicious, that particular cuisine is not one I'll be partaking the night before a run again.

When I happened across your pizzeria, I had already bolted (ok, it was more like a running hunchback who'd been shot in the ass at that point) into a grocery store, where the cruel and merciless clerk had refused me the use of his restroom. When I dashed (see previous parenthetical) into your pizzeria, and asked, with a surely panicked look in my eyes, to use your restroom, you merely grunted and gestured with floury hands toward a tiny and dank (and obviously employee only) toilet in the back. You appeared a sweet and benevolent god in those moments.

I repaid your kindess and generosity with a horrible parting gift, but how was I to know the toilet wouldn't flush? In a moment of panic, I did the only thing I could think of, what I do best...and ran.

Fled, more accurately. Thanks for your kindness to a stranger, sir, and I apologize from the bottom of my heart.

My red-sox hatted and jacketed heart.

Sincerely,
Abigail