On a wintry afternoon, Ilona and I took New Jersey transit on a slow (under the snowy conditions) train trek into New York. It was so cold that I wore my pajamas underneath my clothes, plus several hoodies and my black puffer jacket with the goofy faux fur hood.
The city was magical under a blanket of fallen snow.
“Biggie Smalls is from here,” I observed as we trudged through the snowy sidewalks of Brooklyn. “I saw him in concert the year before he died.”
Following suit, our phones died shortly after that comment, frozen from the Arctic temperatures rather than by enemy gunfire. We relied on the kindness of a stranger for directions to our host Eric’s destination in Clinton Hill, as it turns out not far from where Biggie had grown up. We arrived safely, warmed up, conversed and slept well, then awoke early the following morning for a Brooklyn diner-style breakfast at Mike’s Diner. A tour around the neighborhood, replete with murals devoted to the Notorious B.I.G. himself, made it clear that his presence still lingered in these parts. What a pleasure to be acquainted with him, if only in spirit.
“Realize that this body is just a vehicle for the soul — the real Self is immortal.” –The Sivananda Companion to Yoga