Sunday was the Dominican Parade here in NYC. It was cloudy, but everyone was having a good time…especially the cops who seemed to be enjoying the ladies. Being Dominican doesn’t always mean big butts, platano, and salami. Here’s some photos from a trip I took with my Grandmother back to the Island. I’ll only give some words for the first one. One Sunday I had to go to church with my Grandmother, of course. There she saw this guy that she thought she had worked at her father’s jewelry shop…turns out they didn’t know each other. However, this man was the architect who worked on the Hotel we stayed in which was constructed on the land where her house use to be before she left the Dominican Republic at age 14. As they spoke more we learned that this man had married his wife at a church in our neighborhood (and no I’m not talking about Washington Heights). The world always grows smaller and smaller.