Ah, the New York summer.

You know the idyllic image you have in mind of a sweating, seething Harlem with fire hydrants all a-flowing and kids gleefully playing in the deluge? You know the one. I know its nature— composed of a gracious memory and glorified assumption, small and deep set, it is a little kernel in some summer-nostalgia corner of your brain. Nestled, safe. Warm.

Well, two days without water in my apartment has made me keenly aware that the little heathens are stealing our water— or, rather, the water pressure the pipes need to function. It is 100 degrees and I have no running water. Think about it.

Even so.

When I trudged out there this evening, juggling pitchers and bottles to fill, I got soaked by mere splashes of the torrential stream; everyone was laughing and yelping, screaming and dancing, and it felt really, really nice. There was a tomato sandwich and some blueberries in a little tea cup waiting upstairs for me. Bruce Springsteen playing on my speakers in my little room. And for a minute I felt clean and cool and wasn’t worried about anything.