As promised

Well, sleeping on it has provided some clarity. My story is neither particularly profound nor filled with sweeping implications. Basically, it was me at my random, Kramerian best.

Over the past couple weeks, I've been talking with a guy who works at the deli near my office. He's in this country to become a pharmacist. Or, more accurately, he's been in this country to become an American pharmacist. He's already a pharmacist back home in Egypt. He's smart and goofy, and clearly feeling the strain a bit, as any of you would if you had to work in a 24-hour deli in Alexandria, Egypt, despite your professional credentials. (I did see him once help a bus driver select the right kind of cold medicine once.)

Anyway, he's leaving this week to return to Egypt and his fiancee. His visa is up. He's hoping to be able to come back and complete the tests he needs to be a certified pharmacist here. He pointed out that U.S. immigration authorities aren't exactly rolling out the red carpet for young men from Arab nations.

Anyway, the reason I didn't want to write about this last night is not because of some emotional burden, but because I didn't want to sound like either Carrie Bradshaw or Thomas Friedman, both people who generally make me roll my eyes. In fact, as I typed this, a commercial for Sex and the City just came on.

And despite our seeming embrace of such silly bullshit, people are still willing to come here and work long mind-numbing hours ringing a cash register while they get their professional certification settled. All the time dealing with immigration obstacles, small-minded idiots who favor racial profiling and the general agita of living in New York city on whatever one takes home working at a 24-hour deli.

Personally, I can't imagine doing it.