A Late-Summer Arrival in New York

John Cassidy’s surprise-filled first days in Manhattan. View in browser | Update your preferences John Cassidy How I Came to New York I was twenty-one when I arrived in America—and thought I knew everything. By John Cassidy When the future New Yorker staff writer John Cassidy arrived in the U.S. from England, in August of 1984, he was shocked by the scale—of the sandwiches. “Back in Blighty,” Cassidy later recalled, “when you purchased a sandwich, you got handed two pieces of buttered white bread with a thin slice of ham or turkey between them. If you were lucky, there might also be a slice of tomato or cheese.” At a Manhattan deli, by contrast, the offerings constituted “a galaxy of choices”: meats, cheeses, and condiments galore. A side order of surly customer service was thrown in for free. The surprises extended beyond the sandwich counter, but we won’t spoil them here. Forty years after Cassidy landed in America, he has acclimated to the city and is nearing the end of his third decade at the magazine. We wish him and New York City a happy anniversary, and a restful, enjoyable Labor Day to you. Read the story If you know someone who would enjoy Classics, please share it. Was this newsletter forwarded to you? Sign up. Also from the Archive Work for Hire The Best, If Worst-Paid, Job I Ever Had From 2016: What you learn when your work involves posing naked while circled by twenty people whose gazes are intently focussed on your body. By Tom McCarthy On the Job The Work You Do, the Person You Are From 2017: The pleasure of being necessary to my parents was profound. I was not like the children in folktales: burdensome mouths to feed. By Toni Morrison More from The New Yorker Annals of Inquiry Why So Many People Are Going “No Contact” with Their Parents A growing movement wants to destigmatize severing ties. Is it a much-needed corrective, or a worrisome change in family relations? By Anna Russell Annals of Disaster Real-Estate Shopping for the Apocalypse Thirty-nine per cent of Americans believe that we’re living in end times, and the market for underground hideouts is heating up. By Patricia Marx Today’s newsletter was written by Nathan Burstein. What did you think of today’s newsletter? Let us know. If you like Classics, browse more New Yorker newsletters. You’re receiving this e-mail because you signed up for the New Yorker Classics newsletter. Manage your preferences | View our Privacy Policy | Unsubscribe The New Yorker may earn a portion of sales from the products and services that are purchased through links in our newsletters as part of our affiliate partnerships with retailers. Copyright © Condé Nast 2024. One World Trade Center, New York, NY 10007. All rights reserved.