Staten Island is my Ellis Island. I carry with me all my belongings. The ferry is my steamship. I am excited and nervous about the new world.
Of course, almost none of this is true.
The ferry is now for the always-awake, the partygoers, and still, against all odds, at least one tour group.
And one older Asian guy puking his guts out in a trash can at the Manhattan terminal (red wine, I'm guessing).
And now: corned beef. I'm eating, I mean.