Chelsea
S
As I hurtled toward New York City on a Greyhound bus, I’dimagined my destination would be a gleaming ultrachic high-riseor a brownstone ull o cousins, aunts, and uncles who wouldgather me into their arms, thrilled to discover the long-lostrelative they never knew they had. So the reality was a shock: ahulking windowless concrete block on the corner o Houston andBowery, painted a orbidding black. Tere wasn’t so much as adoorbell beside the locked ront door. Big jagged silver lettersspelled out . Whatever it was—a restaurant?a comedy club? a warehouse?—it looked about as welcoming as amaximum-security prison.I roze on the ront stoop, unsure o what to do next. Hadmy mother really grown up here? wo doors down a womanwith uorescent-yellow hair and a zebra-striped minidress was