Summer mornings always dawned early. With no more reporters harassing him, Schiller had finally escaped his unhealthy day-night reversal and returned to a healthier routine. He woke almost as soon as the sky began to brighten.
But he had not woken because of the daylight. Obviously, Pikachu was yelling loudly downstairs again.
Schiller walked to the window and pulled it open, catching a rich scent of fresh grass. New York Central Park outside seemed to be having its lawns trimmed, the hum of lawnmowers incessant. The swans on the lake clambered ashore from the other side rather awkwardly and, under the keeper's direction, hurried into the shade of the trees across the way.
New York Central Park was enormous. Even from the ninth floor, the skyscrapers on the distant skyline were almost nowhere to be seen. As far as the eye could see was green forest; one could actually experience the feeling of living in a country villa in Manhattan. Schiller was beginning to see why the land here was so expensive.
Schiller went to the other side and took down his schedule list—everything he had written last night that needed doing today. The most important task was grocery shopping. Aside from buying office supplies, he also needed to prepare for Steve's birthday party.
Traditional American gatherings required everyone to bring a dish. Depending on the ethnicities and number of people attending, they brought different kinds and quantities of food. Most people chose signature dishes from their own ethnic backgrounds: Black people brought African food, most Latinos brought Mexican food, Chinese people brought Chinese food, while white people were more likely to bring alcohol, drinks, or takeout.
Schiller had been here for over a decade. In his observation, Americans were particularly bad at cooking. They had no coherent cuisine of