Friday night we went to bed around midnight, woke up at 2:30 a.m., got ready to leave, and headed out the door around 3:20, after getting the chickens into their pen (they were NOT happy about being woken at 3 a.m.).
After leaving home, we drove straight through, except for one rest stop, to New York City. As I said earlier, we got lost for a few minutes (45 to be more precise) because the AAA directions failed to mention the fact that we should NOT get off the route we were already on. We ended up going through construction, a detour, and a hundred road-raged drivers before I navigated the map and got us to where we needed to go.
It's interesting how people in NYC drive. We're from Maine and we didn't get killed... thanks to Lisa's quick driving skills.... but the drivers there have no rules, no holds-barred... except for one thing, that is. Which is quite interesting given the fact that up here in Maine, pedestrians have a hard time crossing the road....
Whereas, in NYC, drivers do NOT run red lights very often for fear of squashing a pedestrian. Because when that light turns red, pedestrians flood into the street along the crosswalk and if you are still driving 50 mph down that road, and you hit one, you, Ms./Mr. Driver, are in deep doo-doo.
Here in Maine, pedestrians walk out in front of rush-hour traffic, outside crosswalks, constantly jay-walking, never following the rules... but then again, sometimes they wait patiently at the crosswalk and drivers still never let them go across the road.
I actually felt safer walking in New York than I do around here...
So anyway, we finally get to the hotel, get our room which was supposed to have a queen bed, but apparently they think a full bed is close enough and that the stoooopid tourists won't notice.
It was a decent room overall, however, and we didn't want to complain after driving in the hectic traffic (which about gave me a freakin' heart attack), and because we needed to decipher the subway in order to make our matinee show on Broadway.
After a short rest (like five minutes short), we headed out to grab the hotel shuttle which took us to the closest subway station, the number 7 at 40th/Lowery St. The neighborhood there is very "ethnic" with Turkish restaurants, Hispanic cafes, and several neighborhood bars and grilles.
Me, never having been on the subway before, was a bit trepedatious at first, and it probably showed as I stood there, hanging from a bar, holding on for dear life as the subway driver slammed the breaks on just after speeding up to the maximum speed. I'm glad I didn't go flying across the subway car as this would have been most embarrassing. I suppose I did quite well for my first trip and no one gave me strange looks and Lisa never said a word.
My first trip on the subway car, though, gave me a new kind of joy when a small band of hispanic men arrived through the door and played music for us until the next stop. They were melodic and soothing and quaint, all three of them playing as though they did it in their sleep. I smiled at Lisa, she smiled back.
It was the beginnings of my falling in love with the city.
The subway itself is an interesting mode of travel... the subway cars are air conditioned (thank goodness!), however the subway stations are NOT. Imagine going underground three levels, under concrete, steel, hot air steaming from the hundreds of subway cars, plus all the heat emerging from the millions of people walking through the tunnels...
Needless to say, the subway stations are oppressively hot. The air is thick and dirty, making it hard to breathe in the dense stench. It was about 87 degrees that day, and very muggy, but one can only imagine what it might be like down in those tunnels on a day that tops out at 100 since the tunnels are approximately 20-25 degrees warmer underground.
The tunnels are interesting, though. Many of the old mosaic tiles are still there in several of the tunnels, with only a few of them being destroyed. One tunnel, Bryant Park, features white mosaic glass with golden tendrils of "tree roots" emerging from the ceilings as though the "non-existant" trees from above ground were still there. The roots glowed magnificently against the white mosaic glass, and even in the dim light of the subway tunnel, it was a beautiful sight, one which I wish I could have clicked off a few pictures of, but down there I was a bit shy about taking pictures.
I think the roots of the trees represented the magnificence of the city, golden and brilliant against the white cuts of glass, shining tantalizingly to the tired, bedraggled travelers who want desperately to get out of those tunnels and into the sunlight.
(for an idea of the subway art in Bryant Park and other places in the city, click here:
http://www.wirednewyork.com/forum/showthread.php?t=4392 )
Also, in this tunnel, is where I experienced another New Yorker who I actually thought about several times during my trip and each time we made our way into that tunnel during our travels, I thought about him, but never saw him again.
On our first journey through that tunnel, An Oriental gentleman, sat along one of the white walls with a bamboo flute, playing a sad, haunting song that followed the tunnels, echoing through them for thousands of feet. As we waited for our transfer subway car, I stood listening to those melodies, wishing I had stopped and given him money for giving me such a profound gift... he touched my soul and made such an impression on me that each time we went near the Bryant park subway station, I hoped he would be there so I could listen to him yet again.
As I came to find out, New York is filled with little things like that. With people like that. People who make the difference between New York City being a dirty, bustling, crowded, rude city of millions and the city being magical, energizing, and enlightening.
Most New Yorkers don't smile or laugh in public. I realized this after the first day or so there. Whenever we traveled the city I was met with thousands of long faces, tired faces, scared faces, lost faces, people looking away from everyone else, looking down, looking up, looking anywhere but at each other. People rarely talked to their neighbor, or even to their traveling companions.
On our last day, there was this mother with a child in a stroller nearby my seat on the subway, who was playing with her toddler, making him laugh hysterically. That is when I realized, I believe, that I hadn't heard the laughter of a child in three whole days.
I watched as the mother tickled her son, making him giggle with pure exalted glee, that sound which can only come from a young, innocent child.
It was heaven to my ears and I watched, smiling with joy until the mother noticed me, at which time she gave me a suspicious look and toned down her tickling of her son, until finally, she stopped and went back to reading her book.
I felt bad thinking I had interfered with this scene, but realized that it was one of many classic scenes in that city. Mothers who are extremely protective of their children, for fear of the strangers, muggers, pedophiles, and gang members... all of who have the potential of hurting, stealing, or otherwise traumatizing their child and/or them.
As I got up to leave the subway at the next stop I glanced back once more to the little boy strapped into that stroller and I will never forget that tiny smile of joy as he watched expectantly at his mother, waiting for her to start tickling him again.
Tiny moments of joy is what defines the city.
That is what every New Yorker is, deep down. Living moment to moment, searching for tiny moments of sunlight, small smiles, small joys that help define them, giving them energy to make it to the next day, to wake up and continue on.
This is also what helps define the sense of community among New Yorkers I believe. Because regardless of how suspicious, rude, cold, or tired, every New Yorker knows how everyone else feels, deep down, and when it comes right down to it, they will stick together.
September 11th proved that. If anything, it caused them to come together even closer, announcing to the world, "Don't fuck with our people!" as they sifted through the rubble in an outrage, refusing to leave the city, simply wiping their faces in rage, only to dive back in, refusing to put out that glimmer of hope of finding someone else buried alive under those buildings.
You have to respect that in a city that size. And I don't think I realized what it meant to be a New Yorker until I looked around those subway cars each day.
Being a New Yorker meant having hope.
Hope for another smile. Another glimpse of shimmering mosaic glass. Another scent of a freshly cooked pretzel wafting from the street corner. Hope for another awe-inspiring glance at the Empire State Building as they walk to work. For another seat at a Broadway show. For another taste of New York style pizza. For another chance to make a dream come true...
