Bus Rides and Long Walks

Traveling always makes me nervous. I don’t get too worked up over the bit about walking around in unfamiliar territory and getting lost or possibly mugged — well, not too bad anyway. The elements of travel that freak me out are the logistical procedures of getting to and from a destination. The process of getting tickets and boarding a plane, train, or bus and all the baggage, literally and figuratively, that comes with it can easily throw me into a fit of irrational anxiety. I had a confirmed airline ticket out of La Guardia at eight o’clock in the morning. The ticket was purchased a week prior though Orbitz and all I had to confirm that I was indeed allowed to board the plane was an email that TJ printed out for me at school. I was going to have to drag my gargantuan suitcase on wheels to the corner and catch a cab for the first time, figure out where to go in the terminal to get my actual ticket, pay the luggage charge, deal with the TSA process, transfer in Dallas, and then find my mother at the San Antonio Airport. You would think that I would be excited about going home, and I was, but the little details of this return trip were making me jittery. How did I handle it? I got a huge head start.

It was ten ’til 5 when I woke up Thursday morning, The apartment was silent and cold. My roommates on the East Village communion were all unconscious in their beds as I tiptoed to and from the bathroom. Fortunately, I had packed — for the most part — and said my goodbyes the night before. I took a quick shower then stood at the sink, looking at myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. The scruffy, half-asleep face shook his head and laughed. “Can you believe it? You were unhappy in a seemingly wonderful corporate job, surrounded by incredibly supportive people and protected by cushy benefits while you felt stuck and dreamed of the big cities trying to figure out where you were supposed to be and what you were supposed to do… Ignoring conventional wisdom and taking a leap of faith, you: broke your detrimental habit of being too future-focused in order to be “in the moment,” left your job, withdrew from your MBA program, broke your lease, contacted acquaintances that later became great friends in the cities that you alway wanted to see, jumped out of an airplane, boarded a bus, went through Chicago, hopped on a train for the first time, and then wandered around New York City for two weeks. You figured out where you home and heart truly lie. You figured out what you want to be when you grow up and found the little family that you want share your future with. You are going home to people that love and support you. Right now, you are the luckiest man in the world.” I smiled because I knew that he was right.

A quiet excitement bubbled inside me as I quietly dressed. It occurred to me that I had probably gotten up a little too early, so I began checking and re-checking the bathroom, living room, and kitchen areas of the apartment for items I might have forgotten to pack. Around 5:40 or so I crept into TJ’s room and quietly told her goodbye and not to forget to pack for her DC trip before work, as she requested the night before. She raised her head slowly and looked at me with one eye opened. She smiled a sleepy smile and motioned for me to give her a hug. I hugged and thanked her for everything and she wished me a safe flight as I headed toward the door. My oversized suitcase on wheels felt heavy as I rolled it into the hallway outside of the apartment. I propped the door open with my foot and looked nostalgically at my New York safe-haven for one last time. The hallway light swept across the dark apartment interior as I let the door slowly swing closed. Click.

Outside, the blue-black morning was somehow comforting as I wheeled my suitcase to the corner of 12th and Avenue A. I was going home — for real. It felt weird to actually be hailing a cab. I had avoided this process during the trip in order to save money and was now laughing at how hard I was making it. It was too dark to see if the passing cabs “on duty” lights were on, so I timidly raised my hand halfway in the air. Right away, a yellow taxi on the opposite side of the road busted a u-turn and screeched in front of me to scoop me up. The vehicle’s action had all the frantic immediacy of a seagull bolting after a piece of bread tossed into the air. I laughed and went to the back of the cab to load my suitcase in the trunk. The driver got out to help, but I moved too fast for him. He returned to the wheel as I tossed my backpack into the backseat. “Hi,” I said settling into the seat, “I need to get to La Guardia.” The driver looked me over and said, “Okay… I’ll save ya the $4.50, right?” The Puerto Rican man in his late fifties asked. For some reason, my gut reaction was to hold onto my, “I’m not from out-of-town” facade and respond, “Yeah, that sounds good,” although I had no idea what he was talking about. It only took about thirty seconds for me to decide to give up the act. “What did you mean by ‘save the $4.50?’” The cabbie smiled. “Williamsburg!” he laughed. I guess going over the Williamsburg Bridge was a cheaper alternative to getting to the airport. I liked this guy already.

I took a few minutes to survey the cab’s interior. The backseat was a tough, black faux-leather that was comfortable and, I imagined, easy to clean. I thought of Robert De Niro as Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver talking about returning to the garage every morning after a long night of fares and having to clean off the bodily fluids from the backseat. The inside of this cab was way nicer than the one that Scorsese had DeNiro drive around. In front of me was a television screen on the back of the front seat, just below the plexiglass divider that separated me from the driver. Some political pundit gasbag was shouting his snarky comments in my face so I decided to ignore the television and engage the driver. “How long have you been a taxi driver?” I asked. “Ahhh,” he shifted his weight to a more comfortable position as if he had been waiting for me to ask him his life story since I got in the cab. “I been doin this for about thirty years. I’ve lived in New York for fifty, but I been in the cabs for thirty.” His salt and pepper mustache curled upward when he smiled. It was clear that he loved his job. He had been working all night and was glad that I was his last fare before heading home. Running to the airport in the morning was soothing to him. I guess the flow of the FDR was better than the constant stop and start of driving in the city. “I live in Queens and I was able to get all my kids through college,” he continued in his thick accent, “this city has changed so much in that time…I remember parts of the city were really dirty and you had to watch yourself even just going to the store. People would wanna rob you any chance they could. But, nowadays, its pretty nice. You just stay sharp and keep outta the bad areas at night, then you’re okay. Man, the rents back then though — so much cheap-ah’” I had opened a floodgate and couldn’t be happier to listen to this man explain the evolution of the city as he saw it from behind the wheel of a cab. Before I knew it, we were at the airport. “Thank you so much,” I said. “I really appreciate the conversation. My name is Spencer.” He smiled and introduced himself as Alex. “Thank you for riding wit me and good luck on your trip.” Without realizing it, Alex had drastically calmed my travel anxiety.

La Guardia was a madhouse. I had my Orbitz printout, but I still needed to get actual tickets before proceeding to security and making my way to the gate. The American Airlines area was jammed full of people and electronic kiosks. Alex’s help with my jittery state was almost completely wiped out within two seconds. Do I use these kiosks then go up to the counter? If I go through the line and haven’t followed the process correctly, will I have to start all over again? Why are some people using the kiosks while others aren’t? Will my bag be too heavy like it was at the Amtrak counter in Chicago? Why did that lady go through the kiosk process and leave the tickets that printed out? I was really confused by the whole thing and decided that I would brave the line and find out the hard way instead of losing my spot and gambling with one of the kiosks. “Next!” a woman shouted angrily as I stepped up to the counter. She appeared to be in her late forties and was, presumably, from Long Island based on her accent. She wore with thick make-up and her eyebrows spoke as loudly as she did. “This woman is going to eat me alive,” I thought. “Where you goin’, sweetheart?” she asked sweetly between gum smacks. I was completely thrown by her change in disposition. “I’m going to San Antonio and, uh, I’m really sorry, but I, uh, didn’t know if I was supposed to use those kiosks out there or not.” I stammered while trying my best to flash a boyishly charming smile. “Oh, its okay sweetie. You were supposed to but I can just go ahead and take care of it for you. I just need you to pay the baggage fee and roll your suitcase over to that man over there.” She motioned to a large man sorting luggage in a pen near the line I was in previously. “You’re all done, baby. Have a great flight, okay?” I smiled again and thanked her for all of her help. I wanted to jump over the counter and hug her for being so nice. As I walked over to the baggage guy, I was struck by how judgmental I had been with her. I didn’t know a thing about that lady and I immediately labeled her an angry old woman based on superficial evidence. I always tried my best to steer clear of that line of thinking and the trip had developed my ability to be more open-minded, but it was obvious that I still needed improvement. Scolding myself in my mind, I dropped off the rolling monstrosity and headed to security.

The line at the security checkpoint actually moved pretty quickly — for airline security, that is. The TSA offers yelled at the crowd of travelers and instructed everyone to remove their keys, cell phones, belts, etc… as we stepped up to the metal detectors. I took out Mom’s laptop and placed it on the conveyor belt next to my bag and personal items per the sign near the x-ray machines. No one was happy. I remembered  TJ and I discussing the circles and rings of Hell in Dante’s Inferno a couples of days beforehand. I laughed as I imagined the security lines at the airport being one of the more minor areas of Satan’s domain with all the furrowed brows and gnashing of teeth that I saw. This could be the holding area somewhere between Hell’s gates and “Limbo.” The place where the Damned know they have no choice but to go through the strict, tedious process and sometimes suffer the embarrassment of their pants falling or exposing their smelly feet before reaching their final destination. I made it through the machine without a sound and held my pants up as I waited for my bag and the laptop. The woman at the monitor slowly looked at the computer I had placed on the belt for what felt like hours. Was I to be made some sort of  example of by these demonic gatekeepers? Would I be asked to, “Come with them” and then be whisked off to a dark room somewhere because the x-ray machine mistook a MacBook for a weapon of mass destruction? Not this time. The woman at the monitor moved the conveyor forward and I collected my belongings. While I caught my breath and slipped into my shoes, I noticed the man behind me holding his breath. The lady at the monitor called over another TSA agent and pointed at the screen. They both fixed their gaze at the man behind me. I shook my head sympathetically as I briskly walked away and heard someone ask him, “Sir, can you come over here please?” Poor guy.

I felt relieved as I sunk into a grey chair in front of my gate. A few more minutes and I would be on my way to Dallas. As soon as I opened my book and leaned back, the terminal intercom cracked loudly overhead. “Spencer Sloan to the flight counter please. Spencer Sloan to the flight counter.” What? Did they really ask for me? My paranoia must have escalated after the security station. Surely, they weren’t looking for me. What could they possibly want? I had just let my nerves settle and now the airline was looking for me. Did I do something wrong? Was I getting bumped? Did TSA decide that they let me go in error? I reluctantly walked up to the ticket counter and decided to ward off these paranoid thoughts by confidently announcing to the woman,” I’m Spencer Sloan.” She smiled and said that there was a family that needed to sit together and would I mind moving to a different seat. “Of course not.” I said happily and somewhat triumphantly, For some reason I had gone from neurotic, nervous Woody Allen guy to confident over-the-top cheesy, superhero wannabe. She printed up the ticket for a different seat and thanked me for my cooperation. She then announced that TSA would be doing random screenings as we boarded the plane and to have our ID’s and boarding passes ready. Woody Allen took over again. Of course, they would stop me — the bearded, mildly tan/sunburned disheveled looking guy with a backpack on. Like clockwork, they picked me out of the line and I flashed my “at the ready” driver’s license and boarding pass. “Take that, TSA. You’re not keeping me from getting home today. No Sir, not today!” I declared victoriously in my head.

Once the plane started to taxi, I was in a frenzy. The flight would be nothing compared to the train and bus rides I had taken throughout the trip, but my desire to get home stretched time to an excruciating crawl. I could not get comfortable enough to sleep. I was too excited. A young twenty-something woman began telling the two older ladies in her row about her experience in the city. “Well, I’ve been here for a few months and I’m going home to celebrating July 4th with my family. We’re going to meet up in Dallas and then drive to San Antonio.” My ears perked up when I heard my hometown mentioned. “What do you do, Dear?” one of the two other women asked her. “I’m a buyer for Macy’s, but I may be moving soon. My boyfriend works for Target and runs a store in Atlanta. I’m not sure where we’re going to end up.” My eyes widened. I knew this girl’s boyfriend. At least, I thought this situation sounded exactly like the one Clint explained about his brother’s girlfriend a month ago. She went onto to talk about her boyfriend and his family in San Antonio. When she mentioned that her significant other’s parents owned a couple of Cold Stone Creameries; I knew she was Brandon’s girlfriend for sure. I was physically in an awkward position and could not turn around to interject or say that I knew who she was, but I also couldn’t let such a “small world” moment pass. Once we landed in Dallas, I took my seat belt off and leaned over the back of the seat. “Excuse me,” I said confidently, “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation as we were leaving New York. My name is Spencer and your boyfriend is a friend of mine.” A huge smile lit up her face and the women next to her gasped excitedly. “Yeah, I’m actually really close to his older brother and I wasn’t sure if you were talking about them until you mentioned Cold Stone…That totally clenched it.” We all laughed and she introduced herself as Tara. Tara gave me the latest on Brandon and how he was doing. I asked her to pass on a hello for me and turned to exit the plane. “How unusual was that?” I thought. One row behind me? It never would have happened if that family didn’t need my original seat.

The Dallas layover went by quickly as I watched a news story about a New York man that decided to take all of his clothes off during a recent flight. The captain had to make an emergency landing to boot the guy off the plane because he refused to put his clothes back on. I wondered what caused people to do things like that and laughed at the thought of being one of the passengers that got to witness that situation. After the laugh over the naked man, I was on the quick forty minute flight to San Antonio. The plane pointed skyward, became horizontal for two minutes, then pointed back at the ground. Before I knew it, I was relishing the sticky humidity that crept in through the gaps of the accordion walkway between the plane and the terminal of the San Antonio International Airport.

Mom was already driving in circles outside as I went over to the baggage claim area. I was relieved to be in familiar territory. I was that much closer to seeing Rachael, her boys, my mom, and all of my friends and family. Terminal 2 was undergoing radical construction and, after a few minutes of maze navigation and cell phone ping-pong, I met Mom on the busy, makeshift  loading/unloading area outside. She and Nana were there to greet me and jumped out of the car as I loaded my suitcase into the trunk. Cars whizzed by as I hugged them both quickly. We hopped back in the car and joined the steady stream of passing vehicles leaving the airport. “So,” Mom began, “welcome back! It’s so good to see you. You look so skinny! You look so happy! Your beard is getting long! Oh, Rachael is going to be so surprised to see you.” Her excited, rapid-fire speech made me grin as we drove down the highway to meet my aunt for lunch. I was exhausted, but it felt so good to be home.

After a nice lunch and catching up with Aunt Tina, Nana, and my Mom, we parted ways and Mom drove me to Alamo Cafe. For the past few weeks, I had been having serious chips and salsa withdrawal. I asked her to drive me there about week prior to my landing because that was the food that I missed most and, despite its terrible menu, Alamo Cafe has the best salsa and chips that you can buy in large quantities. I like to think that, with the insane amount that I have purchased over the years, that I have single-handedly driven the price for a half gallon of Alamo Cafe salsa up to its current $8.10. Mom graciously purchased the “terrible-for-me-but-amazingly-delicious” food and we headed to her house to pick up Bananarama. It had been almost a month since I had driven my van and I was actually sort of looking forward to it. When we arrived at my mother’s apartment I loaded up the green Honda Odyssey and hugged Mom goodbye. I promised we would catch up after the weekend, but for now I wanted to get to Rachael as soon as possible. I turned  Bananarama’s engine over and eased into reverse. Something was wrong. A slow “clunk, clunk” sound was occurring as I let off the brake. I stopped the car and hopped out; I had a flat tire.

Mom was kind enough to drive me to CVS for my weekend necessities; Coke Zero, Fix-a-flat, and other, more private items. Rachael’s apartment is only twenty minutes away from my mom’s on foot, so I could easily walk over the next day and take care of Bananarama’s blown tire. While shopping in the store I had a great idea. “I’ll have Mom drop off the Coke Zero and chips and salsa before I go into Rachael’s house. Then, after she leaves, I’ll knock on the door. Rachael will think, ‘Oh Kellie must have forgotten something,’ then Bam! Surprise!” The inconvenience of the flat tire may have actually facilitated a better way to throw Rachael off guard. I had been telling her that a “package” was going to arrive the day before I got back anyway, so she would think that the food and soda was the delivery I was talking about (I told her that I was coming on Friday, not Thursday). When I returned to the car, I proposed the plan to Mom and she was all over it. We headed to Rachael’s house to set the trap for a really big surprise.

It was hot and muggy as I waited for Mom to hand off the package to Rachael. I hid near her building around a corner and out of sight next to my gargantuan suitcase. I smiled and looked up as I heard Mom say, “Surprise” and Rachael laugh. She was right there — within reach for the first time in weeks. My body shook and my heart started to beat rapidly. I couldn’t wait. I wanted to run around the corner and yell, “I’m here,” but I decided the payoff of an ambush would be way sweeter. Mom was inside the apartment for a few minutes that felt like eons.

A few minutes later, I heard the door creak open and Mom say, “Bye Rachael. He’ll be home tomorrow.” My mother was beaming; ecstatic with our sneakiness as she rounded the corner and whispered, “She has no idea!” Immediately, my stomach started doing backflips. I thought about the day I left. I thought about the last time I had seen Rachael. It had almost been four weeks and I was beside myself with excitement. My heart was ready to burst out of my chest and my skin was on fire. I played it cool as Mom gave me a hug, told me she loved me and to call her, then took off in her car. I smiled and crouched down beside my bag. I needed a minute to gather myself and do one last, quick reflection before surprising the woman that I loved so much.

The projector in my mind that played the trips reel on top of the Empire State Building the day before played again at quadruple the speed. Blurry slides of  buildings, friends, food, pedestrians, commuters, street performers, planes, trains, bus rides and long walks all flashed through my mind as I took a deep breath. I slowly rolled my suitcase up to Rachael’s door. My heart raced as I closed my eyes. The slideshow slowed like a train reaching the end of the line on a multi-stop journey. The projector jammed and appeared to be stuck on a still photo of a bearded, Ray Ban wearing twenty-eight year old smiling from ear to ear somewhere in New York City. His smile was sincere and seemed to display some kind of simple, yet profound knowledge of happiness. This was the man that had set out to find himself and his home. The picture I saw showed someone that had truly found both, and so much more, by choosing to roll the dice and embrace the life he was given. He was clearly happy and not just posing for the camera out of practice. An attitude of gratitude for all that he had been given: the love and support of his friends and family, the new friends that were so welcoming and kind to him, and the incredible “life” moments he collected all radiated from his face. He had learned so much, but was aware that he had so much more to discover. His countenance seemed to proclaim a developed thirst for knowledge and experience. He only looked vaguely familiar to the business professional that quit his job in search for a more meaningful and passionate existence a couple months prior. The wondrous few seconds of self-realization brought tears to my eyes as I stood on Rachael’s porch. I knew who I was and exactly where I wanted to be.

I wiped my face, exhaled, and gently knocked on the door…

Wednesday morning I awoke with the realization that my new roommate was not a spiritual warrior battling demons and evil forces as she lay on the living room floor, but a sleep-talker that was set off by any random noise within a ten foot radius. She had a couple of things to tell me when I changed positions on the creaky futon in the middle of the night, which I completely blew off because I was focused on resting for my final day in the city. “Focused on rest?” you ask? That’s right.

My stomach was a balanced mixture of nervous excitement and mild hunger pangs as I stumbled to the bathroom to brush my teeth. It was my last full day and I wanted to start off at the Empire State building as early as I could. They started letting people up to the 86th floor observation deck at 8am and, despite being a weekday with a likelihood of late morning showers, there was always a crowd. I was out the door at seven.

“Shit,” I thought as I felt a couple of drops hit my arm. “This is my last chance to see the Empire State building and its gonna start raining!?” I couldn’t believe it.  As soon as the ungrateful whine escaped my lips, God benevolently reached over and tightened the leaky faucet over my head. The sun timidly peeked out from the grey clouds and in between the tall buildings. I was simultaneously grateful and annoyed at myself for my previous gripe. “Thanks Big Guy.” I winked and pointed at the heavens like a wide receiver after a touchdown pass, completely unnoticed by my fellow Manhattan morning walkers.

I headed up to Union Square and noticed something fairly unusual as I passed the Barnes and Noble on Seventeenth. “One, two, three, four…. what the?” A total of eighteen New York City cop cars passed by me in some sort of silent procession. Blue and red light flashed, but there was no sound. There were no big black Suburbans or hearse behind them and there was no sign that told me where they were going or what they were doing. I was intrigued, but figured I’d never find out what the deal was so I kept moving after they stealthily rounded the corner.

It looks just like it does in the movies. The building is massive and beautiful. By this point the sun and clouds were still wrestling with each other above a light fog that had formed near the observation deck. I entered the building at five ’til eight and was greeted by an older man in a fancy red bell hop uniform. “Good Morning, sir. Welcome to the Empire State Building. The line for the observation deck is to the right” Although this greeting was obviously burned into his brain by many years of recitation, it still came across as genuine and personable. Following his directions, I rode up the escalator and took a right at the next level. From there, I went through multi-level spider web of red velvet ropes and friendly bellhops repeating the same warm greeting that I received downstairs. “Sir, please step here for your picture.” A man behind an old-timey camera told me. “Oh, I’m by myself and I’d rather skip it. Thanks.” I said somewhat pathetically. The gentleman smiled sympathetically as if to say, “poor guy, he’s all by himself” and waved me through. It was early so there wasn’t much of a crowd in the maze or security line. “Right over here, sir,” a woman about my age directed me. She immediately launched into a souvenir and audio tour sales pitch. I bought a $5 pop-up map of the view from the observation deck with Rachael in mind – maybe she’ll like that. The flirtatious Puerto Rican woman gave me my change along with my headset for the audio tour.  She then directed me to the elevator that would to take me to the 82nd floor where I would transfer to another elevator in order to get to the 86th floor. On the 82nd floor, a large woman with an elevator remote motioned for me to enter my ride to 86. “Enjoy your view,” she said through her toothy grin as the doors closed. 

The gold elevator doors opened a minute later and I was pointed to a large glass room. My eyes stung a bit as I looked past the glass and slowly walked out to the observation deck. That feeling I had received so many times on the trip welled up in my chest again. The warm tingly sensation radiated through my body and came to full surge when I opened the exterior door to the  deck. I was facing North and had a full view of Midtown Manhattan. Despite the foggy overcast weather, the view was breathtaking.

I walked around the entire deck three times before listening to my audio tour. Reality punched me in the stomach as my joy reached its zenith; I’m going home tomorrow. A slideshow presentation of the past three weeks passed though my mind’s projector. Click – Here is where Spencer stayed in Chicago. Click – Oh, this is when he got on the wrong bus. And here are the people that he helped move and ate pizza with. Click – Here he is arriving at Penn Station half asleep and half in awe….Walking around Times Square, Catching a bus to Atlantic City, Coney Island, The Met, Click. Click. Click. I tried not to let the finality of my sudden “last day” realization take away from my current experience. I pushed play on my headset and listened to Tony, the fifty year old audio tour guide from Chelsea, explain the history of New York City at every angle of the building’s vantage points. I made a couple of videos for the boys and snapped a bunch of pictures. The overcast sky made it difficult to see certain spots: Downtown Manhattan, Central Park, The Statue of Liberty, but  it didn’t matter.  This was the final exclamation point on my trip and the grey sky confirmed that it was time to go home. 

Buying souvenirs should not be difficult. The people who receive your gifts aren’t going to complain about what you got them, not to your face anyway. This rationale would have come in handy as I rifled through the shirts, ash trays, keychains, shot-glasses, mugs, and hats of the shop near the Empire State Building. They definitely had the cheapest shirts, but was that too impersonal? Will Person X force a half smile when I hand them a kitschy magnet or license plate keychain with their name on it? What size shirt does that person wear? If I give her a shot glass will she think that I think she’s some sort of touristy alcoholic? Do I have room in my budget for this? Do these store clerks thing I’m trying to shoplift because I have been in here so long and touched their whole inventory? Will people understand if I don’t get them anything? Still half-buzzed from the picturesque view a few moments earlier, I settled on some shirts for a select few people and stuffed them into my backpack. “Thank you my friend,” said the store clerk after ringing me up. 

It was still relatively early and I felt charged up by the activity on the street. My ear buds blasted the prolific New York rap duo, Black Star, as I made my way down 42nd to check out Grand Central Terminal. “The fire’s in my eyes and the fans need flamin,” was the line that resonated and gave my legs a fresh new energy. It was clear that I was going to get the most out of this day. A few minutes later I was looking up at the beautiful ceiling at Grand Central. I thought of all the movies I had seen that featured the massive flags, marble floors, expansive halls, and shiny gold clocks. The cinema gloss was dulled by the normal looking people walking to and from their trains to various destinations. Leaning back on a wall, I took a breath and people watched for a few minutes. This was one of the most famous train terminals in the whole world.  After a few minutes of casual observation, I remembered that I had not yet been to Little Italy.

I’m not really a big Italian food person, but when was I going to be in Little Italy again?  I remembered looking up Lombardi’s famous pizzeria near Mulberry Street a couple of nights ago and decided to see if I could find it. Heading through the West Side, I took in some sights (as usual) that are not shown on the tours. I saw a middle aged woman with a yoga mat under her arm throw her hands up in frustration as a reaction to the slow moving couple in front of her. “I guess the classes aren’t working, huh Ma’am?” I thought as I passed her.  I saw a deli with Marlboros, “on sale,” for $9.80 across from the famous bar/club: Tonic.

My forty-five minute wander concluded at the Mona Lisa painted on the brick wall exterior of Lombardi’s pizzeria. I decided to hold off on Lombardi’s and walk though all of Little Italy before settling on a place to eat – I was still on a budget after all and I needed to make sure I got the best bang for my buck. It surprised me to see actual red, white, and green signs that said, “Welcome to Little Italy,” hanging between the orangish-red brick buildings on either side of the street. The neighborhood ran the gamut of Italian eateries. Every corner smelled like a delicious combination of tomato, mozzarella, and oregano. I walked through the entire area a couple of times as my stomach started to growl. As I approached the edge of the famous neighborhood, I realized that Canal was one of the border streets. I had been to the edge of Chinatown the week prior, but hadn’t really gone up and down its main drag. It looked about the same as what I had seen previously. The open air fish markets and trash in the streets commingled into a gross, but semi-charming scent. This was, after all, not something to be seen or smelled everyday.

After walking through both Little Italy and Chinatown, I found myself back at a very crowded Lombardi’s. “One?” the young lady with the headset asked me. “Yeah,” I mumbled half defeated by her innocent question. I wished Rachael was there to eat pizza with me.  The hostess led me through the packed restaurant, through the kitchen area – “Goodfellas” style, and into a small corridor. “This must be where the seat all the trolls that have to eat alone, ” I thought as I laughed at myself.  The long hallway ended with a narrow section of booths and very small, two person tables. I took my seat, thanked the hostess and looked over the menu. The happy families and yuppie power lunches were in full swing. They all had their pizza on elevated serving trays in the middle of their parties. Was I going to have a huge tray of pizza on my tiny table for two? I sipped my cold ice water and tried to figure out which $18 pizza I wanted when I saw it. In bold print at the top of the menu were the words, “Credit Cards Not Accepted.” “Really?” I thought. I was surprised, especially since I was in a fairly nice and semi-famous restaurant in Little Italy. I only had my card and a ten dollar bill.I tried not panic. The waiter made his way to a nearby booth and was going through his pre-order taking presentation. If I wanted to get up and leave I would have to: excuse myself, tell him that I changed my mind, march through the winding kitchen area, “excuse me/pardon me” my way through the main dining area, and apologize to the hostess on my way out. Needless to say, I was not looking forward to that. Frantically, I looked around as the waiter went to get his other table their drinks. A ha! There was a door right behind me marked, “Exit” in big red letters. I downed the ice water I was given, threw my backpack on and turned toward the door. I prayed to God it was not strictly for emergencies only as I pressed on the cold, metal bar. It wasn’t. 

My near pizza experience and belly full of water was enough to energize me for a little more walking. I headed to the Williamsburg Bridge and strolled out to the middle of it. I looked at the water as hipster kids rode their vintage ten speeds to and from the Brooklyn neighborhood. It was hot again and I was smartly wearing jeans and a black knit shirt. Thankfully a breeze or two cooled me down as I headed back into Manhattan. By this point, my stomach had enough of my indecision: I needed to get some food. Another movie was being shot on a DeLancey and I grumbled like a native when I saw the white trailers blocking the sidewalks. There was  a quaint little pizza “bistro” type place near Rivington and Eldgridge that was having a Margherita Pizza lunch special for about $8. I ducked inside the charming little eatery and sat down at one of the many available tables. The waitress was very polite and brought my food out very quickly. The pizza was just what I needed. I enjoyed my personal size pie and read more from Yoganada’s Autobiography. It was after two o’clock and my legs were a little achy. I read for about a half hour after finishing my food and then decide to go burn it off. 

The sun was relentless as I wandered through Alphabet City. I had some time to burn, literally and figuratively, before TJ got out of work later. I noticed that there were not many shady areas in this pocket of town. That is to say, “spots where one can hide from the sun’s rays.” The other kind of “shady” seem to be represented fairly well. I didn’t feel like sitting in the sun and I realized that I had been walking through what seemed to be a project-like area, so I decided to head back towards the East Village. No one was going to be at the apartment so I figured I would walk beyond it to one of my favorite, air conditioned places of refuge: Barnes and Noble. I grabbed some roasted peanuts near Second Avenue and made my way back to Union Square.

Police cars were parked everywhere when I got to 17h St. I was still curious about the large presence of New York’s finest in the area, but my weary legs were on a mission to get me to a book-filled, cooler climate. The A/C inside the three level bookstore was incredibly soothing. I couldn’t wait to thumb through the various works of art and literature, criminology, sociology, urban planning….I had a huge list that had begun forming in the past few weeks. There was so much that I wanted to learn and now I had the time to do it. And then it hit me. Not only was being a business professional in the corporate world not for me, but I didn’t give a shit about business in general. Ironically, I have a Bachelor’s in general Business. It had been my course of study since I graduated high school and now, ten years later in a Barnes in Noble in New York City, I realized that I never liked it. My subconscious began painfully regurgitating memories of all my classes and the fact that I forced myself through every one just to get a piece of paper that might afford me a higher salary. I almost broke down right there. The mixture of elation and regretful lamentation was almost too much to handle. I took a deep breath, thought about this moment of self discovery, and closed my eyes. I opened them – what seemed like an eterniity later – looked around and smiled. This was one of the reasons for this whole trip to begin with; to figure out what I’m passionate about. It sunk in that people actually learned about things that piqued their interest in school, not just resume ornaments. The flood of emotion took me from regretful old man mourning his wasted college years to ecstatic, young idealist within just a few moments. A weight lifted from my shoulders as I walked around jotting down titles and authors into my notebook. 

After taking notes, hitting the water fountain a few times, and reading four more chapters of my book, I decided to kill the next hour or so perusing the dollar racks outside the Strand .I made my way down Broadway to the used book Mecca. There were at least twenty carts full of old books that were jammed together in no particular order or organization. For the next hour, I tried to look at every book they had to offer. It was a tedious task, but I still had plenty of time until TJ got off work. After an hour or so I had a copy of “Hoop Dreams,” and  a writing book (both a dollar apiece) in my hand and was almost ready to go. While looking at my last couple of rows, I heard a very unusual monologue. “Satan will kill all of us tonight,” growled the passing voice. I turned around to see a kid in his late teens, early twenties doing his version of a low-pitched hardcore metal singer’s love song for the devil. He was really into and singing really loudly. I looked over at a man in his forties that was sharing the sight with me and we both chuckled. “What else is new?” he shrugged. The metal-head took a break from his unsolicited performance to give a little old man some directions and was on his way. “New York,” I thought “I love you.” 

“So this is it, huh?” TJ smiled as she asked. “Yeah, I’m pretty excited and I walked all day to ensure that I squeezed everything out of this place.” I replied casually. “Where should we eat?” The two of us recounted all the “must eats” that I had been to already, some twice, and we settled on going to get “diner food.” TJ seemed way more excited about it then I did, but I went along with it and we headed up Avenue A to a place called, “The Odessa.’ The dimly lit half diner-half full bar had an awesome seventies style ambience and book sized menu. Our waiter was very laid back and seemd to be plucked from the same place and time that the diner was stuck in. There were all sorts of interesting combinations and plates that I hadn’t seen in diners back home. After being torn between the buffalo burger and the peirogies, I settled on a grilled cheese with kielbasa. “Live a little,” I thought.  We ordered some fried mushrooms and relaxed against our booth’s red pleather seat cushions. The food was really good, but the whole event seemed fairly anti-climactic for my final meal. TJ, still hellbent on pushing me into a world of sweet-tooth fanaticism, insisted on rice pudding after we finished our plates. I put up a weak protest as the cold, skinny metal goblet of dessert was placed in front of me. At her insistence, I tasted the strange combination of fluffy whip cream, pudding(?) and rice. TJ gave me an, “I told you so” smile as I clearly enjoyed the bizarre treat. 

The sun had already gone down and the streets were coming to life with twinkling headlights and homebound pedestrians. We walked backed to the apartment pleasantly stuffed and talked about my trip coming to an end. She smiled and “aw’ed” as I talked about surprising Rachael and the boys a day early.  The early evening stroll was a relaxing and comforting punctuation mark on the long, hot day of walking. My legs throbbed as I walked and I was grateful for the soreness.

“Oh, no… He’s here. He’s coming for me! Get away! Don’t! Don’t… Noooooooooo!” The words ripped me from my sleep causing my eyes to pop open and my heart to race. I flipped over on the futon and looked around the apartment frantically. TJ and Sarah’s doors were open, but everything was frighteningly still. Neon light sliced through the blinds and provided an eerie luminescence that only heightened the terrifying episode. The fearful exclamations of protest were coming from under a blanket that covered the air mattress on the living room floor. A friend of Sarah’s, who shall remain nameless, had joined our small East Village commune earlier that night. She was now writhing on the floor and warding off an invisible enemy. According to the cable box clock it was 3:03 a.m. I was petrified. “Are you ok?” I managed to ask meekly. She bolted up, looked around and said, “I’m ok. I just forgot where I was.” She then fell back to her pillow and started snoring quietly as if she had been asleep the whole time. I slowly rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling which appeared to be miles away. The tiny apartment had become a cavernous space filled with shadowy corners from which I felt like I was being watched. My vivid imagination ran wild as I looked around the living room convincing myself that I was just “seeing things.” ”Well, that’s wonderful, “I thought. “Here I am,  the only one awake in the entire apartment and I’m sleeping two feet from some sort of spiritual medium that is fighting off unseen demons at the top of the witching hour. How the hell am I supposed to sleep now?” I shut my eyes and tried to ignore the skin-crawling feeling that was taking over my body. It was too early to get up especially since the girls’ doors were wide open. I had no choice but to lie there and try to force myself back to sleep. The a.c. unit in the window near the front door clicked off as I closed my eyes. The entire place fell deathly silent.

My new living room companion had one more night terror about an hour later, which caused me to ride out the wee hours in a very light and paranoid sleep. I somehow managed to fall asleep entirely somewhere in the 4:40 neighborhood.  After what felt like two minutes, TJ was milling about and the sun started to peek through the living room blinds. It was nine o’clock. “You know what?” she asked while brushing hair a few moments later, “I think I’m going to take the day off.” My pillow-creased face lit up at the sound of this news. My original plan was to walk to the Brooklyn Bridge, cross over then return, wander around aimlessly, grab some cheap food, and kill time until an evening showing of “Dead Snow” at Cinema Village.  Now, the enjoyment of my day would be heightened because of TJ’s company. She closed her bedroom door and called her boss to let her know that she wasn’t going to make it to the office. My living room-roommate was in the bathroom and I wanted to ask if she was ok when she got out, but I figured she would be embarrassed — if she knew that she new about her late night freak out at all. I decided it was best to pretend that the previous night’s events never happened. All of a  sudden TJ’s door flew open. “Let’s do this!” she shouted. I reached for my shoes and smiled. 

“Holy shit,” I said as we stepped outside and I put on my sunglasses, “its mad hot out here!”  For those that are not aware, the word “mad” — which is usually used to describe an emotional state — can also mean “‘a lot of,’ or ‘very’ something.” For example, “I got mad cash, son” means “hey friend, I have quite a bit of money. “I’ve been kickin’ it out here for mad years” translates to “I have lived in this area for quite a long time.” “Those shoes are mad stylish,” etc… In my previous exclamation, I was announcing my surprise at the fact that it was very hot outside. I jokingly said the word “mad” in this context back in San Antonio from time to time, but I found myself saying it regularly here because I heard it everywhere I went. “Mad” is said by mad people in Manhattan. I laughed at myself and the fact that I was surprised by the heat. My family and friends were suffering through hundred plus temperatures while I was “thrown off” by mid-eighties temps in the big city. (Keep in mind though that I had done a lot of walking in cold rain for the last few weeks and hadn’t had too many recent experiences in the heat).

We made our way to the Ecuadorian Bakery on Avenue B to get some tosaditas and cornbread. As I dipped into my pocket to grab the money for my breakfast treat, I realized that I had left my pedometer at the apartment. The bakery was only a few blocks away from home base, so we stopped by to pick up the step counter before taking our lengthy walk to the bridge. I had already broken 100,000 steps in the Big Apple and I didn’t want to stop counting. After I clipped the pedometer to my jeans, the two of us headed up to Avenue A and hooked a left towards Bowery. We had a good idea of how to get to the bridge, but no real sense of urgency. The plan was now to hit the bridge, catch a train back, eat at Suzie’s, then hit up an earlier showing of “Dead Snow.” We slowly walked and chatted about TJ’s screenwriting classes and the projects that she was working on. She described two really great stories and we began a verbal tennis match about characters, story-line, motivation, settings, and plot twists. I was starting to drool over the creative discussion that started to reach very high levels of intense enthusiasm. “This is what I want to do,” I thought, “I want to tell stories, swap ideas, discuss books, and think creatively.” She probably wasn’t aware of it, but TJ was inadvertently inspiring me on a regular basis. By engaging me in these discussion and debates, she was amplifying my desire to learn and creatively express myself. Up to this point in my life, a nagging negativity in the back of my brain seemed to constantly tell me that I wasn’t good enough to write or to engage in these types of conversations with “actual” writers.” This pessimistic view of myself may have been forged in the fire of a society that thinks these types of pursuits are idealistic and impractical. That same society may have told me when I was growing up that there was no way to be creative and still be able to eat or provide for a family. “There’s no money in art, music, or writing. Didn’t you know that? Only the really lucky ones can do that and be successful” Haven’t we all been told these horrible, creativity-stifling “truths” about life? How many beautiful and wondrous artists and potentially creative sparks have we snuffed out with our worldly wisdom about being “practical?” I was slowly starting to focus less on the so-called “practical” and understand that life not only has room for the creative and artistic; it thrives on it. Although the Negative Nag was still campaigning in the back corners of my brain, the volume of  the vitriolic criticism blaring from his megaphone was being turned down to a mere whisper. Soon enough, he would be gone. I was starting to realize that I could dedicate myself to artistic endeavors and that I did have something to offer in that capacity.

We reached the climax of her very well developed story about a quarter mile from the bridge’s entrance. She confirmed that we were on the right track by talking to a gentleman in a suit nearby and we were on our way. A few minutes later we bought some cold water from a rogue vendor and started up the walkway between the spider web cables. I took a lot of pictures and was struck by an overwhelming mixture of elation and melancholy. I was leaving in two days. My journey through one of the greatest cities in the world was coming to a close and it felt like I had just gotten off the train. I stopped and looked at the water through the metal wires. “I can’t believe I’m going home soon.” I said, “I really miss Rachael and I’m ready to go back, but I will definitely miss New York.” TJ smiled and “awww-ed” at my mention of Rachael (again) and melancholy melted into appreciation. I smiled and looked at the water again.

“Hey! Watch out you stupid jerk!” a “Jersey guy” yelled behind the wheel of an old Cutlass. The source of his anger, an asian man that rode his bike across the nearby crosswalk at the wrong time, obliviously peddled onto the bridge’s walkway. “Hell yeah!” I thought, “Welcome to Brooklyn.” I laughed at the stereotypical incident and explained to TJ why I though it was so funny,  That little scene was a New York experience that could not be purchased in a tourist package. We headed to the nearest subway to go back to the Village for lunch. As we descended the stairs and pushed through the turnstiles,  a few people ran past us down the long dingy corridor. The screech of the train’s brakes echoed through the tunnel. “Oh shit!” TJ shouted gleefully as she began to run. Taking her and the others’ cue, I bolted into action and we raced for the platform. We jumped down the stairs and flew into the train’s doors. TJ found an open seat and I situated myself by the nearest pole as the doors closed with a hiss.

A few stops later we back at street level in the Village and talking to a guy named Taylor that worked for Greenpeace. He was working hard to get people to sign up for automatic donations via credit card and Tj felt like having a little fun with him. His sales pitch included saving polar bears, which TJ rebutted by saying that polar bears — while beautiful and majestic creatures — were soulless killers that needed to be kept away from the human population. “Are you asking me to use the little money that I, a poor college student, have in order to save ruthless killer bears?” TJ asked him quizzically. Taylor smiled and rolled with the witty inquiry. He did a good job holding his own as she messed with him. We both passed on the donation opportunity, wished him well and moved on with our day. I laughed at her and said that she should have told him about her close relative that was mauled by one of those bloodthirsty animals. We continued to make up wild scenarios as we passed the would-be rappers, comedians and street performers that tried to stop us for, “One minute of our time.” Sorry folks, we have awesome Chinese food to eat.

Yummy House had hooked it up with good, quick Chinese food the previous week but Suzie’s proved to be the place to go for lunch. We were seated by a window near the front of the restaurant. I ordered my usual General Tso’s chicken and TJ got a huge bowl of soup that had noodles and Szechwan Beef in it. The food came out rather quickly, but we had plenty of time before the movie started so we casually took our time eating and chatting. We brainstormed about where she could stay in Paris, geeked out over the Nazi- Zombie movie we were going to see later, and savored the large amounts of food we had been given. After lunch and a few minutes of walking around, we stopped by the NYU library so TJ could run in and use “the facilities.” My mother called earlier in the day, so I phoned her back while I waited outside. We coordinated the details of my arrival on Thursday and she confirmed that she had not told Rachael – who thought I was coming back Friday – any of the plan’s details. It was a quick call, but Mom’s excitement about my return made me look forward to my homecoming even more. TJ returned from the massive building as I hung up the phone and the two of us made our way through Washington Square Park.

I had not seen the glory of Washington Square Park the previous times I happened upon it because of terrible weather. Today, however, provided a picturesque example of New York City vitality. The sun beat down on the people of all ages that played in the large fountain in the center of the park. The street performers, hacky-sackers, skaters, bookworms, hipsters, sun-bathers, would be “messiahs,” and a talented middle school band playing show-tunes all brought a big grin to my face. We snapped a couple of pictures of the fountain and made our way through the arch at the North end of the park. TJ stopped to talk to a kid playing guitar while I took a few more pictures. It was almost movie time so we decided to head to the theater.

By the time we arrived at Cinema Village, we still had about a half hour until the movie started. The art house only had two theaters in it and the previous movie was still wrapping up. The kid in the box office sold us the tickets and told me that I was going to “love this movie.” The three of us had a brief discussion on zombie flicks and he invited us to wait in the downstairs lobby. It may sound silly, but I felt special because there were signs everywhere saying that waiting in the lobby was not permitted and  moviegoers had to wait outside. We went into the dark lobby and sat on a worn out bench. After fifteen minutes or so, we went back up the stairs to the theater entrance, handed over our tickets, bought some popcorn and entered the auditorium. The reddish pink lights that illuminated theater added a creepy ambience to our movie-going experience. The 50 seat house reminded me of Hollywood representations of seedy porno theaters in big cities. The red lights, small screen, uncomfortable seats, and a loud mysterious dripping sound took the experience to an even higher level.

“Dead Snow” was fantastic! It is a hilarious, scary, gory, beautifully shot celebration of conventional, lost in the woods type horror combined with over the top zombie fun. We ate it up. TJ and I chuckled and exchanged expletives throughout the film. The fact that the flick had not been released in the rest of the country made my experience that much sweeter. We continued laughing and recounting various seen to each other as we exited the building. The mad hot weather conditions had switched, rather drastically, to an ominous grey sky that foretold of rain at any moment. It was also mad windy. As we both reviewed the climate change and the distance we had to cover, a thought crept into our brains simultaneously: “16 Handles!” we shouted. Like giddy school children we raced over to Second Avenue. The store was empty and we burned through the yogurt and toppings line. Yogurty goodness in hand we stepped outside and tempted fate by slowly strolling home. The clouds got darker and darker as we dug into our 16 Handles cups. Three avenues and two blocks later we finished the yogurt, tossed the cups in the trash, and entered the apartment as rain began to furiously pelt the ground. The timing was perfect.

It was still early, but the weather had put an end to our outdoor activities. Neither of us wanted to walk through the rain, so we decided to stay in and watch the entire first season of East Bound and Down. Saying, “The entire season,” makes it sound like a huge undertaking, but the relatively new HBO show’s premier season was only composed of about six episodes. Midway through our marathon of hilarity, we decided to brave the rain and get some snacks from Poppy’s Deli. Fortunately, the rain had stopped and our junk food source was on the nearest corner. We returned with the snacks and were greeted by our fellow “commune dwellers”. After TJ and I wrapped up our journey through the warped comedic minds of Jody Hill, Ben Best and Danny McBride, Sarah asked if she could put on a movie in the living room. “Are you kidding me!?” I jokingly asked, “How dare you!” We both laughed as I moved the laptop from the futon to the small dining table near the front door. TJ had gone to bed, so Sarah, her friend and I laughed out loud over the hilarious, yet surprisingly sweet and charming, “Forgetting Sara Marshall.”

Once the movie ended, the girls went to Sarah’s room to chat as I reclaimed my spot on the futon. My head hit the pillow and I was determined to get to sleep as quickly as possible. The day’s activities replayed in mind and I smiled as curled up on my New York bed. I thanked God for my incredible day and humbly requested that he completely knock me out for any potential night terrors that my new roommate might encounter again. I didn’t know if she was a regular sleep-talker, but I was not staying up to find out. I really needed to rest up for what would be my last full day in the big city.

Our Saturday night oath to do absolutely nothing on Sunday was seen to absolute fruition. TJ slept off and on during a spontaneous Sex and The City marathon in her room while I looked at potential writing programs, reviewed leftover New York to do’s, and added pictures to my Facebook profile. We held each other to our pledge and did not leave the house all day.

On Monday, despite being a complete bum the day before, I slept in until about ten o’clock. I had a voucher in my City Pass booklet for a one or two hour boat ride around Manhattan. The Circle Line Cruise company also offered a three hour tour – Gilligan style — which covered the entire island, all five boroughs, tons of bridges, multiple waterways, and two passes near the Statue of Liberty. The boat was going to leave at 12:30 and I figured I would just upgrade and pay the difference. I called the ticket office and confirmed that I could do just that for an extra $4.

The weather was incredible. I made my way up Avenue A (to switch things up a bit), hooked a left on 14th, and stopped at a newly opened pizza joint for a cheap slice. The grand opening special was a plain slice — that’s cheese only, my fellow Texans – for $1.50. The slice was hot and fresh, but tasted just barely above Little Caesar’s quality. “Good enough for the late morning walk,” I thought. I flipped through the Ipod and decided I was going to go with a super upbeat soundtrack to match my refreshed legs and the beautiful weather. I felt like I was dance – walking as Jamiroquai blasted in my ear drums. The driving rhythms and soulful lead singer put a bounce in my step and a smile on my face as I headed up to Broadway. It felt like I was in a commercial for New York tourism; unobtrusive sunlight slashing between tall buildings and New Yorkers happily bustling on the busy streets. I chuckled to myself when I saw a man that obviously shared the same sentiment. His retired linebacker frame was accentuated by his black tights and oversized aerobics t-shirt. He wore dark sunglasses, a headband, and large headphones. The jolly African American man was smiling and busting out some serious dance moves during his walk on that particular day. Waiting for the light to change at Broadway and 32nd had turned into an impromptu, individual dance review courtesy of Mr. Black Tights Linebacker.

The pier was a straight shot down 42nd and took an additional thirty minutes or so. The cruise was leaving at 12:30 and I had about forty minutes to spare. I was feeling especially warm after the morning walk despite my decision to leave my heavy backpack at home. I was looking forward to the breeze on the water and felt mildly embarrassed about having forgotten to put on deodorant before leaving the house. I figured the combination of the cooling wind on the water and the high probability of other smelly tourists or native New Yorkers would prevent me from sticking out and truly offending anyone.

I hit Pier 83 and was greeted by a huge line of people waiting to board. The City Pass allowed me to bypass the ticket sales mob, but after upgrading to the three hour tour, I would have to wait in the enormous boarding line like everyone else. By this time, the sun had come out in full force and I was laughing at myself for opting to wear my typical Spencer uniform consisting of jeans and a black t-shirt. A vendor was selling cold water for a couple of dollars, but I figured I would wait it out and save my money. “Surely they would have a water fountain on or near the boat” I told myself. As the line crawled to the berth, I was entertained by a charming Jamaican mug and travel guide pusher. She was good. “Ladies an’ gentleman. You are gonna be on ‘dis boat for t’ree oww- ahs. Each drink you buy will be at least $4 a pop. D’ price for dis mug is seven dollas only and you get unlimited refills. Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Root Beer, Lemonade, and Pepsi. Remember dis moment when you are on dat boat for the three long hours and want to get multiple drinks…We also have dis travel guide for $4. Dis is yours to keep and it will give you all d ‘ighlights of your trip. Right now, you can get the mug AND the guide for only ten dollas” I had the cash in my pocket, but I wanted to test my discipline. I figured I could make it and just get water later. Little did I know that the Jamaican woman was a soothsayer that could see all of our futures as she hollered her sales pitch. Anyone that did not get “D mug” would be regretfully thirsty or angry about their expensive drink later. Little did I know that I would be one of them, sort of. I boarded the boat and ascended the steps to the top level observation area. The numerous rows were filled with families, tourists, and daytrippers. All the seats near the edge of the boat were taken. Grateful for being blessed with a six-foot frame, which would allow me to see from any vantage point, I took a seat in one of the aisles and basked in the high noon sun. As soon as I hit the seat, I began singing the song, “I’m on a Boat,” by the Lonely Island quietly to myself. “Everybody look at me ’cause I’m sailing on a boat.”

The sun was beating down on us as we awaited our departure. A smooth, silver tongued New York native hopped on the PA system and began explaining how things would work. He was an older gentleman, probably in his sixties, and throughout the trip he demonstrated his historical knowledge and impeccable tour guide skills. He didn’t miss a beat as he went over the landmarks, districts,  and neighborhoods without any type of script or guidebook. He was a pro. This was probably one of the most touristy things I had done at this point in the trip, but I truly enjoyed it. I had no plans of visiting Liberty Island this time around, but the boat made its two passes and allowed for some great shots of Lady Liberty. Even though I had a few days left I started to feel like the trip was complete as we saw highlights from Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx, and Staten Island. From the financial district of Manhattan to Yankee Stadium in the Bronx, we covered everything as we circled the island. I moved from seat to seat and tried to see as much as I could. Although it may have the stigma of being an obnoxiously touristy thing to do, I highly recommend that any future visitors take that cruise.

It was about 2:45 and I was really thirsty. The Jamaican mug and guide pusher’s voice rang in my eardrums and laughed at my parched state. The drinks were only four dollars and the refreshment would be worth at least that, right? There were no water fountains and the sinks in the men’s room used sensors to automatically spit out their already hot water. There was no way to get a cold drink unless you wanted to fork over four bucks. Amazing willpower, or maybe superhuman cheapness, kicked in and I talked myself into waiting. I felt a little refreshed by the small victory.

After hitting a couple of delays, the boat finally docked at 3:40. By that time, I was feeling dehydrated. The herd of people formed near the only two exits on the boats and it was clear that it would take a while for my shoes to hit the dock. I was wedged between a Long Island Jewish woman and two vocally displeased California socialites. I closed my eyes, forgetting my thirst, and soaked up the moment. I was on a boat in Manhattan. If you would have told me a month and a half ago that I would abandon the security of my lucrative, professional job in order to see the cities I had dreamed about, truly determine my heart’s place, and ignite an insatiable fire and love for writing in the process; I would have laughed in your face. Before I knew it, I was on the Avenue buying a water for $1.50 and making my way through the West side of Manhattan.

After wandering aimlessly and stopping off at the Hershey store for some pictures and video for Rachael’s boys, I was starting to give into my growling stomach. It was obvious that I was hungry, but I wanted to eat something relatively healthy. I had been walking long distances for days and hadn’t really enjoyed any fresh fruits or vegetables. While walking on 9th Avenue, I saw a place that I had read about in The Cheap Bastard’s Guide to New York City: The Amish Market. The smell of fresh produce and the creak of the wooden floor was so inviting. I picked up a large bottle of water, a can of Coke Zero, four white peaches, and four plums for about seven bucks. While checking out, I remembered the bleachers in Times Square. How cool would it be to sit in some bleachers in one of the most crowded sections of one of the most famous cities in the world and eat some fruit? All sorts of philosophical and existential thoughts swirled around my head as I made my way back up 42nd st. Eating something grown in nature where nothing grows at all. The juxtaposition of the relaxing activity of taking a break and eating fruit amidst the epicenter of frantic activity and spectacle enticed me. I was hungry, but made myself wait until I was sitting in the middle of Times Square.

A couple of days prior to this afternoon fruit snack, I was convinced that I was no longer impressed by Times Square. “That’s such a tourist thing.” I thought. It is all neon advertisements, random street performers, tourists, and Disney-esque commercial hoopla. It is all of that, but sitting in those bleachers watching all the people coming and going under those large signs glimmering in the low five o’clock sun; I realized that it was more than that. There was something that bubbled under the surface. The energy of all those random hearts and minds going in different directions, having both similar and very different life experiences, fears, hopes, dreams, heartache, and elation left me completely stunned. I sat with my legs crossed on one of the small steps and took it all in. The family in traditional Indian dress toting their McDonalds bags, the police officers in blue uniforms that roamed the crowds, the crazy lady that began yelling at an older Chinese couple to mind their business for no reason, the vertical building-size billboard of Puff Daddy, the pretty traveling European students, the scores of people resting in the lawn chairs in the streets, the gargantuan neon Coca-Cola sign, the down trodden middle-aged man thumbing though a free magazine at the bottom of the bleachers…Simple but truly incredible moments like these were why I had begun this trip in the first place. I had chosen to live my life to the fullest and it was clear that I was accomplishing things that I never thought were possible. An overwhelming joy surged through my entire body causing a tingling sensation in my hands and feet. My throat felt warm and my eyes welled up. I took a deep breath, bit into the refreshing fruit, and smiled as I wiped away a few small tears of absolute gratitude.

*Note: The next few entries and the first journey’s conclusion will be written retrospectively from one of my temporary San Antonio homes…

“It’s Saturday!” I mumbled enthusiastically as TJ walked past the futon. I had been sleeping very lightly during this trip so I was easily able to express my enthusiasm while still catching the last few minutes of  rest. TJ was off from work and we had plans to take the train out to Coney Island. The day was going to be completed by taking in the 8:30 outdoor screening of The Lost Boys near the boardwalk. Needless to say; we were pretty pumped.. My aforementioned half-sleep was filled with visions of the Wonder Wheel, The Cyclone, and of course, Nathan’s Famous hot dogs.  Scenes from Annie Hall, The Warriors, and Seinfeld made their way into my synaptic screening room every time the magical location was mentioned. It was going to be great!

Before our long train ride to Coney, we had to make a stop at the post office so TJ submit her passport application. The sun was out and and the blue, cloudless sky smiled on us with the comforting confirmation of an old friend saying, “yes, you should be out today.” The weather change only enhanced our excitement as we made our way to our Post-Office-bound subway. I took a few pictures of some things that I saw on the way; a couple of buildings, some street signs, Katz’s Deli, etc… I hadn’t ridden the subway since I arrived at Penn Station and I felt a bit nervous. As usual, my anxiety was irrational and poorly timed so i consciously made an effort to fight it off. There was nothing to worry about, the weather was beautiful and we were going to be at Coney Island within a few hours. After a few minutes on the train, I laughed at myself and the ridiculous nervousness that tried to make its way into my mentality. The city was so alive and the subway was a wonderful canvas of multi-colored paints that formed a beautiful landscape of people-watching perfection.

TJ had all of her paperwork together and was beside herself as she completed the passport application process with a surprisingly nice postal worker. I went to the window next to her to buy a stamp in order to mail the letter I had written Rachael in the Rose Reading Room of the New York Public Library. We both laughed at my uncertainty of where to write the addresses on the envelopes…I was pretty sure that Rachael’s address was to go in the center. With the envelope filled out and stamped, I walked over to a large mail bin in the corner of the room. My initial instinct was to ask if this was a bin in which letters could be placed, but I didn”t want to add more comedic material to my previous performance of naivete in postal service procedure. Always trust your first instinct. I tossed the letter in the bin and raised the heavy door upward. I felt a quick shot of adrenaline when I saw what was written in Sharpie on the bottom of the bin door; “No Letters.” There was no way I was going to fess up to the ladies at the counter. I pulled TJ aside on the way out and explained what happened. She was reassuring and said, “I’m sure that happens a lot. Do you want to ask them?” I laughed nervously  and agreed that it was probably a common error. Why would they write that on the bottom of the door where you couldn’t see it until it was too late to retrieve your incorrectly placed letter? I shrugged it off and hope that document would find it’s way to Rachael. “If not, “I thought, “I can always write her another one.

Tj was walking on air. She was that much closer to Paris  and there wasn’t a thing in the world that could peel the smile off of her face. I love the contagious nature of positive thinking. We made our way to the Chelsea Market to look at the food storefronts and grab a bite to eat. We made our way through the long walkway past the bakeries and seafood spots. The market was not crowded, which surprised us because it was lunch time on a Saturday. After wandering around for a while, I settled on a little Italian stand that resembled a deli counter in the main hallway. I picked out a small eggplant parmesan and followed TJ to a nearby market bakery. Once we both had something to eat, we found a small table and chatted as we ate our breakfast. She wasn’t too thrilled about her overpriced bagel, but I was pretty happy with my choice. I wanted to save room for Nathan’s later and the small Italian dish was the perfect size.  

After our late breakfast, my gracious New York hostess led the way to the recently finished park called , “The High Line.” The sun hit the newly cultivated greenery of the former-elevated train-track-turned-new-city-park beautifully. Families and couples were everywhere admiring the view and soaking up the rays. We made our way from one end to the other, commenting on the high rises that overlooked this beautiful new area and speculated on what the luxurious home must cost. The two of us raved about our significant others, talked about our writing goals, and discussed the places on our travel lists as we walked. It was a surreal but endearing experience to be strolling through an elevated park on a New York City summer day.

We headed back to the subway in order to catch the F train out to Brooklyn. Coney Island was near the end of the line so we had a long ride ahead of us. We descended the stairs to a nearly empty platform. The harsh greenish light and dirty walls were juxtaposed by the beautiful sound of a man and his guitar. The empty corridors provided wonderful acoustics for the Bob Marley-esque tones emanating from the troubadour’s lips. “You’re going to think I’m full of shit,” TJ whispered to me, “but I know that guy.” I looked at the man with the short dreadlocks and bearded face, playing and singing his heart out. “From school? I asked. She explained that she met him once while shooting some scenes for a short film and struck up a conversation. From that point on she had run into him on numerous occasions in different areas of the city. She made her way over to him while I listened to his soothing voice dance with the gently strummed guitar chords. I closed my eyes and took a breath. The music cradled me and I smiled as I stared down at the third rail. I walked over to the two of them and put what change I had into his case. We introduced ourselves and TJ purchased a c.d. from him. His name was Joel Mac. The train rushed up quickly and we boarded as Joel put his c.d.’s away. I found a place to stand and looked around the car to get my bearings. The doors hissed as they closed and I looked through the window at Joel. Our eyes met through the glass. Simultaneously, we raised a hand and smiled.

The train moved quickly through the tunnels of Manhattan and came out into the sunlight. From where I was standing, I could see Brooklyn below us. My vantage point allowed me to see out the window, but not the elevated track on which we were riding. It was if our train had started thinking happy thoughts and was now magically flying through the air over the city. Graffiti and large brick apartment buildings became more frequent as our train continued toward our destination. Within a half hour or so, we had arrived. 

Our plan was to kill time on the boardwalk, check out the New York Aquarium, kill more time on the boardwalk, and then catch the movie at eight-thirty. It was 1:30. We crossed over a bridge and a long pedway into Coney Island. The boardwalk was teeming with people in every direction. The smell of funnel cake and other terrible-for-you-but-really-great-tasting foods tickled my nose as I looked at the wide array of beachgoers. We had stumbled upon what seemed like a huge beach block party. Michael Jackson tunes were blaring everywhere we went. People of all ages were dancing, laughing, yelling, fishing, sun-bathing, stuffing their faces, arguing, backslapping, and running around. It was beautiful. In the middle of it all was a bright yellow Nathan’s Famous Frankfurters stand that was fronted by a disorganized mob of hungry weekend party people. We grabbed a spot near the back of the herd and hoped that we would get filtered in front of a cashier eventually. “You’re so unorganized and stupid! I’m done with ya! You’re not getting any of my business eva!” shouted an old man on my left. He was gesturing and bellowing this statement over the huge crowd to the stand and its workers that didn’t hear him, and surely, did not care about their loss of a customer. Meanwhile, on my right side, a group of teenagers were putting on a show for each other while they waited for their food. The show was an unofficial competition to see who could be the loudest and most obnoxious of the bunch. It was really funny to watch. “Ah, high school.” TJ reminisced aloud as we observed the group’s shouting match. I rolled my eyes and laughed at her remark.  ”Can you remember that far back, old timer?” I asked. (TJ is twenty years old). 

We ordered our hot dogs and added the necessary ketchup and mustard. I was first introduced to Nathan’s hot dogs by a native New Yorker in San Antonio years prior, so sitting on the Coney Island boardwalk about to eat a genuine Nathan’s Famous Frankfurter was a momentous occasion that had to be filmed. I handed my camera over to TJ and she filmed me talking to Rachael’s boys and eating a glorious piece of Americana. Chicago style is the best combination of ingredients, but nothing beats a Nathan’s. At that moment, I vowed that Rachael and I would make Chicago style hot dogs with Nathan’s franks when I got back home. 

We still had a lot of time to burn and bellies full of greasy goodness, so we strolled over to the pier. It was funny to see the types of people fishing on that particular day. I really enjoy the sight of tough street guys baiting their hooks and reveling in their catches. It makes me feel like there are still innocent and wholesome things that can bring people together, regardless of their backgrounds, races, lifestyles etc.. “but the kid is not my son…” Billie Jean played in the background. The blue water was gently rolling toward the shore as we stood on the wooden pier. The pier at Coney Island is TJ’s favorite spot in all of New York City. 

“Two general admission tickets please.” I told the ten year old behind the glass at the New York Aquarium box office. The two of us walked into the building and were greeted by the ticket tearer whose Russian accented salutation was, “boy, you guys sure are tall drinks a water huh?” We laughed and agreed with the young girl’s observation. “You guys haf’ good time in there.” We waked around looking at the exhibits from inside and outside of various water tanks. It was funny to hear all the kids with authentic New Jersey and Long Island accents. ” There a no animals out today….they’re all dead mista, hahahaha” one of them informed me as I peered over a wall into a pool of sea otters. The two tall drinks of water nearly fell over at the young boy’s unsolicited animal update. We looked at sharks and seals and sea horses. A familiar tired and faint feeling began to creep in. This happened from time to time on my really long walks and I knew there was no getting around it; we needed water. As it happens, The New York Aquarium will kindly sell you bottles of water for $4 a pop. Isn’t that nice of them? We decided to tough it out and wait until we hit the boardwalk again where the rogue vendors with their personal coolers were selling the same size ‘cold wata, get your cold wata here’ for $1. Fortunately, the water gods heard our pathetic pleas and we wandered right into the only water fountain within a five mile radius. This fountain was divinely placed near an outdoor restroom within the aquarium’s grounds. We took long turns replenishing our fluids. Behind us was a miniature stadium in which a seal show had already begun. i noticed a girl leaving a back door that was clearly marked “exit only” and motioned for TJ to follow me. I was sure it was not a big deal, but I made it seem like we  were breaking into the show through an unauthorized access point; we were so sneaky. Just grabbing that moment and running up the exit stairs like little kids made the show that much more enjoyable. 

The sun had gotten the better of TJ and we both decided that it would be a good ides to forego The Lost Boys screening, order Chinese takeout, and watch movies at the apartment. I was looking forward to seeing the vampire flick in 35-mm, but it was only five o’clock and we were both pretty tired. The train ride back had fewer stops and was much quicker than our early transport. I stared out the window while she rested here eyes. Rachael and I texted each other when I wasn’t underground and I told her that I made a video for the boys. She and I missed really missed each other, but I secretly relished the fact that I was going to be home on Thursday. As far as she knew, I was coming home at 6 p.m. on Friday, July 3rd. The early surprise was going to be incredible!

After a quick stop at a nearby Duane Reade for soda and aloe vera, we made our way to the apartment. TJ looked like she was going to fall over at any minute. When we got back to her place, she made a beeline for her bedroom and declared that she was going to nap. She crashed hard for a few hours while I wrote some notes for the day and completed a couple of unfinished entries. My stomach growled at 8:30 and my sunburned partner in Coney Island crime was still passed out in her room. I was ready to order some Yummy House and decided I would wake her at nine. I ordered the food and we agreed to watch Wonder Boys. Our plates of Chinese food arrived at the door within fifteen minutes and we were both ready to chow down. We ate our food slowly and immersed ourselves into the movie. I had not seen it since I had gotten really serious about writing. Creative inspiration washed over me as I savored the spicy sweetness of my General Tso’s chicken. I couldn’t wait to write again, but I was wiped out. We high-fived over our awesome day and made a pledge that Sunday would be strictly devoted to lazing and lounging.

In keeping with my apparent travel tradition of daily alternating weather, I found myself leaving 508 East 12th Street on Friday morning with an umbrella in my hand again. I decided to forego the backpack and made sure that all the day’s essentials were strategically placed in their designated pockets. The Ipod jammed “American Thriller” which is a mix tape featuring Jay Z’s vocals and instrumental tracks from Michael Jackson’s Off The Wall and Thriller. Given yesterday’s events and my current location, I felt the selection to be the perfect choice for the morning’s walk. The Metropolitan Museum of Art (The Met) was on 5th Avenue near, but not quite as far as, The Guggenheim. However, it was still at least seventy blocks from where I stood listening to Jay explain that he might break but would not fold. Earbuds in place and freshly bought bagel in hand, I headed to 5th Avenue.

I opened and closed my umbrella three times between 14th and 34th street. The rain just could not make up its mind. Puddles already filled the streets and a man at 34th was pushing water from the side of the sidewalk into the front of the crosswalk. I thought this was odd and wondered if he was trying to set people up to be splashed by the passing traffic. My moment almost happened. A large bus turned on to the one way street and hit the puddle that the “water sweeper” had perfectly placed before I crossed. Just as Jay told me he was, “American Dreamin’” I jumped backward just in time to miss the bus-caused tidal wave. I barely dodged the cliche moment of getting splashed by traffic in the big city.

My shoes were completely water logged for probably the sixth or seventh time on this trip, but I refused to let that bother me. Thankfully, my feet had become blister resistant. My shoes, however, were dying from the oppressive abuse of constant urban exploration. They appeared to be intact, but the constant moisture and walking around had completely flattened the insole and water had no problem penetrating the outer layers. These were my comfortable casual shoes. I didn’t want to wear out my “good” running shoes and my other pair of running shoes that I converted to walking shoes had been feeling too tight. I was concerned because, at the end of the day, I had no place to air them out or dry them. No balcony to sit them on. No dryer to throw them into. “Oh well, I’ll just leave them outside the door of the apartment when I get back and throw the socks away.” I thought. “If somebody takes them, spray paints their name of their hood on them, or pees in them… so be it. They have been good to me and I can live without them.”

With Central Park on my left and the museum within a dozen blocks, I called Rachael to see how she was doing. Shawn’s birthday party was happening that evening and she had her hands full. It was great to hear her voice. We had spoken briefly the day before, but we did not have our usual once a day, lengthy conversation. We chatted for a bit and talked about how great it was going to be to see each other again in a week. I told her that I loved her and to say ‘hi to the boys for me.’ We hung up and I arrived at the museum.

The Met is massive. The high ceilings and elaborate columns of the expansive entry hall took my breath away. It is a beautiful piece of architecture. I was a little tired after the hour and a half walk and I remembered those incredible moments of fatigue at the last two museums. This time, I decided to sit on a bench and adequately rest up for my full day of walking. I was ready to roll after about fifteen minutes. It was 11 a.m and I figured I would check out the place until about 5 , at which time I would need to catch the Subway to Brooklyn for the free Blonde Redhead show in Prospect Park. I flashed my City Pass at the information desk and was given a metal clip to attach to my shirt, which served as my ticket. Although the City Pass allowed me to bypass the line, it did not get me a headset for the audio tour. The audio tour was $6. As I already learned at the Guggenheim and the MoMA, the audio tour worked really well for me and would absolutely be worth it. I purchased my headset, grabbed a floor plan, and headed up to the European paintings.

The enormous European gallery was full of exquisite paintings. I took a ridiculous amount of pictures as I made my way through each room. Getting to see the actual oil paintings of great European artists was pretty unbelievable. This was only one pocket of the museum and had already spent an hour reading and listening to the audio tracks about a lot of the pieces. This would prove to be a trend throughout the entire day. I left the European painting gallery and explored the disturbing, yet absolutely fascinating Francis Bacon special exhibit. His paintings were dark and intriguing. I loved hearing the stories about him and the things that motivated his art. Over the next few hours, my jaw would drop and my camera would click as I gazed upon medieval artifacts, afghan treasures, rare paintings, sculptures, weapons, and egyptian tombs. I could not believe how much was in that building. I thought when I looked at the map and saw only two levels and a basement that I would be not be there more than a few hours. Boy was I wrong!

My heart sank at 3 o’clock. The battery to my camera was almost completely dead and I had only been halfway through the mammoth building. I happened upon an elevator that was fronted by a velvet rope area for people to line up. The operator asked if wanted to go to the Roof Garden. I joined a handful of Italian tourists and headed to the roof. The art piece “Maelstrom” by Roxy Paine was currently open for viewing on the museum rooftop. The doors behind us open and I was immediately floored. The city was the backdrop for a 130′x45′ stainless steel structure that covered most of the garden area. I immediately started taking pictures of the piece, but even more of the breathtaking view of the city behind it. I moved to the roof’s edge as the camera’s battery indicator began to flash. The sun shone brilliantly so I was unable to see the image on the camera screen. I just clicked and clicked and clicked. After about six more shots, the camera completely died.

I made my downstairs and decided to conquer the entire museum. I was tired and hungry but had a desire to see as much as I could. I knew that I just needed some water. The water fountains in the museum were very hard to find. I finally happened upon   one in a dimly lit corner at just the right time. While taking my time consuming a reservoir of water, I thought of the pedometer on my belt. I backed away from the life saving fountain and nonchalantly lifted my shirt to view the pedometer reading. I reset the device in Penn Station upon my arrival the Wednesday before last. It read 97, 611. I laughed at myself and the ridiculous amount of walking I had been doing. I also realized that I was going to have to choose between seeing the whole museum and going to Brooklyn. The Met is open until 9:45 on Fridays and Saturdays and I figured I should really try to see as much as I could. I new it would be sensory overload, but it would be worth it. “Hopefully I can see Blonde Redhead in Austin or out on the West Coast when I travel again.” I thought.

Around  6:15 p.m., I sent TJ a text saying that I wasn’t going to make it to the show. She had taken a few trains to get to JFK and say goodbye to her boyfriend Gavin, who was leaving to study in Paris for six weeks. I was really glad that she went out to see him off because it was clear how much they cared for each other and I could relate to the distance they would soon feel. Two minutes after the message was sent I heard a loud, “Boom!” A huge thunderstorm had begun outside. I was in the Modern Art wing and heard the rain beating the roof relentlessly as I looked at a huge Chuck Close piece. I guess forgoing the show was the right decision after all…

An hour after I sent the text message to TJ, I made my way to the exit. I had seen everything I could and felt happy with my eight hours of museum wandering. The rain had stopped and I was ready to get back to the Village. A bus marked “East Village” was stopped at the curb and I debated for half a second to board. Seeing the beautiful Friday night and the thought of an hour and half walk through the city was too inviting. I decided to disregard my tired legs, forego the bus option, and continue walking. Seeing the bus made me think about my Metro Card. I had already replaced the one I had given Jaleel a few days prior with a new $10 one. I went through all of my pockets and discovered that at some point my card had fallen out. I may as well have taken a ten dollar bill and thrown it in the street. I was frustrated with myself, but tried not let it bother me too much. Rachael sent me a text about Shawn’s birthday party and how much fun they were having. I told her to wish him a happy birthday and tell everyone I said hello. My face lit up when her response indicated that Shawn wanted to talk to me and asked if I could call. An excited nervousness boiled in my stomach as I dialed the number. Rachael answered and, over the course of five minutes, I was able to talk to all three boys. My eyes welled up a bit as I leaned against a wall overlooking a building near the Central Park Zoo. This was the first time I had spoken with the boys in over a month and it made the Metro Card debacle completely insignificant. I felt so loved and was happy just to hear their little voices on the other end. Shawn told me about his Transformer toy and threw out excited proclamations of joyful gibberish. Taylor told me that he was having an awesome summer and that he was helping his mom like a big kid. Cole, who is becoming infatuated with his recent discovery of speech, shouted a lot of Ay’s, Ah’s, and Oh’s into the receiver. The heartwarming phone call gave me fresh legs as I returned to my walk. Rachael and I said goodbye to each other and I headed to my New York home.

I noticed that I was walking parallel with the setting sun. It winked at me briefly as I passed each crosswalk. The sky was an amazing mixture of blues and orangish red. “I’m in the city babe.” A man in a three piece suit said into his cell phone.”I just got out of an hour and a half massage and now the city is completely orange. Yeah. I went in and it was a crazy thunderstorm…now this! I’ve never seen anything like it. I wish you were here babe. It is so beautiful.” The words had been taken out of my mouth completely.

I kept walking down 5th and stopped at the “famous” pizza spot called Little Italy Pizza near the Empire State Building. It was pretty good, but I had tasted better.  As I finished my slice and veered left onto Broadway, I started to notice something. More and more people were staring at the sky behind me as I passed. I turned around and was amazed to see an orange and blue canvas accented with small wisps of cotton just above the city’s buildings. By the time I got to Union Square, there were people everywhere looking upward, taking pictures, stopping their cars, nudging each other, calling their friends…it was incredible. We were all brought together for this unusual moment. Socialites, punks, thugs, yuppies, hippies, frat boys, art snobs, executives, street performers were all joined in a collective upward gaze of awe and appreciation. The cruel,impersonal, too busy for you city had shown its soft and vulnerable underbelly. It was beautiful.

Rejuvenated once again, I continued down Broadway toward 12th. It was about 8:30 and I was still hungry, I hadn’t done a great job of meal planing that day. I had a bagel on the morning walk and a slice of pizza forty minutes prior. I decided to go check out St. Mark’s and hit Mamoun’s again. St. Marks Place was an absolute party. People everywhere laughing, dancing, skating, yelling, drinking…I had happened upon the epicenter of true Friday night life. The ubiquitous energy was contagious. I couldn’t help but smile as I took it all in and ducked into the descending staircase at Mamoun’s. I walked up to the counter and a lined form behind me immediately. Perfect Timing! I ordered my falafel to go and walked back to 12th.

I buzzed #3 on the intercom when I arrived. Nobody answered. I sent a text message to TJ and Sarah asking if they were home and no one responded. I was stuck. It was after nine on a Friday, I had been walking all day long, and I had a falafel sandwich that I really wanted to eat with no place to eat it. While lamenting over this situation, I saw a guy with a white plastic bag buzzing the intercom of one of the neighboring buildings. After he received no answer, he moved to the next one, then another…then across the street. I started walking away from the building when I realized that he was not delivering food in his little bag, but trying to gain access into one of the buildings on the street. I quickened my previously exhausted pace and began walking aimlessly.

I called Rachael. We chatted for a little while and I let her go fairly quickly in order to find a place to sit and eat my sandwich. I found what looked like a cross between a handicap ramp and a staircase in Stuyvesant Town and took a seat. I was tucked away from the street and eating my sandwich in the shadows. Not wanting to appear like a nefarious character myself by lurking in the dark for too long, I quickly enjoyed my falafel and pressed on. I went to a nearby CVS and spent way too much on a refreshing Coke Zero. After another ten minutes or so, my phone went off and Tj sent a text saying that she hadn’t just gotten back from the airport. I was so relieved. She wanted to get food and I told her that I could snack with her, but I had already eaten. We met at the apartment and went to the corner deli to get her a sandwich. I got some chips so she wouldn’t have to eat alone. Finally back home,  we recapped our days and talked about her airport goodbye with Gavin. It was clear that it was going to be a tough six weeks, but I had faith that they could do it. Later in the evening TJ had a conversation with a relative of hers which resulted in a promised airline ticket to France. We high-fived and made plans to celebrate the next day by getting her passport and heading out to Coney Island.

I did accomplish my Thursday objective of writing and rest…for the most part. At eleven or so, I holed up at a cool East Village coffee house called “B Cup” on the corner of Avenue B and 13th St. The owner was very polite and the Wifi was free. I sipped different types of tea and wrote two long-winded entries. I originally wasn’t going to document this particular day, but I couldn’t resist. It felt so good to take a timeout, sit in a New York coffee spot, and write nearly all day long. At one point, I even went back to the apartment to pick up the adaptor for the laptop.

Despite my pledge to limit my walking and physical exertion, I decided that I needed to finally get a falafel sandwich from Mamoun’s. The St. Marks Place staple is renowned for its late hours and amazing falafel sandwich that is only $2.50. TJ was going to be back at home soon and I needed to meet her with the keys. I walked the five blocks and two avenues over to Mamoun’s and got two sandwiches to go. TJ and I hit 12th from different directions at the same time. “Do you want to get in on this?” I asked. I waved the brown bag in front of her and explained that I had finally made it to her favorite Middle Eastern spot. “Oh no, you have to eat that! It’s unbelievably good and I would hate for you to have to share it.” I told her I got two and she lost it. You would have thought that I had just given her a Porsche.

The falafel inside Mamoun’s pita bread was different from the kind I had previously from Moshe’s. Not to say that my first falafel experience wasn’t good, but this was ‘out of this world’ good. I can’t explain it. It’s incredibly tasty and incredibly cheap. The two of us sat in a blissful daze as we silently devoured our food.

A few minutes later, TJ felt that our weeklong tour of pastry and dessert did not satisfy her original desire of a simple cookie. She knew of an Ecuadorian bakery nearby and suggested that we hit it up. I followed along and we happened to run into a friend of hers that said hello and asked if we had heard about Michael Jackson. I heard that he had cardiac arrest, but she was pretty sure that he died. We parted ways and obtained the sweet bread treats that reminded us of Mi Tierra and other panaderias in our hometown.

When we got back to the apartment TJ, Sarah, Ashley, and I all confirmed via Facebook, Yahoo, TMZ, CNN, Fox, and NBC that The King of Pop had indeed passed away. It was so hard to believe. It was tough to imagine a world without Michael Jackson. I have decided not to write about it because we will all have been overloaded by the time you get to this entry. However, I will say that he was a talented musical and performance genius that will be dearly missed all over the world. I hope that people can appreciate what he contributed to music and the preforming arts, despite his tragic downfall and the controversy which followed him near the end. It makes me sad to think that he left the earth before he had a chance to really redeem himself and have his swan song moment. My heart goes out to his family, friends, and my fellow fans.

RIP

The sky was grey and it appeared that rain was going to come down at any moment on Wednesday morning. I began my walk to the Museum of Modern Art around nine o’clock. Thankfully, my destination was only at 53rd Street this time and I figured it would only take an hour or so to get there on foot. I decided to take my backpack and made a plan to replace TJ’s roommate’s umbrella, which the wind had destroyed earlier in the week here and in Atlantic City. I had already been told not to worry about it, but I felt compelled to replace the now useless umbrella because my long walks in inclement weather were the reason for its demise. In addition to my backpack, I also brought  along my Ipod. I had been listening to the car horns, passing conversations, street performances, corner sermons and crazy person rants for long enough. I missed covering long distances with music in my ears. The Blonde Redhead show in Prospect Park was set to happen on Friday night, so I decided to prepare for the event by playing all their music on my morning trip. The intensity of the soundtrack matched the overcast sky perfectly.

I stopped for my daily bagel near 4th Avenue. For some reason, every bagel I got was progressively better than the one before. Was it different butter? The time of day? The distance between the cart and the unknown bagel source? The flavors of other breads and breakfast sandwiches on the knife used to slice the bagel before it was handed over? I couldn’t figure it out, but that bagel was particularly delicious.

Duane Reade was fairly empty. I remembered TJ saying that she and Kevin bought cheap umbrellas at CVS or other pharmacy type stores. The rain hadn’t started coming down yet, but I didn’t want to put off my purchase and get stuck in a downpour. I paid for the umbrella and a Coke Zero then headed outside. The pedestrian traffic was picking up near 4th Avenue and, although I still had a long walk ahead of me, the museum didn’t open until 10:30. I figured I could write some notes at one of the tables in Union Square. It had been hard for me to add entries to the blog everyday because I was doing and seeing so much. “What a great problem to have,” I thought as I took a seat and pulled out my notebook. A feeling of overwhelming gratitude and satisfaction seized my body and brain as I began to transfer notes from my cell phone to my black spiral notebook. It felt great to know that while I could be working in a reputable and lucrative job that was not for me, I was instead sitting in a city that I always wanted to see and writing my thoughts and feelings about it. Life can be so strange and beautiful sometimes. What a difference a month makes…

My reflection and bullet-point note taking session only lasted about ten minutes. Well, at least the note taking portion only lasted that long. Reflection and evaluation become automatic daily activities when you spend numerous hours alone in a big city. This exercise can be a two-edged sword depending on one’s approach. For me, I was really beginning to appreciate the challenges and personal development I was garnering. Things were changing, for the better.

Times Square was bumping, as usual, and I noticed that I was becoming less interested in the spectacle. The title  track from “23″ blasted in my earbuds as I passed the crowds and veered over to 5th Avenue. I was only ten blocks away and was still a bit early. At 10:15, I stood outside the MoMA as a huge line began to form. City Pass in hand, I bypassed the line and headed to the information desk to get my ticket. I was once again relieved and satisfied with the purchase of my touristy “VIP” bundle. After obtaining my ticket, I was told to go to the bag check at the other end of the first floor. “The museum will open in about ten minutes, but you’ll  have to check your bag,” one of the Information ladies told me sweetly. I was eighth in the line and had some German mouth breather that wanted to share the same floor tile as me. Initially annoyed by the breach of personal space, I began to focus on why that bothered me. There was no malice in this guy’s action. He was just excited to get his bag checked and get to the exhibits. I could understand that.  I had been dealing with cramped spaces on buses, trains, and sidewalks for weeks and should’ve been accustomed to that experience. In that particular case, I decided to blow off what I would normally consider rude and continue on with my day. “I can’t control this guys actions,” I thought, “but I can certainly control my reaction.” Before I knew it, I made it to the bag check. The security guard at the window gave me a purple plastic ring with the letter “F” and some numbers on it. The guard then placed my backpack on an electronic rack behind a glass wall and told me to come back to that window to retrieve my bag later.

I joined the crowd of people at the blocked off entrance and eavesdropped on a nearby French family. Despite my inability to understand the whole conversation, I enjoyed listening to their banter. The guard at the front of the throng of people removed the barrier and we officially entered the MoMA. After my ticket was taken, I immediately jumped into the free audio tour line. I can’t say enough about audio tours. What a great way to really learn about what you are viewing. Basically you are given headphones and a handset with what looks like a telephone keypad. Various pieces and galleries throughout the museum display numbers that you enter on the pad in order to hear curators, professors, or the artists themselves describe the piece or pieces you are enjoying. The audio tour would prove to be instrumental in keeping me focused on satisfying my growing thirst for artistic knowledge and appreciation.

It is difficult for me to write about museums. I could walk you through the galleries and describe the wonderful things I saw in detail, but that would be more reserved for a museum website or travel guide. Plus, I would not want to spoil any sensations that you may encounter if you get to visit. All I can really say is that I was blown away by a lot of the things I saw. A huge installation piece composed of a family’s personal belongings, a car driven through a mountain of televisions, a gallery of music and sound of the late 70′s punk era (featuring acts like Blondie, Suicide, Television, Richard Hell and the Voidoids, The Ramones etc…) many beautiful paintings, sculptures, and photographs. I was wowed by the works of Jackson Pollock, Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, Frida Kahlo, Andy Warhol, not to mention getting to see Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” My exploration of these artists and their work was a fascinating experience. I also became a fan of artists that I had never heard of before like Jasper Johns (who I think is really great), Piet Mondrian, Roy Lichtenstein, and Joan Miro. Touring the museum, while listening to and reading as much as I could added copious amounts of fuel to my newfound fire for learning. I thought of Blanca as I stood, awestruck, in front of the amazing art before me. She is one of my best friends, a gifted artist, and a perpetual student/appreciator of art in all forms. She doesn’t get swept up in the snobby pretension that has become associated with the art scene. Her passion and pure enjoyment are truly inspirational. I’m lucky to have several friends back home that have a well developed appreciation for art and I can’t wait to become more active and involved in San Antonio’s art events and museums.

By the time I had gone through the entire museum, I was exhausted. In typical fashion, the fatigue weighed on my positive mindset and I tried to focus on mentally staying in my current surroundings. I retrieved my bag from the guard and his digital storage rack then headed out to the street. It had begun to rain. The new umbrella was a saving grace as I headed down 5th avenue. St. Thomas Church appeared on my right and I decided to go in and sit in the quiet sanctuary. The house lights were brighter than my first visit, but the church was still peaceful and inviting. Sitting in a pew, I looked up at the same sculpture upon which I first admired a week prior. The peace surrounded my spirit soothing my throbbing legs and my aching back. It felt good to sit down. I closed my eyes and savored the moment. I didn’t have to be anywhere or answer to anyone.  I knew the rain was pounding on the roof, but it was inaudible in the cavernous sanctuary.

After a peaceful half hour or so, I made my exit. I was hungry, but wanted to keep the expense light. Although I had been smart with my spending, I didn’t want to get out of the practice of being frugal. I remembered that Moshe’s sold falafel balls with sauce for $2.00. That seemed like a perfect amount of food at the time, so I tried to retrace my steps 4th avenue. “Did it cross one of the forties?” I wondered. “well, that narrows it down to ten blocks. I could end up wandering around for another hour in the rain looking for this truck” I didn’t care. I was hungry, but I really wanted to try those falafel balls and Tahini. In the meantime, I passed the famous “Nuts for Nuts” cart and knew that I had to get some. The incredible honey roasted smell that cut through the downpour penetrated my nostrils and made my stomach growl loudly. The little man handed me the bag and I shoved it in my pocket – I had falafel to find. I finally found Moshe’s about ten minutes later and was able to grab a spot on a bench under the nearby building next to a street sign that said, “Little Brazil.”  I had tried my first falafel sandwich in the plaza next to my current seat the day before that.  I wolfed down the falafel, spilled some Tahini on my shirt, and tore open the bag of nuts. The crunchy and sweet peanuts were the perfect afterthought to my much needed late afternoon meal. I people watched for a good ten minutes and tried to keep from whining to myself about my tired legs and sleepy eyes.

Despite being worn out from my continuous urban exploration, I found myself entering the New York Public Library a few moments later. I figured that I had to check out the infamous “Ghostbusters” setting and get some more pictures. Plus, I could hide from the rain and read or write something. I went through security and snapped some pictures of the large, beautiful foyer. The marble floors, various sculptures, and gigantic pillars looked stunning in the building’s dim light. I made my way through a couple of exhibits displaying the library’s history and headed upstairs to the Rose Reading Room.

The room (more of a gargantuan hall really) had dozens of long wooden tables the sat at least fifteen people on each side. I grabbed a spot marked with the number “436″ at one of the tables near the end of the large room. I sat down and decided to write Rachael a letter. I pulled out spiral notebook and was quickly reminded how terrible my penmanship gets after a few sentences. I missed her and felt that physically writing a letter, something I really don’t like to do, would be a sweet gesture — a labor of love. It felt good to pour out my personal thoughts onto paper. It felt like I hadn’t written in weeks. Everyday I become more and more aware of how blessed I am to have Rachael, Taylor, Shawn and Cole in my life. I can’t wait to see them.

I could hear the rain outside, but was unable to see it through the room’s large windows. The view of the grey sky and the quiet atmosphere inside the library made me incredibly sleepy. I still had a long walk ahead of me and I decided that I would go to bed early and not make any plans for the following day. Rachael’s letter was the first thing that I had written in days and I wanted to take time to get my thoughts down while they were fresh. I promised myself that Thursday would be a day of writing and rest.

The Guggenheim opened at 10 a.m. on Tuesday and I wanted to be there as early as possible. Located at the corner of 5th Avenue and 89th street, this would be the farthest attraction on my New York City Pass list. For the first time, I decided to make the trip without the ‘Dumbo’s feather-esque” security of my backpack. My pockets were good enough to carry what I needed. Camera, Phone, Sunglasses, City Pass, Metro card, Keys, and Wallet.

I had a restful sense of renewal and relief as I made my way up 12th street. After getting through nearly crying with homesickness the day before, I felt ready to make damn sure that I enjoyed every minute of my time in The Big Apple. The city was proving to be amazing, but I was really looking forward to a celebratory homecoming. I realize that sounds strange after being gone for only a few weeks, but if the majority of your time is spent alone then you have ample time to think and develop feelings of loneliness. This is especially true if you are a perpetual houseguest in unfamiliar places.

As I headed up 12th to 4th Avenue, I thought about the bagel that I had the day before. “I’m going to make that $.75 piece of delicious street fare a part of all of my long morning walks. I stopped at a cart on Broadway and ordered  the “wheat with butter” like a confident New Yorker. I carried the bag in my left hand while pulling off bite sized pieces as I weaved in and out of the pedestrian traffic. The total distance, one-way was seventy-seven blocks – about four miles. As usual, the high pace of the people and vehicles pushed me forward and I had to continuously slow myself down. This task had proven to be more difficult when I first got here. It seemed that I was slowly but surely gaining confidence treading the busy Manhattan sidewalks.

It took me about an hour and forty minutes to get through all the crosswalks, pockets of ‘stopping to gawk upward’ tourists, flyer pedaling promoters, and busy executives. I arrived at the Guggenheim and presented my City Pass. I skipped the line forming at the front and headed to the free audio tour booth. Photography was only allowed on the first floor foyer so I pocketed the camera and began my ascent. The Guggenheim was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and is a seven or eight level museum. The floors are accessible via a continuous ramp that spirals from the lowest level to the highest. The entire ramp to the top serves as a gallery stage for the Frank Lloyd Wright exhibit. I was blown away by the architectural drawings and models of his designs. There were so many projects that he developed, but never got to build. I was inspired by his dedication. It was obvious by the archived interviews and posted descriptions that he loved what he did. Throughout this trip to the top, there were a couple of other galleries off to the side of the ramp. I read and really took time to look over the paintings of Kandinsky, Cezanne, Monet, Manet, and Picasso. I have always felt that I don’t take the time to really stare at a piece of art and let it marinate. One of my goals on this trip is to develop a deeper appreciation for different art forms. I’m sure that some would say that, “making an effort” negates the point of truly appreciating something and that a lot of it is subjective, but I just mean that I don’t want to breeze passed things anymore. I want to become a sponge again. Somewhere along the way of this life I lost the ability to fully appreciate and comprehend certain things because of some imaginary sense of urgency; a deadline. My brain is on high speed all the time and I miss out on things right in front of me. I had been practicing being “in the moment” and, while exploring the Guggenheim, I truly felt like I was starting to get better at it.

I left the museum around two-thirty. Since it was the closest I would probably be to the North side of Central Park, I decided to walk in the opposite direction of my New York home. At the nearest park entrance, I crossed the street and made my way up a wide dirt path. The Jacqueline Onassis Reservoir was in front of me. The water was a beautiful glass reflection of the trees and distant buildings. Runners of all shapes and sizes moved passed me on either side of the path. As tired as my legs were, I longed for my running gear. This looked like the perfect place to put in some miles, but I could not be swept away enough to run in jeans. I continued north through the park and came upon some freshly manicured hills with large rocks overlooking some soccer fields and baseball diamonds. It felt great to sit. The sun was out, but I was sheltered by the shade and reassured by a gentle breeze. I called Rachael. She sounded so happy. We had spoken the night before and I let her know that I would be coming home early. It felt good to know that I would be with her again within two weeks. We chatted for a bit and I started to walk again. I hung up with her by the time I reached a fishing pond near the very top of the park. I happened upon a guy in his late teens/early twenties that was blinged out and in head to toe RocaWear. His line jerked and he reeled a nice size fish right as I passed. “Nice one!’ I cheered. He smiled and said,” that’s how its done.”

Central Park north, or 110th Street, and Malcolm X Blvd. are basically the “entry point” to the New York borough of Harlem. I walked down 110th back to 5th Avenue. The streets were relatively empty, which gave me an uneasy feeling given the time of day. I rounded Frawley Circle and made a right on 5th. I was still in Manhattan, but felt far away from my newfound familiar surroundings. The sidewalk ahead had puddles on both sides of a narrow dry strip of pavement. I was trying to avoid getting my feet wet because I had over 90 blocks to go. At the same time I started my tight rope style walk, a man in his early thirties entered the strip across from me. He wore a baseball cap, a dirty, white polo and a blue pair of Dickies. There was no avoiding him. “Say my man,” he said as he blocked my way. “You look like a nice guy and I really gotta tell you something. I’ll be honest with you. I just got out of (Something Something) correctional facility upstate yesterday, right? I’m ashamed to say that I did eight years of hard time and I have been free for two days. I’m taking care of myself and getting my life right. They hooked me up with this cooking program that supposed to keep me fed, but it’s not. It’s not a food program, but some kinda bullshit voucher that isn’t accepted anywhere.” I started to feel around my pockets. My twenty dollar bill for the day was in my right and I had a penny in the left. “You seem nice and I just want to see if there is anything you can do to help. I really just want to get a hoagie or somethin.” I looked around. There were no food carts or restaurants. I was feeling hungry too and I remembered my similar experience with Cheesesteak John on the Atlantic City Boardwalk.  This time, however, splitting a sandwich wasn’t an option. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Jaleel,” he replied. I introduced myself and we shook hands. “Thank you for the compliment Jaleel. I’m really sorry that you’re having a tough time. Unfortunately, I don’t have any money…” his face dropped a bit, “But, I have $2.50 on this Metro Card. I know thats not something to eat, but maybe that can help you get around sometime. He smiled and we shook again. “Take care, Jaleel.” “God bless you Spencer.” I hoped he could find some use for that card. “I’ll by another one,” I thought as I walked away.

Walking on 5th in the afternoon sun out was a great experience. Thus far it had been perpetually overcast and/or raining. Near the park I saw dozens of nannies out with little kids in oxfords and polos. It was like they were taking them out for their parent requested hour of “outdoors” time. The nannies ranged from little old Asian ladies to bored-out-of-their-mind college students that would intermittently glance between the kids and their Blackberries. I passed the park and The Plaza again. The Sun shone brightly on the commercial and architectural glory of 5th Avenue. I was partly taken aback by the sight of the street that I had only seen under an overcast and rainy sky. The NBA Store snuck up on me and I decided that I needed to go in and check it out. I had walked by the store when it was closed numerous times and hadn’t made any plans to visit. It was time. After checking with one of the employees about the photography policy, I began to wander around the multi-level NBA shrine and take a bunch of pictures. The floor below me was set up like a basketball court with multiple big screen televisions, hoops, padded bleachers, and life-size replicas of players like Yao Ming and Allen Iverson. Off to the side, an arcade/carnivalesque basketball game was set up. You know those games that have two side-by-side hoops and you have a minute to make more points in the basket than your opponent next to you? The game starts and five balls are released to both players. The balls are shot and roll back to each player in order for them to score as many points as they can in the allotted time. This activity was being dominated by a wild-eyed, homeless man that, “Told everyone he was the best! That’s why! That’s why!” I don’t know if his statement could be proven, but he was pretty unstoppable in the rounds that I saw. As much trash as he was talking, he was surprisingly very friendly to the children that circled the game and lined up to play him. I truly enjoyed the free show.

I realized how hungry I was after the novelty of the NBA Store was behind me. It was time to try another New York staple: Falafel. Mamoun’s had been highly touted as the famous spot for the Middle Eastern food, but I was way too far from their location at St. Mark’s Place. Plus, I had never had falafel and I wanted to try a street vendor version first in order to truly appreciate “the best,” later. I stopped at a food truck named, “Moshe’s” and ordered a whole falafel sandwich for $4.75. The man in the truck  stuffed a large pita with lettuce and tomato, four falafel balls (balls of spiced chickpeas),and covered the pocket with a sesame sauce called Tahini (the color of Thousand Island dressing). “Hot sauce?” he asked. “Just a little,” I replied. I love hot sauce of all kinds and degrees but I wanted anything to take away from or cover up the falafel taste. I sat in a public plaza and savored every minute of the sandwich. I was so hungry. This Middle Eastern, New York favorite turned out to be the perfectly filling solution. The falafel has the texture of soft hushpuppies and is complimented by the sauce. I really enjoyed it and had a difficult time pacing myself.

I still had time to kill. TJ and I were meeting at 6:30 to catch an Off Broadway production of, “Coraline.” The streets were packed. A man with a plastic bag from Duane Reade, brushed my shoulder as he passed. “Laptop, laptop, laptop, laptop,” he said quickly at a conversational volume. The bag was slim and it was obvious that this guy had really boosted a laptop. Although this was a criminal act, I was surprised and impressed by his audacity. This guy had clearly stolen a laptop and decided to solicit the sale of the merchandise, while walking amongst potential buyers. He didn’t pawn it. He didn’t sell or trade it with the numerous vendors of stolen and knock off goods on Broadway, but decided to take a direct marketing approach. I was tempted to follow him at a block’s distance and see if anyone took him up on it. Given my timeframe and the fact that “tailing’ a criminal could potentially end badly, I decided to continue my walk to the apartment.

The Strand on Broadway and 18th is a tourist sight in itself. I had seen bags for the bookstore on the train and throughout the city. ’18 Miles of Books,” is what the bags say. It is no joke. The place is four stories and has multiple nooks and crannies filled with floor to ceiling books. I wandered through the store and picked up four or five that I wanted to buy, “Well, I’m going home early anyway,” I thought, “I can spend some more money while I’m here.” A few minutes later I decided that that thought process didn’t make sense. I had five or six books that I recently purchased in San Antonio that were still unread. Putting the extra  items away, I settled on a linguistics book that seemed interesting and only cost $7. Satisfied with my decision, I made my way down 12th and noticed that I still had about half an hour to kill. 16 Handles time! Why not? I ate my frozen yogurt and read the introduction to my new book. By the time I finished I had ten minutes to get to the apartment.

I met TJ and we coordinated our plans for the evening. We rushed through the street to the West Village to catch “Coraline.” The production company for which she interns, had left tickets for us at will call and we had to get there by 7:45 to claim them. We got our tickets and were escorted to our seats. I am not a big fan of musicals necessarily, but I was absolutely blown away by this performance. The pianist was incredible! She played a single upright and different toy pianos throughout the show. She was the only musical accompaniment and sound effects source outside of the actors’ voices. The stage was brilliantly decorated and the theater felt small an intimate. There were only six or seven people in the cast and they all played multiple parts, with the exception of Coraline. The music, the acting, the lights, the crowd…all of it was incredible! After the final number, TJ and I hit the streets raving to each other about how great the show was. “Do you feel like you got your, stereotypical New York theatre experience out of the way?” she asked. Absolutely I did.

I swear TJ is on a mission to cancel out all the calories burned up by my long walks. She insisted that we go to the famous Magnolia bakery for some of their renowned cupcakes. I have already mentioned that, with the exception of frozen yogurt, I am not a “sweets” person. However, this was a matter a principle. “You’re in New York and you have to let go” I thought. I was surprised to see a line around the corner at ten o’clock on a Tuesday night. Magnolia has a devout following and is constantly busy. They even sell t-shirts. We got four different cupcakes and a small banana pudding. The pudding was insanely good. It was light, not too sweet, and had the perfect amount of fresh bananas and bits of ‘Nilla Wafers.  TJ made me try a bite of every cupcake in the box. I explained that she need to realize how special this moment was because I normally would not do that much sugar. The treats were good, but the frosting was unbelievably sweet. It was too much. I appreciated their quality and the cake part was great, but I felt gross as my cheeks pulsed in reaction to the mountain of sugar frosting I had just eaten.  I returned to the less sweet, but surely not good for you, banana pudding.

Energized by the sugar injection, TJ went into cleaning mode while I sat on the futon and made plans for the next day. I kicked some ideas around with Ashley (Sarah’s friend that is also staying for the week) and we both figured that it was going to rain the following day. I originally planned to go to the Empire State Building and do the two hour boat ride, but that wouldn’t make any sense on a rainy day. Looking through the City Pass booklet, I decided that i would continue my art appreciation efforts and take in a day at the MoMA. With my next day planned, I leaned back on the futon cushion and smiled. It was the perfect ending to another sweet day in the big city.

Up to this point, these entries have been vitamin-like in their “one a day” regularity. With that being said, this post is supposed b to cover Sunday, June 21st. However, I decided to take that day off to rest. I can sum that day up with the following list: Sleep in, Walk to Washington Square Park to read, Get rained on, Get lost and frustrated, Read at the apartment, Look up things to do in the city, Get to bed early….Let’s get to Monday.

I woke up around seven and felt like I had gotten too much sleep. The overcast, rainy weather only compounded my inability to bounce out of bed. Despite this feeling, I was excited to get started because I planned on going to the American Museum of Natural History. The route was fairly familiar, but it would be a pretty long walk.  

A few blocks into my journey, I decided to give into my growling stomach and check out one of the breakfast carts that I passed. “Can I get that wheat bagel over there? I asked the lady inside the small breakfast box. “Sure! Wheat bagel with butter for you my friend. $.75. Thank you my friend. Have a great day!” The breakfast peddler’s chipper and upbeat enthusiasm made me smile and gave and rejuvenated my spirit. I reached into the brown paper bag and pulled off a piece of the freshly made bagel. Bagels have never really been that big of a deal to me. They have always seemed like big donuts that don’t really taste like anything. I understand that you can put condiments, various meats, and/or spreads of different kinds on them but I never understood the fascination with these bread rings. That bagel, however, carried a sense of ceremony because I was enjoying the authentic New York food while joining the Monday morning commuters on the busy streets of Manhattan. I was really surprised out how good the bagel tasted. The bread was fresh and the butter bordered on that delicious edge of “just enough” and “almost obnoxious.” I walked quickly and enjoyed my meal slowly. It was an unusually surreal breakfast experience.  

On the way to the museum, I tripped over some touristy spots that I had not yet hit. Rockefeller Plaza appeared out of nowhere and I wandered around taking pictures. There was a big screen set up with bleachers behind an exhibition tennis court. The screen was erected in order to show Wimbledon matches to the passing tennis fans. Next to the bleachers and the small tennis court were circular kiosks that had Nintendo Wii setups which allowed people to battle each other in Wii Tennis. I smiled as I watched kids and adults have a blast swinging the controllers attached to miniature rackets. I continued my trek with Central Park by my side. I stopped at Tavern on the Green to get a couple of pictures. The building was closed, but I was able to get a couple shots of the sign and entrance. 

By the time I reached Central Park West and 77th I was a little tired, but the steps and pillars of the museum’s front entrance gave me a jolt. My jaw dropped as I looked at the huge foyer upon entering the building. The marble floors and very high ceiling were a sight to behold. I navigated the zig-zag line barriers in order to purchase a City Pass. A City Pass, which I did not buy in Chicago, is a bundle of admissions to various tourist type spots. In New York, this little booklet includes admission to the Museum of Natural History, The Guggenheim, The Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) The Metropolitan Art Museum, The Empire State Building Observatory, and an option for the Statue of Liberty cruise to Ellis and Liberty Island, or a two hour sightseeing cruise. I figured this pass would give me “destinations” on this trip and could potentially cut my aimless wandering to a minimum. Not that walking with nowhere to go isn’t great, but I had been doing that so much that and I figured I needed to see these places before I left anyway. The pass was only $79 and came with an additional free ticket to a show of “Cosmic Collision” in the museum’s planetarium. Sold! The guy that sold me the pass was obviously having a bad day, but I just shrugged him off and mentally hoped that he would feel better. It was Monday after all and the tourists were out in full force.

Once inside the museum I was blown away, by the exhibits for one, but even more so by the vast number of languages I heard. Throughout the day I picked out Spanish, Italian, German, Japanese, French, and  Russian. People were everywhere and the museum had only been open about twenty minutes. “I’m wary soo-prised at the wentilation in dis place. It doesn’t smeel like New York at all in heer.” said a large Russian man as I passed. The man’s companion nodded in agreement and laughed to myself because I thought that was such an interesting observation.  I walked through the exhibits on the level at which I entered and couldn’t help but think of Ricky Gervais giving Ben Stiller a hard time in the movie, “Night at The Museum.”  There were a lot of areas in the building that made me think of that film. I laughed at myself because my only reference for this landmark of a museum was a children’s movie that had come out a few years prior.

The exhibits of the animals, people, and landscapes of different regions of the planet were well put together and really fascinating. I looked over the displays and read the descriptions in order to really soak up the experience. Every now and then my legs would tighten up and fatigue would challenge me to stay in the moment. I fought hard and moved on to the planetarium. My free ticket was printed for an unreasonably early time and I spoke with a museum worker who directed me to “speak to a supervisor.” The supervisor got me into a later show and I was pointed to a set of elevators in which I would be escorted by an “operator.” The glass elevator shot up overlooking the huge sphere that I would be sitting in momentarily. I was passed off to another person in a suit and shown the way into the planetarium. The seats were almost completely filled. I found a couple rows near the exterior and settled in. “Ahhh…” It felt great to sit down. The film started as soon as I got comfortable. Robert Redford narrated a visually stunning, twenty minute film on cosmic collisions and planet formation.

After the intergalactic entertainment, I headed to what would turn out to be my favorite hall. I don’t remember the official name , but I call it, “The Ocean Room.” This is the hall that has the humungous whale hanging from the ceiling that is (*spoiler alert) shown at the conclusion of Noah Baumbach’s “The Squid and The Whale.” It is unbelievable in person. The two-level hall is completely blue and semi-dark to give it an ocean-like atmosphere. I was transfixed on the whale as I walked around. A large screen on the lower level showed a film of various marine creatures and seascapes. I took a seat on one of the benches and stared at the screen. A sense of melancholy crept into me. I really missed Rachael and the boys. I thought about how much they would love this and how their presence would increase my appreciation for the visit. Families and couples seemed to be all around me. I was enjoying my solitary discovery experience, but the miles that I walked and the smatterings of loneliness I had felt were starting to take their toll. “I’m probably just hungry,” I told myself. 

I ducked into another exhibit and, out of the sight of the security guards, took sneaky bites off the Kashi bar that I had in my pocket. There were plenty of dark corners to lean into and pretend to be studying an exhibit while enjoying the contra-banned granola. What’s funny about this is the fact that I had no idea if food was allowed or not. I wanted to be sneaky but had no clue if it was truly warranted. As I chewed on the breakfast goodness, I moved up to the fourth floor and watched the exhibit introduction featuring Meryl Streep’s narration. The fourth floor is all about dinosaurs and seems to be a patron favorite — for good reason. The fossil presentations are, in some cases, floor to ceiling and all are very impressive. I winded through the galleries and made my way to a hallway to take another break. By this point it was about three o’clock. While resting my tired legs on the hallway bench I saw a machine that imprinted dinosaur shapes on to pennies. I didn’t have any change, but thought about how much Rachael’s son Taylor might like that. “Too bad,” I thought, “that would have been a cool souvenir.” I turned my head to the left and glanced at the other benches. Something shiny on another one of the benches caught my eye. I was the only one in the area. The smashed copper coin winked at me as I picked it up. There didn’t appear to be any heartbroken kids around, so I decided to add it to my “take home” collection. I smiled as I put the miracle coin in my pocket.  

I reviewed my museum map and confirmed that I had covered the entire place. It was only four o’clock and I didn’t have to be at the Chuck Klosterman reading at the Union Square Barnes and Noble until seven. After seeing everything and feeling completely wiped out, I decided to go back to The Ocean Room. Behind the benches that face the large ocean screen, under the giant whale, was a flat, dance floor type area. I sat on the hard blue surface and stared at the passing images of various marine life. I wrapped my arms around my knees and my mind began to drift. The lonely feeling I had been fighting was starting to win. I was all alone in a sea of people. My little family was thousands of miles away. The spectacle of the museum had worn off and I had a long walk back. It occurred to me that I had another ten days here and then a week in Washington DC afterward. “How am I going to do that if I already feel this tired and lonely. I can’t believe how much I miss them” I moaned to myself. This was an unusual mental state for me. For the first time, I considered bypassing DC and going home. The difficulty of constant walking and exploration was supposed to be the point. To overcome these feelings and get through it. Right? I stood up and walked out of the museum.

“I just want to be at home. I want to hear birds, see friendly faces, and sleep in my own bed,” the woman on the museum steps fake cried into her cell phone. The perfectly timed statement resonated with me. “I can totally relate,” I thought. I looked up and saw dark clouds forming in the direction I had to walk. I had sixty blocks to go and no umbrella.

I tucked a copy of The Village Voice under my arm and headed down Central Park West deep in thought. I began wrestling with the thought of staying in New York a few days longer than planned and catching a flight home instead of a bus to DC. I cut through Times Square again and slowed myself down. “Pay attention to where you are. Be in the moment,” I encouraged myself. I grabbed some honey roasted peanuts and my first New York hot dog that were obviously made with magic and continued to Barnes and Noble. The hot dog was great, but Chicago has New York beat on that front. A farmer’s market had been set up in Union Square and I walked though, killing time. TJ sent me a text saying that she was not going to make the reading/signing after all. I told her it was ok and asked if she wanted to go eat later. I wanted her opinion about my leaving early and I felt like I needed the company of a friend.

The four-story Barnes and Noble on 17th and Broadway is quite impressive. I took the escalator to the top level and grabbed a seat in the audience. I was pretty early, but it felt good to sit. I met a couple of aspiring writers before Chuck came out to speak. We talked about San Antonio and what each of us did for a living. The area filled up with people and shortly after Klosterman was introduced. It is clear to see why he has such a cult following. I always enjoyed his articles in SPIN and had heard nothing but great things about his books. Unfortunately, I have only gotten to enjoy excerpts of his various books — they have been added to a huge list of books that I want to read. Chuck has a Tarantino-ish voice and manner. He was very expressive and enthusiastic. He was obviously a passionate man that knew who he was and it was joying watching and listening to him speak (he used his hands a lot). He explained that “readings” were typically boring so he would explain why he wrote his new novel instead of his typical, pop culture filled non-fiction. The short session really inspired me. I knew I was supposed to be there. I also knew that I was in the company of many aspiring writers and people in the publishing field. That gave me a sense of encouragement. I snapped some pictures and listened to him explain some things while engaging the audience in a witty Q and A. The hour long event flew by and before I knew it, I was on my way back to the apartment. It was eight o’clock.

My brain re-entered the ring to fight with the notion of leaving early. I hate setting a goal and not seeing it through to the end. My plan was to be gone for a month and hit three different locations. Wait, who set the rules on this journey? I did! I could do whatever I wanted. Despite this, “No one is the boss of me” pep talk, I needed a sounding board. I called my mother. As usual, she was overwhelmingly supportive. I explained that I was really in love and this trip helped nail down that aspect of my life. I knew where I wanted to live because of the people I wanted to be with. “You set out to find something and it sounds like you did,” she said. “The career stuff will come later. I’ll support you no matter what you do. I’m so proud and I love you very much. Come home” Recharged, I headed to the apartment and ran the plan by TJ. I would stay in New York for a few more days and then catch a plane to San Antonio. I emailed Rachel (not to be confused with my Rachael) in DC and apologized for the change in plans. It was bittersweet because I was relieved to know that I would be home sooner than expected, but I felt bad for canceling on my friend. She completely understood. 

TJ and I wrapped up our evening at an amazing Polish restaurant called Little Poland. The borscht, mushroom barley, kialbasy pierogi, and sauerkraut were filling and delicious. TJ was ecstatic to find a new neighborhood spot in which she planned to be a “regular.”She insisted that we get some ‘insanely good” Italian pastry for dessert.

I smiled feeling a weight off of my shoulders as we walked to the city’s famous Italian bakery, Veniero’s. I was really enjoying my trip and I felt relived that New York was no longer going to be considered the “middle stop” of my trip. We picked out our dozen various treats and a few blocks later we were back at the apartment. We devoured the box of mini canollis, creme puffs, and tarts. Although I’m not a “sweets” person, I really enjoyed the pastry as we visited. It wasn’t too sweet and  it was incredibly made. I looked at my City Pass on the table and smiled. “Everything is exactly as it should be at this moment.”