Thankful that there are so many tourists you don't feel stupid.
Standing on a corner, juggling three maps, figuring out which way to go. Asking somebody.
Or somebody seeing you juggling maps, and stops and asks where you want to go. And tells you a better way to get there.
The first glimpse of the city, walking up the stairs from Penn Station at dusk, as the street lights glow in a rainy Friday night.
Trying to look at everything at once.
The "I'm in a movie" feeling.
The "I'm such a tourist" feeling.
Buying umbrellas on the street for two dollars because it won't stop raining.
Dropping off the guys at Yankee Stadium (old and new), seeing it for the first time, finally sunny for the Saturday game, following the people in the subway in Yankee hats and jerseys up to 161st Street.
Later to Washington Square, playgrounds full of parents and little kids, college students studying on benches, friends chatting, couples holding hands. Buying bottled tea from a corner vendor.
Nearby a street fair, buying corn-bread pancakes filled with melted motzerella. Real lemonade for $1. Pashima scarves in every color of the world, just $5. Stocking up for winter. Chinese ladies giving us shoulder massages.
On McDougall, finding hummus, fresh, wonderful hummus for lunch, with just-baked, still-warm pitas. Stuffed grape leaves. Regretting ever buying hummus in plastic at Kroger.
Strolling into the Kate Spade store and wanting everything.
Finding Old St. Patrick's, a relic of Mother Teresa on display.
Skirting a blocks-long street fair in Little Italy, that had traffic in a knot all around it, white, red and green arches stretching on and on overhead.
Meeting the guys after the game, sitting down and sharing slices of floppy, warm New York pizza.
Riding the 1 train to Canal Street. Following the crowd to Ground Zero. Flowers, so many flowers, stuck in the fence, wilting slightly.
Construction loud and active even on a Saturday night. Over the Vesey Street walkway, buying souvenirs from the vendors. Taking pictures of the pit.
Trying to figure out how to get to Battery Park, tips from a lady who walked by and helped us, who said, "Just walk through that building, it's a nicer walk than on the street." And she was right.
Walking around the south tip of Manhattan, passing yet another 9/11 memorial, yachts at a marina, around the corner and there is the Statue of Liberty. Taking more pictures. Seeing the torch alight even as we watched.
Dozens of flags drifting in an evening breeze in Battery Park.
A packed Staten Island ferry, boys with skateboards roughhousing, the Brooklyn Bridge with waterfall, the Manhattan Bridge, the Statue of Liberty, this time close up.
Wall Street looking substantial and solid on the outside; somewhere inside the walls, financial institutions are crumbling, as we walk by, taking pictures.
The bells of Trinity Church ringing over all.
Rockefeller Center. Flags and fountains. 30 Rock. Lunch under an umbrella at the cafe, too expensive but too fun to skip.
Window shopping on 5th Avenue, buying toys at F.A.O. Schwartz, tourists and locals with bags and bundles. The toy soldier guy.
Finding Central Park, sudden stillness a sidewalk away. A blue-gray spray-painted Statue of Liberty lady posing for picture for $1. Break dancers entertaining for tips. Carriages and bike-carts. The lawns scattered with blankets and picnics and kids and nappers. Carnival rides just beyond in a meadow.
Walking over a stone bridge, turtles sunning themselves on a rock, the horizon of trees backed by the city skyline.
Souvenir shopping one last time in Time Square, double-taking at the Naked Cowboy Guy, a last glance back as we go into Penn Station.
Long drive home.
Paying for lunch today, I found a subway pass still in my wallet.
Showing posts with label New York City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York City. Show all posts
Friday, September 19, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
96 hours
On Thursday at 7 p.m. we were driving down SR205 in DeKalb County, slicing a yellow and green soybean field in two.
By Friday at 7 p.m. I was in Times Square, New York City, stepping through puddles as we crossed Broadway, dazzled by the lights, caught in the crowd, not minding the rain.
On Saturday at 10 a.m., I was in the Bronx, facing Yankee Stadium(s), the old on the left, the new on the right.
At 11:30 a.m., I was on the streets of Greenwich Village, then Soho, then Little Italy, and back to the Village, drinking a soda in Washington Square.
At 5 p.m., I was at Ground Zero, fences full of bouquets, a pit full of construction.
At 7 p.m. I was walking towards Battery Park at the southern tip of Manhattan, on my way to the Staton Island Ferry.
On Sunday at 10 a.m., I stood at the spot on Wall Street where George Washington was inaugurated.
At 11:30 a.m., I was walking among a moving river of people over the Brooklyn Bridge.
At 1 p.m., I was lunching in Rockefeller Center under a canopy of canvas umbrellas, sipping pink lemonade.
At 3 p.m., I bought toys in F.A.O. Schwartz.
At 4 p.m, I paused by The Pond in Central Park and took pictures of a dozen turtles sunning themselves on a rock.
At 7 p.m., I were flying down interstate 80, the New York skyline in the rearview mirror.
By Monday at 7 p.m., New York souveniers were delivered to those who had stayed behind.
Somehow, I'm still hearing the roar of the subway coming up from the street grates, the guy in the red BMW convertible yelling "A--hole!" to the taxi that had just cut him off, the old man asking for just a couple bucks for his medicine, the jazz wafting in Washington Square, cacophony of Times Square, the quiet in Central Park.
Maybe, maybe, a little of that energy came along for the ride home to Indiana. Maybe.
By Friday at 7 p.m. I was in Times Square, New York City, stepping through puddles as we crossed Broadway, dazzled by the lights, caught in the crowd, not minding the rain.
On Saturday at 10 a.m., I was in the Bronx, facing Yankee Stadium(s), the old on the left, the new on the right.
At 11:30 a.m., I was on the streets of Greenwich Village, then Soho, then Little Italy, and back to the Village, drinking a soda in Washington Square.
At 5 p.m., I was at Ground Zero, fences full of bouquets, a pit full of construction.
At 7 p.m. I was walking towards Battery Park at the southern tip of Manhattan, on my way to the Staton Island Ferry.
On Sunday at 10 a.m., I stood at the spot on Wall Street where George Washington was inaugurated.
At 11:30 a.m., I was walking among a moving river of people over the Brooklyn Bridge.
At 1 p.m., I was lunching in Rockefeller Center under a canopy of canvas umbrellas, sipping pink lemonade.
At 3 p.m., I bought toys in F.A.O. Schwartz.
At 4 p.m, I paused by The Pond in Central Park and took pictures of a dozen turtles sunning themselves on a rock.At 7 p.m., I were flying down interstate 80, the New York skyline in the rearview mirror.
By Monday at 7 p.m., New York souveniers were delivered to those who had stayed behind.
Somehow, I'm still hearing the roar of the subway coming up from the street grates, the guy in the red BMW convertible yelling "A--hole!" to the taxi that had just cut him off, the old man asking for just a couple bucks for his medicine, the jazz wafting in Washington Square, cacophony of Times Square, the quiet in Central Park.
Maybe, maybe, a little of that energy came along for the ride home to Indiana. Maybe.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
About, winter is so over
For me, anyway, and I call tell you exactly when it happened: 3:45 p.m. on Monday, February 11. On Broadway. In New York City.
We Hoosiers had brought not just ourselves and our luggage to the city--we'd brought the coldest temperatures New Yorkers had seen this winter. Lucky us! Lucky them! No one thanked us, though.
After a day of seminars, our group of five took off walking from our hotel, also on Broadway, down that "Great White Way" to the Historic Ed Sullivan Theater. We were on standby to see the Letterman show being filmed, and had to be in front of the little souvenir shop by 3:30.
Three of our party were standby numbers 12, 13, and 14; another co-worker and I were 20 and 21. That did not bode well, I knew.
The street was alive with frozen New Yorkers; everyone in dark coats and scarves around their faces and quick steps. The temperature was in the teens, and the wind, funneled by those tall buildings, was more than brisk--we were walking Popsicles.
A frigid little group of Letterman wannabees were waiting when we arrived, and we chatted and took pictures as we waited. I lost the feeling in my nose and ears, having left my ear warmers in my room.
A few minutes passed, and a young woman with a clipboard came out of the shop; I crossed my fingers. We'd been hoping the cold had kept people away.
"I need numbers one through 14 to line up over here; get your ID out!" she ordered. "The rest of you I don't need!"
Crash. If I was cold before, I was frozen now. No Letterman for me -- no top 10 list, no Paul Shafer, no Dave. Just a long shivery disappointed walk back to the Marriott.
We'd walked about a block when it hit me: I was sick of winter. Sick of the cold, of the wind, of the potential for frostbite. I was ready for winter to be over, in Indiana, and in New York City. If I couldn't go to Letterman...I wanted it to at least be warm. I wanted to be able to enjoy the lights, the shows, the shops, the people. Instead, I just wanted to GET WARM.
NYC got worse before it got better, on our trip--the next day, while it was slightly warmer, it started snowing, and everything got slushy--later, it kind of sleeted, then got mixed, then just poured. Our flight home was delayed on Wednesday.
Winter's far from over, officially, but it's done for me...and anyway, I always celebrate March 1 as the beginning of meteorological spring. Only 11 days!
How about you? Are you done with winter?
We Hoosiers had brought not just ourselves and our luggage to the city--we'd brought the coldest temperatures New Yorkers had seen this winter. Lucky us! Lucky them! No one thanked us, though.
After a day of seminars, our group of five took off walking from our hotel, also on Broadway, down that "Great White Way" to the Historic Ed Sullivan Theater. We were on standby to see the Letterman show being filmed, and had to be in front of the little souvenir shop by 3:30.
Three of our party were standby numbers 12, 13, and 14; another co-worker and I were 20 and 21. That did not bode well, I knew.
The street was alive with frozen New Yorkers; everyone in dark coats and scarves around their faces and quick steps. The temperature was in the teens, and the wind, funneled by those tall buildings, was more than brisk--we were walking Popsicles.
A frigid little group of Letterman wannabees were waiting when we arrived, and we chatted and took pictures as we waited. I lost the feeling in my nose and ears, having left my ear warmers in my room.
A few minutes passed, and a young woman with a clipboard came out of the shop; I crossed my fingers. We'd been hoping the cold had kept people away.
"I need numbers one through 14 to line up over here; get your ID out!" she ordered. "The rest of you I don't need!"
Crash. If I was cold before, I was frozen now. No Letterman for me -- no top 10 list, no Paul Shafer, no Dave. Just a long shivery disappointed walk back to the Marriott.
We'd walked about a block when it hit me: I was sick of winter. Sick of the cold, of the wind, of the potential for frostbite. I was ready for winter to be over, in Indiana, and in New York City. If I couldn't go to Letterman...I wanted it to at least be warm. I wanted to be able to enjoy the lights, the shows, the shops, the people. Instead, I just wanted to GET WARM.
NYC got worse before it got better, on our trip--the next day, while it was slightly warmer, it started snowing, and everything got slushy--later, it kind of sleeted, then got mixed, then just poured. Our flight home was delayed on Wednesday.
Winter's far from over, officially, but it's done for me...and anyway, I always celebrate March 1 as the beginning of meteorological spring. Only 11 days!
How about you? Are you done with winter?
Friday, February 15, 2008
About when you go to New York City
When you go to New York City, maybe you become someone that usually you're not. Maybe you're better looking, or cooler, or smarter, or even younger.
Maybe, when you go to New York City, you decide to change your name, because when your name is "Cathy," everyone knows you are a middle-aged woman born in the '50s, or so. And that's okay, but maybe you just feel like being someone different. Or maybe I mean better, or maybe, more interesting.
So maybe, before you go to New York City, you decide that your new nickname will be "Kit," because that seems maybe cooler and hipper and, you know, sophisticated.
And maybe your family thinks this is a hoot when you tell your plan, and your son says, "Mom, it's just really lame to give yourself a nickname."
Lame exercise, or master of one's destiny?
So maybe you really do begin feeling a little more Kit-ish as your plane swings around and you see the city below, and the lights are the universe and it's a place maybe you could be a Kit in.
And you climb in a cab and say, "Times Square" and there you go past landmark after landmark and oh my gosh, you're on CENTRAL PARK WEST, it's a real place and not just a set on Sex In the City. (And also, OH MY GOSH, the cab almost hit that lady crossing the street.)
And just seeing that sign by the park makes you feel thinner and younger and better-dressed and thinking that a friend named "Kit" might have fit in with the Sex In the City girls.
And then we're driving down Broadway and it's all bright lights, big city, and even though the frigid weather has traveled, too, from Fort Wayne to NYC, the streets are full of people going somewhere and everywhere, and here you are with them -- me, "Kit" -- and wherever the city's energy comes from, suddenly, you've got it too. And even though you've been traveling all. day. long. you want to change clothes and go somewhere fun and have a drink and be witty and laugh and feel very ... not Cathy-ish. Carrie-ish.
When you are in NYC, it's easy to forget you're a Hoosier/Buckeye kind of girl, and pretend for a day or three that you're at home in Manhattan. And as you're walking down Broadway, you are at home, because in your black coat and slacks and with a scarf around your face, you blend in with every other frigid pedestrian.
And for three days, as you go to conference seminars and run around the hotel and go out for dinner in very cool places and look out at Times Square from your hotel room, it's easy to be Kit. It's easy to be anyone you want to be, somehow.
Back on the plane, flying home from LaGuardia, do you feel Kit slipping away from you, and Cathy sneaking in again?
Nah--we're all me. I'm pretty well integrated, and comfortable in my skin. Call me what you will, I'll always be (mostly) Cathy. And really, those Sex In the City girls live about as alien a lifestyle from me as if they were from another planet. It's fun to play, though--kind of like playing dress-up when you're little.
How about you? What's your new label?
Maybe, when you go to New York City, you decide to change your name, because when your name is "Cathy," everyone knows you are a middle-aged woman born in the '50s, or so. And that's okay, but maybe you just feel like being someone different. Or maybe I mean better, or maybe, more interesting.
So maybe, before you go to New York City, you decide that your new nickname will be "Kit," because that seems maybe cooler and hipper and, you know, sophisticated.
And maybe your family thinks this is a hoot when you tell your plan, and your son says, "Mom, it's just really lame to give yourself a nickname."
Lame exercise, or master of one's destiny?
So maybe you really do begin feeling a little more Kit-ish as your plane swings around and you see the city below, and the lights are the universe and it's a place maybe you could be a Kit in.
And you climb in a cab and say, "Times Square" and there you go past landmark after landmark and oh my gosh, you're on CENTRAL PARK WEST, it's a real place and not just a set on Sex In the City. (And also, OH MY GOSH, the cab almost hit that lady crossing the street.)
And just seeing that sign by the park makes you feel thinner and younger and better-dressed and thinking that a friend named "Kit" might have fit in with the Sex In the City girls.
And then we're driving down Broadway and it's all bright lights, big city, and even though the frigid weather has traveled, too, from Fort Wayne to NYC, the streets are full of people going somewhere and everywhere, and here you are with them -- me, "Kit" -- and wherever the city's energy comes from, suddenly, you've got it too. And even though you've been traveling all. day. long. you want to change clothes and go somewhere fun and have a drink and be witty and laugh and feel very ... not Cathy-ish. Carrie-ish.
When you are in NYC, it's easy to forget you're a Hoosier/Buckeye kind of girl, and pretend for a day or three that you're at home in Manhattan. And as you're walking down Broadway, you are at home, because in your black coat and slacks and with a scarf around your face, you blend in with every other frigid pedestrian.
And for three days, as you go to conference seminars and run around the hotel and go out for dinner in very cool places and look out at Times Square from your hotel room, it's easy to be Kit. It's easy to be anyone you want to be, somehow.
Back on the plane, flying home from LaGuardia, do you feel Kit slipping away from you, and Cathy sneaking in again?
Nah--we're all me. I'm pretty well integrated, and comfortable in my skin. Call me what you will, I'll always be (mostly) Cathy. And really, those Sex In the City girls live about as alien a lifestyle from me as if they were from another planet. It's fun to play, though--kind of like playing dress-up when you're little.
How about you? What's your new label?
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