…I Have Been a Stranger in A Strange Land

Exodus 2:22

I made a solo trip to New York last week, to visit my favorite aunt. I have been to New York a few times, and have visited most of the tourist attractions at one time or another. My aunt is 90, and suffering from some (hopefully temporary) health issues, and my mission this trip was to visit her, accompany her on as many medical and other appointments as possible, and to offer assistance in whatever areas I could. I purposely scheduled my trip to include as many full weekdays as possible, so that there would be appointments to accompany her on, but I did have a full weekend there, as well, and my aunt insisted that I take some time to do something fun…

I first visited Manhattan when I was 16. I was on a six-week, around the country tour with my grandmother and a 12-year-old cousin, and NYC was a much-anticipated stop. We had each purchased a Trailways pass, and we were traveling all over the country with loose destinations in mind, but stopping where ever and whenever we saw something interesting. For my grandmother, that could have been about every quarter-mile. She never saw a historical marker she didn’t want to read, and never met a person that she was not intending to befriend. She wanted to see it all, hear it all, learn it all, and talk to everyone. I was happy to tag along, and learn from a master. She had taken me on my first trip away from home and parents at the tender age of three, when we took the train from Seattle to visit relatives in Galveston, Texas. Some of my earliest memories are from that trip, and the seeds of my love of travel were likely planted then.

New York was about three weeks into our trip, and we stayed with my aunt, who has a quintessential New York apartment in the historic Ansonia, where she has lived for 60 years. It is a beautiful building on the Upper West Side, built in 1899, and was intended to be the “grandest residence hotel in New York”. At the time, it was the largest hotel in the world. It has marble floors in the lobby, grand, wrought iron railings on a staircase that you can see all the way down from the top, gargoyles, rounded turret corners, and is truly magnificent. It has housed many famous artists, composers, conductors, opera singers. My uncle was an opera singer, and my aunt is a classical pianist and music teacher.

The building is only a few blocks from Central Park, and for our visit, my aunt had given us strict instructions regarding our travels within the city, and had told us we were not to even walk on the same side of the street as the park. Central Park in the 1970’s was much different than it is today. She made it sound like zombies and drug dealers would reach out from the bushes and pull us over the fence, and she had my grandmother thoroughly convinced. At 16, I thought I was all grown up, and being under the constant watchful eye of my grandmother had begun to chafe a little. I am a person who really likes her alone time, and I was itching to get out on my own a bit. So how I was allowed to make a brief solo venture out onto the streets of Manhattan remains a mystery to me, but the feeling of freedom on that short walk has stuck with me for almost 40 years. I knew my allotted time was brief, so I was in hyper-alert mode, trying to take in as much as I could. What I remember thinking was how at home I felt, in a city full of strangers that I had never before visited. I didn’t feel like a tourist that stuck out in an obvious way, but I felt like I was kin to every other person who had found their way to this magnetic city, and that we were all connected by being together in this place, when we were all probably from somewhere else. The desire to experience the city as if I lived there was strong, and that feeling has never left. It shaped the way I like to experience travel now; I want to be immersed. I want to pretend like I live there. I want to shop at the market for just enough ingredients for one meal, and mingle with the locals. The current ads for Airbnb cater to that kind of traveler…their slogan, “Belong anywhere”, speaks to that desire to blend in, feel at home, learn about the neighborhood and culture, and truly experience a new place. Sure, it’s nice to stay at resorts and be pampered at the spa and spread your towel on a beach that has been raked free of everything but the sand. Been there, done that. If someone else is paying, I am happy to do it some more. But when I travel alone, what I really want to do is watch people, observe, and truly feel what it is like to be there.

On subsequent trips to New York, I always had family in tow. I wanted to show them the sights, do the touristy things, pack in as much as we could. My aunt was always ready with a detailed itinerary, down to handwritten instructions on subway and bus routes, what things to see, what order to see them in. New York can be overwhelming, and the help was always much appreciated. She was used to playing host and tour guide, and being a seasoned New Yorker, she had a level of endurance that was tough to keep up with. Those trips were exciting and gratifying, but the whirlwind always left me feeling like next time, I wanted be able to carve out some time to experience the place on my own terms. I am grateful for being able to see the highlights. One of my most cherished photographs was taken on the observation deck of the World Trade Center, and is of my aunt and my oldest son, who was three at the time. It is a poignant picture, in which you see their profiles as they look out over the city. Every year, on 9/11, I think about that day, and how for us, that morning stop was the first of many in a jam-packed day. On another fateful morning, that was the last sight for many. To have stood on the very roof where years later, masses of people were gathered, hoping to be rescued, makes that tragedy seem more real, and makes the world feel smaller and more intimate.

This trip, since I was traveling alone, I really wanted to spend some time wandering aimlessly, people-watching, and experiencing the city in my own way. I spent my first free day visiting some favorite museums, and I thoroughly enjoyed being able to allocate my time and attention to what I was interested in seeing. Viewing art is such a personal experience…best done alone, I believe. Saturday was the worst possible day to visit the Museum of Natural History, as it was full of ankle-busting strollers and wild toddlers. Having done it from top to bottom on every prior trip, I stayed there just long enough to see the newest addition to the dinosaur wing. Next stop was the Metropolitan Museum. I spent the next six hours blissfully wandering my favorite wings, and breezing through areas that interested me the least. When I left the museum, I strolled along 5th Avenue toward the crosstown bus. I passed one uber-luxury building after another, each replete with uniformed doorman and the trappings of the rich. As I was passing one building, a doorman darted out into the street, and stood in the middle lane to aggressively hail a cab. I loitered for a moment to see for whom he was getting the cab, curious to catch a glimpse of a member of the Tribe of the Truly Entitled. Out popped a (oldish) dad with his son, who was suited up for soccer practice. They jumped into the cab, and without a backward glance or a thank you to the doorman, zoomed off. I was unimpressed and not surprised. I hope the holiday bonus envelope, if there is one, makes up for the ingratitude shown to the help. Probably not.

The second free day, armed with my subway/bus pass and a map of Manhattan, I set out to meander, and to see where I would wind up. One of my chief complaints about big cities is the lack of available sunshine on the floors of the canyons between skyscrapers. So my first destination on Sunday was the elevated park known as the High Line, which runs from the Flower District through the Art District to the Meatpacking District, along Chelsea. I had seen an article about it in Sunset Magazine, and I was curious about it. (Urban planning and park design being one of the many career interests that I did not pursue.) Apparently, the city dwellers are sunshine seekers, as well, and the park was very crowded. It was a crisp, clear day, but the sun felt warm and the views were beautiful. The park is built on an old railway, and is landscaped with ornamental grasses and loose plantings of native trees and shrubs. All of the dried grasses had been left in place, and were full of birds, preening and singing. It was a delightful mile-long walk, with interesting sculptures and art dotting the way. From there, I walked through Chelsea, and stopped for lunch in the Chelsea Market, which is reminiscent of Pike Place Market, if you have been to Seattle.

The Market was full of Sunday shoppers, and being lunchtime, the restaurants were extremely busy. This is a place where you pick your restaurant, purchase the food, then take it out into the hall and try to find a table or ledge to perch your meal. After a brief search, I got lucky and found a free spot at a six-inch shelf built around a wood post, a perfect place to people watch while I ate my soup. I was soon joined by a father and child, this time a teenage girl. I tried not to be obvious about eavesdropping on their conversation, which is impossible to avoid when your meals are teetering inches from each other. I listened with amusement at the awkward conversation. I am not sure if it was “Dad’s weekend” or he was just appallingly inept at connecting with his child, but he went on, ad nauseam, about each ingredient of their tacos, as if they were the first tacos they had ever experienced, and I could feel the vibrations of her eye-rolling as he expounded on the virtues of cilantro. From the appearance of his “casual Sunday outing” attire, he looked like a workaholic who was spending time with a child he barely knew, and had obviously not spent enough time with to know that it was no longer necessary to explain things to her as if she were a four-year old. I was then dumbstruck, when, after they finished eating, they just walked away, leaving their garbage, drinks, and food scraps just sitting there, taking up precious dining real estate. Clearly, these were people who were used to having a staff pick up after them. My fifteen year-old son has better sense and manners. I hope the glob of pico de gallo on the tip of his thousand-dollar shoes remained stuck there all day.

I finished my lunch, and realized that I had lost my map, so using my phone GPS, went in search of the nearest hotel, where I planned to beg another free map off the concierge. I find the most interesting things and places when I am “off track”. I don’t use the word lost, since I always know where I am, I just may not know yet which way I am about to head… The nearest hotel happened to be the “High Line Hotel”, a Gothic Parisian-style palace that was formerly a theological seminary, and before that, was the home on a 17th century apple orchard. The owner of the Chelsea estate, retired British General Clement Clark Moore, wrote “Twas the Night Before Christmas” there. It is decorated with Victorian antiques, and looks like it would be a wonderful place to stay sometime. Best news, the concierge was happy to give me a replacement map, which I would go on to drop, and have to go back looking for, numerous additional times before the night was over. The concierge must have been clairvoyant, because she asked if I really only wanted one. Next time, I will take as many as are offered, and put one in each pocket, just in case. Fortified once again with paper map in hand, on I went.

I took the subway a few stops down the line, and got off in Greenwich Village. I popped into a church that looked intriguing, “Our Lady of Pompeii”. I was not quite to Little Italy, but with the name, the location at Bleeker and Carmine, and the Italian restaurants all around, I may as well have been. I rested on a pew inside for a moment, admiring the stained glass and Christmas decorations, and gave a brief prayer of gratitude. I then made my way to Washington Square Park, in search of the Arch. One of my favorite movies, When Harry Met Sally, features the Arch in two scenes: In the first, it is where Sally drops Harry off, after their long drive from Chicago, and they part ways, seemingly forever. In the second, at the end of the movie, Harry is out wandering aimlessly on New Year’s Eve, and as he passes the Arch, the understanding starts to come to him that he loves Sally, and he begins to run, to find her and tell her. So romantic. The park is not large, but feels very “New York”…the Arch, a man playing a grand piano, planted incongruously in the middle of the park path, the performers in a drained fountain, the men lined up along the benches with their chess boards at the ready, offering a game. I had a sudden urge to go back to college, and to enroll at NYU, the campus of which surrounds the park. The area feels so intellectual, and cultural.

I continued on my journey toward SoHo, and did a little shopping, both window and actual. I enjoyed watching the people around me, and making note of what they were wearing. The men tended to be better dressed than the women. Even the casually dressed men had nice watches, cool shoes, trendy jackets and jauntily tied neck scarves, many in patterns that you would only see on women, elsewhere. Even the hoodies were trendier…on the subway, I saw a young man in a beautiful Peruvian knit hoodie, and he carried a canvas and leather backpack. Same elements that you see everywhere, just stepped up in style. The women tended to be either clad in some variation of the uniform of the Lululemon cult, or in long, black down jackets, the kind that resemble a sleeping bag, and only the truly thin can pull off successfully. As I wandered, I heard the sounds of unrest, and so I followed the noise, and came upon a protest. It was outside “Canada Goose”, and the group was protesting the use of goose down, fur trim, and general animal misuse. There were quite a few police standing by, barricades on the sidewalk to delineate where the shoppers could enter the store, where the protesters could march up and down, and everyone else could pass through the middle on the sidewalk. Other than an accidental stumbling into a Seattle May Day riot-fest, from which I fled for fear of being maced, this was the first protest I have witnessed, so I sauntered right over and chatted up the nearest protester. He told me that the group lined up waiting to enter the store (all Asian) had been there for 45 minutes. The noise was deafening, with whistles, screaming, and cow bells, and I am not sure how they could stand there that long. They must have really wanted those down coats. Just to say I had, and to get pictures of some of the signs, I walked down the middle corridor. I went across the street to the outdoor outfitter “IceBreaker” to browse, and mentioned to the clerk that they were lucky all they did was shear the sheep, or they, too, could have the protesters outside their store. He laughed nervously, and agreed. With the daylight dwindling, my ears ringing, and my knee performing its own protest, I moved on.

My goal for the day had been to wind up after dark at Rockefeller Center, to look at the Christmas tree and skating rink. Fat chance. This is where the real crowds were, complete with police and barricades to contain the masses. I had taken the subway to Grand Central, which looked vintage and lovely, with holiday lights and tasteful wreathes, and then planned to walk through Times Square and wind up at the Plaza. The closer I got to my destination, the more crowded it became. I found myself on 5th Avenue outside Saks, where every inch, and I mean EVERY inch, of the building is decorated and lighted. As I was trying to push my way past the crowds, suddenly, the entire face of the building erupted in a blaze of lights, and deafening carols came out of loudspeakers. I realized that the corralled hordes of people across the street were there to view what was directly above my head. I watched the short show, then plotted my escape. I decided that two blocks away was close enough to Rockefeller Center, and I had reached my limit of holiday commercialization and cheer. So I returned to Times Square and the subway station, which seemed blissfully quiet compared to the Block of Holiday Over-Stimulation. I made my way back to the hotel to fall, exhausted, into bed, a successful day of solo exploration completed.

I have been back home a few days now, and have been processing my thoughts about my trip, I know many people routinely travel to New York for business, for me, it is still an exotic treat. Being a life-long West-Coaster, we commonly refer to rude and aggressive behavior as being “East Coast”. I certainly encountered no shortage of that in New York: unhelpful and short-tempered 311 operators, cabbies, and clerks. Aggressive drivers, walkers, shopping cart pushers. A woman who was so vile and un-called-for rude in an elevator, because we had the audacity to have pushed the call button and caused a brief stop in her elevator descent, that she surely must have been mentally deranged. But, I also encountered many instances of kindness. Cab drivers who were so gentle with my aunt, while loading her wheelchair into the accessible cabs, the home health care aides that accompanied us on long days of appointments, each and every person who, when I asked for directions, unplugged and stopped what they were doing, and graciously pointed me in the right direction. The birdwatcher in Central Park that paused in his pursuit of a Black Crowned Night Heron to chat with me. The Central Park pedicab driver who was happy to modify his route for me, make sure I was covered with a blanket, and deliver me to the front steps of the Metropolitan Museum, because my knee hurt and I had a bad cold, and I didn’t feel like walking to the bus. The thing I was most struck by was watching native New Yorkers respond to rude behavior with unswerving patience. Things that would have riled me right up to maximum level indignation didn’t seem to ruffle their feathers at all. After watching this over and over, I came to the conclusion that they become immune to that sort of behavior, but more importantly, they know that to give in to that anger and hostility would be to give it fuel, and with so many people in such a small space, it could easily become like a hill of savage ants, biting each other’s heads off with their giant jaws. So they stop it in its tracks. Sort of the opposite of “pay it forward”, they pull it back…a very good lesson for the Queen of Impatience (that would be me). If I exercised the level of tolerance that I witnessed in them, the world around me would certainly be a better place.

New York is a city like no other, and while I breathe much easier when I can see the horizon, I will never pass up a chance to visit the City that Never Sleeps, learn from its inhabitants, and feel at home in a city full of strangers.