Just in Time: A New York Trip

I had time to write something before my blog publication deadline last week. Heck, I even gained a little extra time by flying three hours ahead; I figured that when I landed in New York on Thursday morning, I could find a place to sit with my laptop and bang something out before 10:00 Pacific Time. So I put it off. Then I found myself at the Portland airport late Wednesday night stressing about a flight that kept getting delayed. I had my laptop open at the only airport restaurant that was still serving—barely. (I ordered a beer just before last call.) By 11:00 I was supposed to be boarding a red-eye to Washington, D.C., which would then connect to a flight to New York City. The red-eye didn’t take off until 1:00 AM. My original connection was shot. Earlier that night the airline had rebooked me on a later flight from Washington to New York, but failed to mention that I was on standby. On my laptop at the about-to-be-closed brewpub in Portland, I pinged the United website from every angle to confirm that, nope, I did not have a seat assignment on that plane. My first day in New York, which made up 25% of my whole vacation, was not going to be much of a day after all. I’d be arriving five hours later than planned, and more if I didn’t get off the standby list for that flight.

I had to quell the resentment and get down to business. I’m nothing if not efficient. I plan my travels for an optimal balance between time spent at the destination, time spent in transit, and time spent away from my family. When transport is delayed, it disrupts the balance. I’d planned for four days in New York: two full days in the middle with the better part of two days on either end. Now that first bookend day was going to be eaten up by hours of waiting at the Washington airport? Hell no. I Googled the drive time from D.C. to New York and found that it was equivalent to the layover period. So I reserved a rental car. I’d been wanting to take an East Coast road trip anyway. I shut my laptop and awaited the fate of my airplane.

I try to do something new every time I visit New York. There are always different restaurants to go to but I like to change up the museums, parks, activities, and neighborhoods. This time I started right off with the novel experience of driving into Manhattan, where normally I get around by foot and by subway. From the Holland Tunnel I only had to go a short way to West 24th Street and 8th Avenue, and every bit was terrifying. I come from the wide open highways of Northern California and Oregon. Panic closed in on me like the buildings rising on either side of the narrow street. Drivers honked at me and I didn’t understand why. I had visions of abandoning the car and calling the rental company in tears, asking them to come move it for me.

It was 4:00 PM by the time I bade the car good riddance and headed for my hotel. Four hours earlier, I’d been somewhere in Maryland when I got a text that I’d been removed from standby for that connecting flight. I could have gotten into the city significantly earlier, but I had no energy for regret. I’d been traveling for nineteen hours. Still, I wanted to explore while there was daylight, so instead of resting on my hotel bed I took the subway to the East Village and walked around, then had dinner at a Chinese restaurant. I flagged quickly, especially after drinking a glass of wine. I was supposed to go to a comedy club for an 8:30 show that night. The club called my cell phone at 8:31, wondering if I was going to honor my reservation, but by then I was in bed. Another New York first: missing a show that I had a ticket for.

One of my goals this trip was to do some capital-S Shopping. Normally I buy some small souvenirs and shove them into a carry-on bag that’s already stuffed with clothing. This time I’d strategized that my carry-on suitcase could become checked luggage on the way back, leaving room for a new shopping bag full of goodies that I could take onto the plane. I can’t afford the higher tiers of Manhattan shopping, but I gave myself permission to use some tax refund money on a few nicer things should I come across them—jewelry, toys for the kid, tchotchkes, whatever. Mostly I wanted to find some nice-ish clothes. I spent too much time inside a boutique in Nolita, trying on things the eager salesperson kept bringing to my dressing room. (“How do you feel about a jumpsuit? We have one I think you’d really like.”) The garments I ended up buying were probably overpriced, as I inspected them a little more closely later on, but not egregiously so. I wore some of them during my trip when the clothes I’d brought with me got sweaty from walking in the springtime warmth.

Saturday was forecast to be hot, so I dressed in a new pair of black linen shorts from the boutique and a “RESIST” T-shirt from home. In the hot afternoon I embarked on another first: riding a rental bike through Central Park. I love biking and have never gotten to see parts of New York that way. After paying the rental fee, I had a bike thrust into my hands and quickly moved aside to make way for the next customers. Starting at the south end of the park, I rode north to 102nd Street. I dismounted a few times to take in the sights and started to notice, above the city din, an awful ripping sound when I spread my legs over the bike seat. Reluctantly, I looked down. My new shorts were torn in the crotch. Linen doesn’t make for good activewear. The more I moved, the more they ripped. I can’t say it was the first time I’d exposed my underwear to a city full of people, since I’ve done the World Naked Bike Ride in Portland. It also wasn’t the first time I’d been embarrassed in New York. (See prior driving experience.) Let’s call it the first time I visited T.J. Maxx in New York, looking for an emergency pair of replacement pants.

I had never seen a performance by a real Broadway superstar, but on the second night of my trip I got that opportunity with Jonathan Groff. He broke the fourth wall by introducing himself as himself before sidling into the role of Bobby Darin in a biographical musical. I can’t say the show itself was amazing, but it was damn fun, and Groff was completely magnetic. He played the role of a singer who died too young, so during the closing scenes he reminded us all to “be here now” because now is all we have. I thought of my friend with end-stage cancer, and how I’d just read the news that she’s entering hospice care, waiting in the airport two nights prior. This will be my first real friend to die in adulthood. She would have enjoyed the show.

I’m so lucky to be alive, well, and financially comfortable enough to spend four days in New York City. But I’m getting older and may need to change my physical approach next time. The constant walking is brutal on my lower back. It started hitting me pretty early on the second day, putting a damper on my enjoyment. When I sat down for meals or coffee breaks, I tried to linger to give my body a good rest, but I was too antsy to get back onto the street. By the end of the trip, my back ached with every bend, and I joined the elderly and infirm in sitting on benches at museums and subway platforms. This level of activity won’t be worth it if my back fails before I turn fifty. I will figure out how to better care for my body so I can keep sightseeing as much as possible, cramming experiences into this one life I’ve got.