Tuesday night, October 26
Never in my entire life have I spent so much time getting ready for a trip. For over a month I’ve been planning to pack the perfect outfits. I would wear an outfit that I liked, and write down each of the components in a black book where I’ve been writing down things that I like. Five days. Five outfits. No more, no less. It seems like I’ve just lost five hours of my life packing. No more, no less.
Wednesday, October 27
I arrive at the gate at the airport 20 minutes late, and by 20 minutes late I mean I was supposed to take my flight tranquilizer 20 minutes earlier. This might not seem like a big deal to a lot of you, but for someone consumed with the fear of potentially facing my death in a long and drawn out matter every time I fly, I medicate myself. And, as some of my dearest friends will tell you who have witnessed me flying, there is a science and timing to better living through chemistry.
As I settle into my seat the perky flight attendant says, “Good morning, and thank you for flying Spirit Airlines. As most of you know, there was a rather large storm that came through the area last night, and its heading east.” No need say anything more, I know where this is heading and where I’m heading—to the bathroom to get water to take another ½ pill. While I realize this has potential implications for me, I’m doing what’s best for everyone. I mean, does the person sitting next to me really want to witness a 42-year-old crying, rocking back and forth in her seat, and saying, “Oh my God. We’re gonna die.” Over and over again? I think not. I do it just as much for the rest of the people on the flight as I do it for me.
As I stand inline outside of the restroom, I’m rather dumbfounded by the pilot texting on his iPhone. It just doesn’t seem right. While I too am a lover of my iPhone, and acknowledger of its amazing technological features, and have been known to send a text or two at my job….no one runs the risk of dying if I misspell a word or a client’s name, leave in a boilerplate footer, or duplicate the same line of text two paragraphs in a row. I guess I thought he might be just a little more focused on the pending task at hand—what with the big storm heading east and all.
I survive the loud snoring guy next to me by immersing myself in the deliciously melodic sounds of Aaron Copeland’s Appalachian Spring. Before the end of the 25-minute, all-American symphonic piece that makes my heart happy when I hear it, the medication has taken hold and I am asleep.
I arrive at LaGuardia’s baggage claim to the techno sounds of “all-American-local girl-does good” Lady Gaga. Really? It’s 9:25 a.m. I’m still coming out of my medication buzz.
The main event of the day is a 28-year in the making reunion lunch with my former BFF turned frenemy (before any of us even knew what frenemy meant) from elementary school. The power of Facebook is transforming lives all around the world through reunions like this isn’t it? Why doesn’t Facebook have a special page for adopted children and birth parents that are looking for each other? Mental note…call Zuckerberg. Again, I’m still mildly medicated.
At the end of the day I hook up with my other friend and head to Staten Island for dinner. Armed with a ridiculously cheap, yet surprisingly delicious, bottle of Riesling, I settle into a wonderfully home made, Italian-style, Staten Island hospitality laden pasta dinner with meatballs, ricotta, garlic bread, and ice cream sundaes for desert. It makes for a sublime first night in New York.
Thursday, October 28
It’s not that I had to be back in Manhattan at a particular time, it’s just that I thought I would be back in Manhattan at a particular time. So the express bus from Staten Island to the city is like 20 minutes late. If it had been on time, I would never have gotten onto the subway in Lower Manhattan.
I get on the subway, which is very crowded. I go to grab the pole, and because there are three people already standing there, my first priority is to adjust my bag so it doesn’t hit them—not, grabbing a hold of the pole. Big mistake. Unfortunately, as the train takes off, I fall back into the gentleman standing behind me. I say to him, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” He is pleasant looking, but it stops there. He says out loud in a somewhat-passive-aggressive-under-his-breath-kind-of-way-without-even-turning-around-to-face-me, “That’s what the pole is for.” I am seriously, totally and completely shocked. “I’m aware of what the pole is for,” I said in a rather loud and snide tone, yet with the courtesy of turning to address him. To which he responded in a somewhat-passive-aggressive-under-his-breath-kind-of-way-without-even-turning-around-to-face- me, “And she didn’t even apologize.” To which both my friend and I said simultaneously, “I did apologize. She did too apologize.” To which he did not acknowledge said apology or apologize for being an asshole himself and in a somewhat-passive-aggressive-under-his-breath-kind-of-way-without-even-turning-around-to-face- me, “And she still isn’t hanging onto the pole.” To which my friend says in a rather loud, Staten Island accent, “She’s holdin’ on to me!” Thank you, my friend.
So, the rest of the time….we get him back. We talked in a rather somewhat-passive-aggressive-under-our-breath-kind-of-way-without-even-turning-around-to-face-him about how rude he was. And when he relinquished the pole and sat down, I had my friend photograph him with her phone to our great chagrin! Ha! I’ll show him and post his picture on Facebook for the world, and by world I mean all my Facebook friends and their friends, to see what an asshole he is. Ha! I never did it.
Friday, October 29
I depart Staten Island and head to the greatest city on the planet for the next three days and two nights! On the Staten Island side of the Staten Island Ferry, a gentleman and his bomb-sniffing dog approach me and ask to check my bag. As is the case in these situations, one becomes very serious. But how the hell am I supposed to respond when he says, “You don’t have any bombs in there do you?” “Um, no,” I say with a nervous voice. Is this a trick? Wait, do I have bombs in the suitcase? No, of course not. The suitcase has been in my possession the entire time since leaving the house this morning. Wait, why is he asking me this question? Why does he get to joke and I have to be serious? I do not want to say the wrong thing. I think I’m having a Homer Simpson moment.
At the subway turnstile in Manhattan, I contemplated at great length how I was going to get my almost 50 pounds of luggage through. It wasn’t going under. It wasn’t going beside me. I guess it’s going over, which is actually harder than I thought since I couldn’t do it until after I was already on the other side. Realizing at that point, that it would have been very easy for anyone with strength, agility and speed to run by, pick up my suitcase and take off. Fortunately, two very friendly gentleman helped me lift if over. And people say New Yorkers are rude.
I go to my uncle’s job to pick up the keys to his apartment, which is where I’m staying. He has left me $60 and a grocery list for tonight’s dinner party for 11, which, fortunately, I am invited to and don’t just have to shop for.
The list reads:
- Fresh squeezed orange juice. Easy enough.
- 6 lemons and limes. Easy enough.
- cranberry juice. Easy enough.
- Pellegrino, 6 bottles-Shit! What size? So I text him, “6 Pellegrino water as in a 6 pack as compared to 6, 25 oz bottles?” His response, “6 big bottles.” OK. Good. Shit. Wait, there are 25 oz. bottles in glass or 32 oz. bottles in plastic. Does he want plastic or glass? Big or small? I text him back. I don’t hear from him. I call him. He is actually in the store and seems annoyed with my shopping thoroughness. “The glass bottles.” Done. I head to the check out line, then head to his place, unpack, and then realize…I need a drink.
My quest for alcohol is easily accomplished at the Mexican restaurant around the corner. It is very warm and cozy and I am the only one there. It is the first time in my life I have ever eaten out by myself. What do I do? Read? Text? Update my Facebook profile? Just eat? Think?
My chair is facing the street. A van-like car goes by with writing on the side that says, “Exclusive Ambulated Service.” I’m sorry, I would NOT get in that vehicle no matter how bad of shape I am in.
It’s happy hour. $5 margaritas. But the real kind, not the fruity stuff I usually drink. Damn. What the hell? I’ll try it anyway. Oh my, this is delicious.
Imagining myself the star of my uncle’s dinner party this evening. I’m not sure why. These drinks must be strong.
I could stay here for hours, and just sit and drink, but I will surely run out of food. Feeling buzzed. Do I order another one? Just because I can? Yes please.
Time to go. Better update my Facebook status with witty comment about my new favorite drink. “Oh tequila…why hast I forsaken thee for 27 years? You are very delicious on the rocks with margarita ingredients, especially when your glass is rimmed with seasoned salt. Oh my! How I heart New York!”
I get back to my uncle’s and spend the next two hours helping him prepare the meal, doing last minute shopping and setting the table. We’re eating pasta. There is no white wine in sight, only red. Can’t drink red. What am I going to drink? I can’t survive this meal with what are no doubt fascinating people sober. I am in need of a social lubricant. John says people are bringing white wine. Phew.
Here is who sat around the dinner table:
-Brazilian screenwriter
-Former screenwriter and now head of his own Kenyan-focused fashion label
-Guy whose sole job is to manage his family’s immense wealth through their foundation
-Writer/editor for a marketing/branding company that caters to the fashion industry
-Composer, for the likes of the Metropolitan Opera
-Major news network/affiliate liaison
-Casting director
-Theater critic for The New Yorker
Thank God the white wine came early.
Saturday, October 30
I am awakened at 4:45 a.m. by a string of “Fuck Yous” being yelled back and fourth across the street from three guys on my side of the street and woman across the street at the Cozy Corner bar-by the way, it ain’t.
I can’t see the three guys but I hear, “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. My lawyer. Fuck you.” I hear from the woman across the street, ‘No. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.” At this point I am less intrigued and more annoyed and look out the window in the hopes that my intimidating and pissed off looks from the third story window would all scare them into shutting up. It didn’t work. If I wasn’t so pissed at being awake, I might have been more concerned with the woman’s safety. She was with four guys, but they didn’t seem to be even a fraction as aggressive of the three guys who were rapidly crossing the street to “see her.” Since she was yelling, “Fuck you,” to a bunch of strangers, I’ve got to believe she might have been aware of potential consequences, of which there were none. It was like watching a physical fight in slow motion in which nothing physical ever happened. I found myself oddly disappointed.
When I wake up for the day, my uncle and I catch a bite to eat, stop at the coffee shop, and head off to the High Line. Amazing, amazing, amazing what little urban planning revitalization projects will do for an area’s economy recovery. The High Line was an elevated railway for freight trains carrying diary products, produce, meats and other food. It has recently been converted into a beautiful greenway with about 10 blocks of pathways, woodlands, grasslands, a horticultural preserve, a viewing amphitheater at 10th avenue and a variety of places to sit comfortably and read a paper, think, write, soak up some sun, and get annoyed during the people watching as two women in their 30s allow their small children to run around and misbehave. Yes. I actually hope the 4-year old falls off the chair.
I wanted to sit in one of the incredibly creative crafted seats that rest on steel wheels and move on the train tracks that still exist and type on my iPad, record my thoughts, and be one of those people who you look at and think, “How pretentious. Why don’t they just do that at home?”
Due to the cold, I moved on to the Apple store, which just happened to be located right next to a small plaza area filled with seats and chairs and potted plants in the Meat Packing District. Excellent. I could sit and type. I would now become one of those people you would walk by and look at and say, “How pretentious. Why don’t they just do that at home?”
At 4:00 we head to the Julie Saul Gallery in Chelsea where Maira Kalman (author, blogger, illustrator and friend of my uncles) was selling autographed copies of her new book The Pursuit of Happiness. I got one. She signed it cheers just like I do. Later, I would come to realize this is just one of the many reasons we should become imaginary best friends.
Sunday, October 31
It is not fighting that wakes me up at 4:45 a.m. today, but rather the CONSTANT yelling of drunken passerbyers from midnight until dawn that keeps me awake most of the night. If I wasn’t a big fan of adults dressing up in ridiculous costumes, acting like adolescents and celebrating Halloween before, I am certainly not one now.
I wake up. Eat. Run 8 miles. Get ready to fly home and with the time I have left I crack open Maira’s book. OMG! I love her. She writes with such serious and insightful whimsy! I used to want to be Katie Couric (Whew! Dodged that bullet). Then I wanted to be David Sedaris. Now I want to be Maira Kalman. She is writing about her trip to the Supreme Court where she meets Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg. She says she thinks of Ms. Ginsberg as being her new imaginary best friend (her current one is Jane Austen). I feel the same way about her. I want her to be by new imaginary best friend. Wait a minute, who is my current imaginary best friend?
I’m in the cab on the way to the airport thinking about the affair I am having—my love affair with New York. How else do you describe it? I always want more, I can never get enough, it overwhelms me in both good and bad ways, and it’s always amazing when I’m there. And even though my friend says, “We all know the reality, don’t fuck with the fantasy.” I can’t help it. I am going to fuck with the fantasy. I am going to move to New York one day and live in a 200 sf apartment with a window looking out onto a brick wall and long for neighbors as sensitive as the occupants of the Cozy Corner. And it will be great. And I will continue and embrace my affair. New York actually makes me a better me.
Sitting at the airport gate in plenty of time to get comfortable and take my tranquilizer for the trip home, I do some texting (no need for me to save any lives) and people watching and all of a sudden my jaw drops and I say to myself “Oh my God. Michael Imperiolli is on my flight.”
I have become very fond of his Detective Fitch character on ABC’s Detroit 1-8-7 crime drama, which is why I suspect he is on a cheap Spirit Airlines flight headed back to Detroit. There isn’t even a real first class on this flight, just four rows of wider and more comfortable seats with extra legroom. No curtain dividing the haves from the have-nots. What is the matter with ABC? He deserves better than this.
An older gentleman approaches him with a smile. You can tell he is being complimentary of Michael, apparently now I am on a first-name basis with him. Michael smiles appreciatively, nods, says thank you and then is escorted on the plane by a female flight attendant who is all smiles. There is a familiarity between them. I suspect he takes this flight a lot while working in Detroit. I suspect I will now be taking this flight a lot when flying back from New York in the future.
It’s time to board and the tranquilizers are starting to work. I walk up the plane aisle toward my seat and there he is seat 5D. He has on black glasses and is reading. He is handsome. The middle seat is empty and 5 is my favorite number. Why isn’t that my seat? I can see it all flashing before my eyes. I sit next to him. He is polite. Somehow we would start talking and we would become best imaginary friends, just like Maira and me. He would be so dazzled by me, just like John’s guests at the dinner party. No doubt I would be invited to the set. I would bring Zingerman’s and everyone would love me. Ahh. It’s good to be me. Or, at least it’s good to fly with prescription medication.
I get to my seat, 17 B, just 12 rows back from Michael and across the aisle—so close and yet so far. A young woman with a University of Michigan sweatshirt moves into the window seat beside me. Apparently she has a pretty severe peanut allergy because she is very eager when talking to the flight attendant, the one who is cozy with my new best imaginary friend Michael, to ascertain if there are any peanut or peanut-related snacks on board. I assure her I won’t eat any peanuts, which is fine because they are costly at $4 a pop. WTF is it with peanut allergies? NO ONE had peanut allergies when I was a kid! But what if I really wanted them? What if I look forward to having them on planes all the time, like I do a Mountain Dew in the morning or a pretzel and diet Pepsi at the airport or popcorn at the movies? And her allergy denies me this? I am mildly annoyed at the principle of the situation, not the fact that I actually want any peanuts.
People continue to board and peanut girl next to me sneezes. I say “God Bless You.” She says thanks. A few minutes later, I sneeze. I get nothing from her. “Hey, peanut allergy girl! Remember me? The one who saved your life by not ordering peanuts? What? I can’t even get a ‘God Bless you?” Where I come from-which is where she comes from-that is just rude.
The meds are kicking in and I am plagued with very deep and sophisticated thoughts, like, “What really happens if a cell phone or an iPad or computer is left on during take off in a plane? Are our systems really that fragile? Can one cell phone take down a plane?” This does not console me.
Despite my concerns about errant technological use, I am remarkably unalarmed. I just don’t think the flight will go down. It is sunny and bright out, and I am in love with New York City and I know it loves me back, and I suspect Michael Imperiolli is a guardian angel sent to protect me.
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| My genius note typing on the plane for what would be this blog, under the heavy influence of anxiety medication. |
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| My former BFF turned frenemy. |
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| Official outing of the somewhat-passive-aggressive-under-his-breath-kind-of-way-without-even-turning-around-to-face-me asshole kind of a guy. |
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| Oh Sweet Mother of God, you are delicious indeed Ms. Tequila. |
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| Some of my favorite views of and from the High Line. |
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| Man sitting next to me in Meat Packing District plaza, where I sat and pretentiously typed. |
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| Michael Imperiolli, my personal flight guardian angel, and the cast of Detroit 1-8-7, a.k.a. my new best friends. |
