The Country Tourist Goes To NYC

Alan and I celebrated our eighth year of wedded bliss by taking a jaunt to New York City.  As we traveled towards the city, nostalgia swept us back to the days when we were dating and often times would go into Manhattan on a whim for dinner or simply walk around exploring.  The fog of remembering those lofty, romantic times lifted quickly as we were abruptly brought back to the reality of being stuck in a major traffic jam on the Pulaski Skyway.  It turned out to be a half hour time delay at the Holland Tunnel.  With a bit of frustration, I looked out my window for something interesting.  We previously talked about visiting the Museum of Modern Art but now we didn’t have to go because there was an abundance of skillfully crafted graffiti art exploring all the colors of the rainbow and varieties of shapes.   In my neck of the woods, graffiti is monochromatic bird poo stylized in different splat formations on a car – usually my windshield. 

We decided to park at the Newport Mall in Jersey City and take the train in rather than endure traffic.  The old memories washed over me as we bought tickets at the Path train station.  Actually what washed over me was the inescapable sour smell of stale air mixed with urine floating up from the guts of the underground station platform.  It was quite a contrast to the sweet smell of freshly mowed grass and wildflowers in bloom in the fresh country air I am now used to.  While we waited for the next train to arrive, I peered down at the rails and engaged in one of my favorite urban past times of finding mice and rats scurrying around rubbish.  As more people filed in talking with each other or fiddling with a handheld electronic device, the flat screens located throughout the platform area caught my eye.   No one else seemed to notice them.  While I stood there staring, mouth agape, wondering how in the world these things haven’t gotten stolen; the crowded train to Christopher Street pulled up.


I entered the car and grabbed the nearest stability bar to hold onto.  Standing over a guy playing a soccer game on his tablet, I became engrossed as if watching a real game.  Was what I was doing considered rude or invading someone else’s privacy?  What are the etiquette rules about these situations?  The fact that I didn’t have an electronic device that was actively engaging my attention made me feel out of place and outdated since my phone only does calls and texting.  I’m also not used to standing over people while trying to get from Point A to Point B.

At least I didn’t stand out fashion wise, I thought to myself.  I especially wore my patent leather, three inch heeled sexy shoes, a departure from my usual worn out ones, so I could walk around confidently and to look nice for Alan.  I should have gone with the more humble approach.  Women everywhere had on simple flip flops, probably bought from an expensive boutique but simple, not to mention enviously comfortable looking.  We had more than an hour for our restaurant reservation so we had plenty of time to walk around.  With each step, my mood boosting shoes began to lose their confidence building power and reversed into little chambers of torture.  Within fifteen minutes I was sporting agonizing blisters, making me walk like a Chinese woman who has had her feet bound into “golden lilies”.   I wondered why I chose to ignore the number one rule of visiting any city – wear comfortable footwear. 

It was at this point of my frustration when I tried to salvage the romance of the evening by remembering I had brought the GPS with me.  With a flood of relief and a low cackling laugh, I spied an empty bench in front of a closed tea shop.  As we sat, I eagerly searched for a nearby steak restaurant.  I was relieved there was one less than a mile away.  I tried convincing my brain that I could walk a mile with searing pain.  Unfortunately, the GPS was more like a cruel maze game.  It seemed to reposition our destination further away every time we thought we were getting closer to it.  Fortunately, I brought an old fashioned paper street map.  We stood there on the corner, pointing and looking confused and in my mind’s eye - complete tourists.  How embarrassing!

Alan’s phone rang and we both knew it was the restaurant telling us our table was ready a whole half hour early.  I gave Alan a look similar to that of a football coach gives to his quarterback in the fourth quarter of a tied score playoff game, one and half minutes left, third down.  Run and get that table!  Going through all this pain would be for nothing if we didn’t get that table.  He looked at me reluctantly as he weighed leaving me behind, barely being able to walk versus having to deal with my huge disappointment that we missed eating at a terrific restaurant.  Food won and he ran in hot pursuit.

Now alone, I had to pull off looking like I knew where I was, where I was going and feeling great while doing it.  That’s how I interpret the average city dweller and felt I had to put on airs to blend in.  The best thing I had going for me was I was in the Village and didn’t have to worry about men heckling me.  So using my antiquated paper map, I located where I was and saw where I had to go.  Fifteen minutes later I walked into the crowded restaurant where people were laughing while I was wiping the sweat of pain from my brow. 

As I walked to him, Alan gave me a sympathetic look like I was just hit by car and had dragged myself away from danger to safety.  I smiled, gave him a kiss and said, “Happy anniversary and thank you!”  I put away the pretense of who I wasn’t, a sophisticated city dweller, and happily accepted who I am: wife, mother and jane-of-all-things.