Here we are yet again. Fortunately for us, Hurricane Michael left no mark on Charleston and spared us of his wrath.
It’s Thursday morning and we are New York City-bound, a trip that was conceived only a couple of short months ago could not have come sooner. It’s early which means for my otherwise pleasant wife, it’s too early to vocalize.
After getting the shakedown from the TSA, we made our way to our terminal. Charleston International Airport offers a rather smooth experience from start to finish. Only two gates and upon arrival, the small airport could easily be confused for a shopping mall.
We check our phones, we check the screens. Once more, we check our phones, we check the screens. There are no signs of a weather delay in sight. Looking out the window past the empty runways, we see trees and greenery dancing gently. A purple hue of what I assume to be air pollution tints the scene. If we hadn’t been informed of the hurricane in the gulf, we would be left assuming it was a bit windier than usual but nothing out of the realm of ordinary.
As the airport had been remodeled in recent memory, they decided to follow the times. Installed were booths with seating for one with a convenient USB and electrical outlet charging stations. The less seating for people, the less likely the chance of actual human interaction. The introvert in me is pleased. The extrovert, trying to maintain what little analog connection to this world I have left is concerned. I see the way things are now. I see where they’re going and it troubles me. The disconnect is growing and is the reason trips like these become more and more important to me.
Heather and I decided to get comfortable at the empty gate across from ours. We checked our phones, we checked the screens. Still, no delay. We were only alone on our island of airport seating for mere moments when a group of retirees decided to take up the real estate next to us. In the classic New York accent, I heard them speak.
The husband and wife could have been recurring characters on Seinfeld. Both have their eyes and index fingers glued to their phones and are conversing about recent changes to the theater ticketing website. As you could imagine, the husband was displeased with the changes. Suggesting his own changes and questioning why somebody would do such a thing. He remarked on the frequency of this occurrence as his displeasure was something I, even as a tech-savvy individual could relate to. After voicing his concern for some time, the couple’s two friends arrived brandishing sweatshirts from the gift shop. After discussing how the sweatshirts will be disbursed between various family members and friends for a moment, the group goes silent, checking their phones.
And once more, they return to the conversation about the horrible new design of the theater website. At this time we’re ready to board the plane. Handing our tickets to the customer service representative we hear the bell of approval and a rehearsed ‘Thank you’. With one final look at the screen, I notice that all Jet Blue flights following ours have been canceled. To Heather, I quip “Maybe we should play the lotto”.
For whatever reason, no matter where you’re going if you’re flying out of Charleston they always overestimate the time it takes to arrive at your destination. We’re told one hour and forty-five minutes and we actually arrive in one hour and twenty. A small victory considering that we’re still two train rides away from our destination. I dig into Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood, ignore the snacks offered by the flight attendants and power through the flight. At the risk of sounding like a bad Seinfeld joke, who needs a beverage or bag of pretzels on an hour and twenty flight? I mean really, throughout the whole morning there was no time for snacks or refreshments?
We arrive at JFK airport. The landscape has changed and I breathe a sigh of comfort. Charleston is great but the sound of planes, trains, and automobiles in droves feels right. With no checked luggage, we’re in the final stretch. Past the intricately designed convenience traps along the JFK terminals, past the homeless person finding solitude in a blanket on the floor and past the moving walkways we arrive at the Airtrain.
New York is perspiring today but I don’t mind.
Riding along on the Airtrain I notice a single pigeon on a curved piece of concrete track. In my mind, I’m convinced that he’s looking out towards Queens with a forlorn “what does it all mean look”. In this brief moment, I’m not much different than this pigeon. Looking for food, looking for shelter. I snap back to reality as we arrive at Jamaica station.
A short and surprisingly comfortable ride on the Long Island Rail Road brings us to the heart of it all. I eavesdrop on a fellow passenger nearby. I hear her speak of her itinerary. She says the train arrives at Penn Station at 1 p.m. and she’ll take a meeting at 1:15 afterward she could meet the person on the other end of the line for drinks and what have you. I relish in guessing who this person is and what they do. Maybe she works in fashion or entertainment. I can’t place her but I must assume that she is of some sort of importance. The feeling of being so prepared, punctual and important is something I have yet to feel and definitely long for. Our vacation adrenaline in check, we rise street level to be greeted by the mecca that is Madison Square Garden. This city takes nothing from no one and gives nothing for free Heather and I are no exception.
After heading the complete opposite way down 31ST Avenue, we find solace in pizza. We’re sweating after walking for some time and after being told in a thick accent by a cabbie that he could take us to the hotel but due to traffic, it would probably be quicker if we walked. We accepted the plea of the cab driver and decided we’d save the money from a cab ride, stumbling clumsily to our hotel.
After being told about this trip, I looked up Hotel 31. The photos didn’t do it justice. I told friends and co-workers that we were staying at the quaintest little roach motel in all of New York City. Though we did find a single roach dead in the hallway, this statement couldn’t be further from the truth. Hotel 31 was exactly the place I needed to clear my head. It wasn’t like other hotels I’d stayed at before. It was outdated but very well-kept. The room was tiny, the bed more comfortable than my own. The heavily lacquered wood stylings accented the divine grandmother wallpaper. I love the rigid, starchy hotel towels. The shared hallway bathrooms posed no issue. Out our window, the Empire State Building. I don’t think New Yorkers have it easy by any means, from the top to the bottom I’m sure at every level there is a certain struggle to maintain. Looking out, I can only hope they know what they do have.
For dinner, it’s sushi. Right next door is Umi. What a world, walk out your door and your next door neighbor serves you plates of irresistible fish and rice. A lot of time is spent talking about how everything in New York City is very expensive. To our favor, dinner was comparable to the prices we’re familiar with back home. Much like a seal, our bellies were filled with fish. We were content.
After a quick freshening up, the night moved forward.
We’d purchased tickets in advance to see a musical parody of television’s The Office. Our taxi dropped us off in front of the Jerry Orbach Theater. Instead of heading right in we made a beeline towards a classic New York-themed gift shop in order to bypass the rain that made an effort to devour any bit of style Heather and I had. Our luck had run dry as we received a lemon of an umbrella. Much to the disgust of the clerk hawking the merchandise he just sold us, we were able to swap our broken umbrella for a slightly awkward and probably still broken umbrella. This is New York City.
I think the idea of a critic is preposterous. Especially when the said critic has no physical experience in the medium he/she is criticizing. I think it’s wonderful and worth it to have opinions as that is what keeps conversations interesting and moving but it’s unfair for someone to judge a piece of art and publish their opinion if they themselves have never gotten their hands dirty. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things that I absolutely despise and have strong feelings on but those are best left for private conversations for who am I to judge?
With that being said, in my honest opinion The Office: A Musical Parody was a wonderful romp and captured the spirit of its source material. This, however, is the last thing that I found myself caring about while watching the performance.
To the best of my recollection, we were the first to arrive at the small theater off Broadway that evening. To my wife’s confusion, I flashed my id as I purchased a round of Brooklyn Lagers for the both of us. Even the “bartender” was confused and unsure of the year that was legal for alcohol consumption. Heather reminded me of the fact that we were old enough to not flash our IDs. I still find it to be a courteous gesture.
In all sincerity, I found the performance to be just right. At times, a little overkill and a little underkill. The show poked fun at itself, even mentioning “bad screenplay” in dialogue. We’d heard all of the lines before but yet it was still a worthy tribute to our beloved television show. I found Dwight’s intensity was definitely on par with Rainn Wilson’s and Jim Halpert’s lack of enthusiasm was portrayed accurately as well. Kudos also to the woman who played Phylis and a million other characters throughout the show.
The big takeaway from this show was the all of these people, each and every one of them were living their lives and pouring their hearts into these performances. Despite having a playbill handy, I don’t know any of their faces. I don’t know any of their names but I hope that someday I will. I hope that someday I’ll see them on SNL or another Broadway play. These people, despite how small the production may be, belt out lyrics and dialogue like it’s their last performance.
As I mentioned, the actress who played elder Phyllis was especially admirable. One of the older cast members, I wondered about her. Did she have children? Was she a lifelong theater junky following her dream? Did she have an otherwise fruitful yet boring day job and this was just a way to pass time or meet friends? Phyllis. Unassuming Phyllis. Who are you?
The show came to a close and the cast took their final bows. We joyfully walked down the absurdly large staircase and ventured back towards our hotel. The one thing I loved about New York City the last time had become the thing I despised; it never shuts down. Unfortunately, our path crossed that of foreign and domestic tourists alike. Stopping, bumping, shoving our way around like Coney Island bumper cars, we made it through the madness that is broken glass and Time Square. Stopping at the familiar CVS for snacks we concluded our journey back to the hotel and thus ended our first day in New York City.
Friday, Heather’s birthday.
A story about New York City without mentioning the frustration felt when trying to figure out public transportation for the first time is either embellishing or non-existent. Luckily, listening to others around the MTA card dispensers, we weren’t alone.
The morning started a little rocky as I insisted we stand on the corner eating bagels and drinking coffee. As I knelt to pick up the paper bag housing our coffees, Heather knelt too and knocked my barely eaten bagel right out of my hand. I wasn’t mad, just disappointed. If it were any other city, I might have picked the bagel up and eaten it. This, however, was New York City and I had seen the advertisements on the trash cans depicting large, shadowy rats. As a fan of rats regardless of their reputation, sadly I have yet to see one this trip.
The day moved along via subway rides and taxis. We found ourselves at a temple of solitude. The Strand Bookstore. We’d been here before on our last trip only this time I stopped and smelled the roses. First floor, second floor, and the third floor we spent time thumbing through rare books, art books, and best sellers. Feeling out canvas tote bags and art supplies. I peered out the window of the third floor and admired the way the car horns synced up to the jazz that pinballed back and forth off the Strand’s walls.
I loosely believe that if it was important to American culture it more than likely started in New York City. More than likely, if it wasn’t born there, it was raised there. It matured there. If there is something hot going on now in New York City, cities elsewhere will eventually catch on years from now. The Strand is no exception. Brilliantly curated, I could lose my life here and feel grateful to do so. Floor to ceiling books, a sense of wonder washes over me and I am cured of any self-inflicting poisonous thoughts I have. I am comforted, I am at peace. I wonder. I wander. Our final selections are filtered, purchases are made. Happy Birthday, Heather.
Lunchtime is upon us and much to my indifference and my wife’s enjoyment, Chinatown beckons us. It’s her birthday so I entertain the browsing of endless mundane Chinese goods in which I can’t help but hear the shop owners thinking “Ha! People actually want this shit?” After being offered every expensive brand name bootleg under the sun by unconvincing Asian women, we find a couple of lucky cats from a shop that Heather surprisingly doesn’t own. Two cats, the shop owner remarks “Ah, the cat lady!” We laugh, smirk and have no choice but to agree.
Our process of choosing restaurants is simple. We either choose a restaurant by how ridiculous its name is; a method that has served us well and doled us wonderful plates from places such as Nacho Mama’s burritos in Augusta Georgia or we choose by proximity. In Chinatown we went by proximity, sadly I don’t even remember the name but the confirmation of this choice came by way of the fact that we saw fried rice and sesame chicken pictured in the window. The place was extremely busy. Our host/waiter cleared room at a table filled with young, Asian-American professionals along with an old timer. I listened as they spoke about how they wish they knew Mandarin, or how to cook traditional dishes. They dished on a mutual friend who had given up the high stakes life for a housewife position but was seeking to get back in the business world. For the first time since we’d been in New York, I didn’t wonder how these people made enough money to be here. I knew they weren’t tourists and I knew that they had probably worked hard since day one. They followed a line. They fought their way through school and bits of adversity that I’ll never experience. I was happy for them, envious; not jealous. Inspired. Midway through their meal, ours arrived. Green tea for personal taste and digestive purposes, we split our way through the large plate of buttery chicken fried rice and sesame chicken with broccoli. Heather remarked that in Chicago it was difficult to find good Chinese food in Chinatown. Luckily, our method of choosing restaurants by proximity had proven fruitful.
Digesting an insurmountable amount of Chinese food, we took a final lap through Chinatown to assure we hadn’t missed anything. To our knowledge, we hadn’t. After some debate and confusion regarding the Metropolitan Transit Authorities subway system, we made our way to the 6 train and headed back to Hotel 31. A cat nap was in order as I continued to digest carb after carb after carb.
Later that day after said cat nap I was awoken by the smells and taste of black coffee from Anita’s Deli. We surely had quite a night ahead of us. We were administered tickets for the longest running show on Broadway, Phantom of the Opera. It’s Heather’s birthday and I am not one to protest. The last time we were here we saw Chicago and I absolutely loved it. Maybe it was the familiarity, I’m not sure but I was absolutely bracing for impact as we waited patiently to be seated for the Phantom. The elegant, yet stuffy Majestic theater left me in a state of discomfort. I admired the production as a whole. From the costumes, the sets, and the performances were all magnificent. I thought about the actors and actresses from The Office musical and how their hard work paid off. How people probably told them all along the way that they weren’t good enough and acting wasn’t a viable career choice but yet they still persisted. This is New York City.
Saturday morning. Bagels and coffees from Anita’s Deli once more only this time, we ate them back at the hotel. The kind man at the register offered ketchup but I assured him it was unnecessary. He remarked that some people like ketchup but he was not one of them. I told him these bagels were good enough on their own. It sounds frivolous but the way they melt the cheese onto these bagels was unlike any other breakfast sandwich I’d had before. You can actually taste it as opposed to it blending in with the eggs. It’s the little things that count.
We lulled into the day feeling content as we had accomplished the more tasking things we wanted to do. A bit dehydrated, a bit off kilter, we carried on. With no particular place to go, we ended up at Argosy Books. Heather browsed and found herself another antique book for the collection. I obliged. Happy Birthday, Heather. We left unsure of what to do next before landing on a stroll through Central Park. Groups of children and their chaperones excitedly walked towards the zoo. A band was playing for some sort of event. I saw a man off the path lying on a blanket on a slope off the path. I admired his carefreeness though I had found my own walking with Heather and enjoying a churro. We were quite a ways away from the six train but we walked anyway. Admiring and wondering what the homes could possibly cost.
On and off the six train, we head back to the hotel to freshen up once more. On the corner of 31st and Lexington Avenue is Vezzo. A thin crust pizza joint that had probably the best pizza I have ever had. We’d eaten pizza in New York City the last time we visited but nothing quite like this. We washed it down with a pitcher of Lagunitas and headed back to the hotel.
After lunch and a carb coma, we caught a taxi down to the East Village. We accidentally found the infamous Joe Strummer mural that I’d seen in countless videos and photos. Back in 2008 I believe, I got a hold of a Polaroid camera. I loved it. The spontaneity of it all, the casino like luck of the draw whether your photo would turn out. It was all part of the magic. In high school, I didn’t take a lot of photos so memories from that time are all from stories I’ve exchanged with friends. Sadly, that year my newfound hobby had come to an end as Polaroid was ceasing production of their instant film. Alas, the photo drought returned. Since time, technology has made it simpler but less meaningful to take photos. Instant film has come back and I’m happy to say I own a Fujifilm Instax camera. I didn’t bring it on the trip because I didn’t want to spend time looking through a lens analog or not. However, at the sight of the Strummer mural, I dropped any qualm or inhibition I had about taking photos and posed in front of it. After all, the main reason we were in the village was to find Trash and Vaudeville, an infamous rock and roll store for weirdos and nerds just like me. After browsing, I took home a t-shirt. The same t-shirt Joey Ramone was wearing in one of the many photos plastered around Trash. At that moment, I tasted the undying spirit that was born in New York City even if only a small portion.
Continuing on in the East Village, we walked up and down the streets. Littered with people coming and going. There was some kind of event going on in an adjacent park. A man rides by with an extremely loud Bluetooth speaker bumping some kind of music that I’m unfamiliar with. There were two other instances where individuals decided the rest of the world needed to hear their music in this fashion. I hope this trend does not leave the city.
We stopped at a bookshop nestled in a basement and though impressively packed with finds, Heather doesn’t get out of bed unless there are old moldy books available.
Back to the streets, we stumble upon A1 Record Shop. I had no intention of buying a single thing while in New York. The Trash and Vaudeville t-shirt was fairly priced so I splurged. At A1, the shop was nearly at capacity. People sitting on stools, digging through the packed shelves and crates. At this point, we’re blocked in by fellow collectors so we’re left with no choice but to browse. I ended up in front of the S section. The Stranglers is written in black permanent marker on a plastic tab divider. To my delight, they have the album Rattus Norvegicus. $16 for this record? I’m sold. I flash the record to Heather, she grins and I quickly make my way to the cashier as if I’d found something I don’t want others to know about. One record, that will fit in my carry-on right?
Though we still have a decent amount of light left, we realize that our next destination might be a little difficult to reach. It’s a photo opportunity for Heather. Punching in directions to our phone, we head out.
Passing through Little Italy and Chinatown, we stop and pose in front of a clever wall of graffiti. Each letter has something that represents the area. My favorite, the O has the classic Louis Vuitton pattern. Heather says that’s not Louis Vuitton, that’s Huey Vuitton. The daylight dwindling, we keep moving eventually hitting Foley Square. For the uninformed, Foley square is home to the infamous courthouse steps from Law and Order: SVU, a show that my wife has spent a ridiculously untrackable amount of time watching. She poses for pictures and I dryly make remarks wondering where all of the other tourists are. Don’t they know? We’re losing daylight and material for SVU jokes. The 2.5-mile walk seems a bit daunting so we catch another taxi back to the hotel.
By the time we had gotten back, it was about 8:30. Showing less our age and more of our social anxiety, instead of going out, we went to Anita’s again and stocked up on snacks and beer. Excited and exhausted, we retreated back to the hotel. We were given a choice of really old shows and horrible home shopping on the small hotel television. Relaxing, catching up on the day’s headlines we waited for SNL. Though originally feeling energized, I had fallen victim to the day’s travels and excitement and passed out shortly after the opening monologue.
Sunday Morning. Anita’s once more. Two bagels, one large black coffee, one large coffee with cream and sugar.
We sleep in, loaf around as much as we possibly can to preserve energy for the long day of travel ahead of us. The concierge at the hotel graciously held our luggage for us and we were afforded the opportunity to venture out once more. One of the best things about New York City is all of the options that you have even if you find yourself crunched for time. The last time we visited, we spontaneously managed to catch a Broadway matinee the day that we left.
With two live performances under our belts, we wandered aimlessly in an attempt to wake up once more. What began as a trip to the Guggenheim ended up being our second trip to the MOMA. Fifth Avenue had been shut down for the Hispanic Day Parade. It was warming to see people in the audience of all races. Waving flags, with smiles on their faces. Getting a taxi was nearly impossible in the area so we made due and made our way to the MOMA. The tickets, pieces of art in their own right were saved for my red plastic Charlie Brown lunch box that houses most every physical piece of evidence of Heather and mine’s relationship. After Basquiat, Warhol, and Monet, our museum trip was fulfilling and complete. It was time for one last meal.
Using our name and proximity formula for choosing a restaurant, we ended up at Astro Restaurant. I have an obsession with diners. Growing up I had (and maintain) an interest in the aesthetics of the 50s. Soda shoppes, diners, and the fact that everything looked like a hot rod was/is fascinating to me. The Astro has been around since 1980 and the green vinyl upholstery mixed with maple wood was comforting. Following a gut-busting good old American burger, we drank black coffee to warm our traveled souls. I breathe a sigh of restfulness and we head out. We walk to the nearest train station, get on the six and make our way back to Hotel 31.
To cure Heather’s anxiety, we grab our bags from the hotel and begin walking towards Penn Station with about four hours until our flight. We were unsure of the exact times for the trains but luckily they’re always running. Past the hustle and bustle of our fellow travelers, we hit on a little bit of luck once more. After purchasing our tickets, we arrived at platform two. A quick read on the LED sign advised us that this train was leaving in one minute and was in fact headed to Jamaica Station. Feeling secure, we watched the city wane.
I reflect. We saw priceless art, Off-Broadway, on Broadway. We tasted bagels, pizza, and lived out of the deli. We saw how high humankind could fly and how low they could fall. Lower than even the ground itself. Before boarding the Air Train we purchase our MTA tickets at a kiosk next to a small bar convenience store. There’s a pigeon inside. I tell myself it’s the pigeon that I saw upon our arrival and nothing at that moment makes me happier.
I Love New York.
