The Empire City Struck Back: A New York Travelogue

8/12/18 - And so it begins. With a delay, it begins. I am all dressed up and ready to go, enveloped by a cloud of cologne, and there’s no plane at my gate. 

I was scheduled to depart at 7:20A. I set my alarm for 5:15A. I awoke at 12:55A (no trip is complete without interrupted sleep the prior night) and checked my phone. I saw I’d received a late night text, which is odd. Better check it. I roll out of bed to avoid disturbing Megan and discover in the hallway my flight was one of the dominoes toppled by severe storms elsewhere on the east coast and, thus, was delayed by two hours. I cross check this claim against the airline’s information. The app still says 7:20A. Hm. I refresh the app. Ah yes, now you tell me I’m leaving at 9:20A. Strike 1, app.

Ugh.

I retreated to the living room to make adjustments. I called the taxi company to prevent my driver from idling in front of my house for an extra two hours. No answer. Dispatch was not manned from midnight to 4:00A. There was no voicemail option. I went to their website on my phone, which is not mobile-friendly, poked around, and eventually found an email address. I swiped a detailed email about the delay. This did not allay my concerns. I made the reservation over the phone. I modified it over email. Such cross-platform coordination rarely goes well. In anticipation of an unhappy early AM call from my miffed driver, I was too awake to spend the gifted two hours sleeping. I read thirty pages of a book. I tried to embrace the opportunity for a little Me Time, but as I read I was thinking about how tired I’d be on my first day in New York and how the setback was eating into my coveted free time. Already, windows were closing, and I hadn’t even taken off yet. 

I snuck back into our bedroom after 2:00A and spent an indeterminate period trying to fall asleep before actually doing so. Eventually, I awoke for good at 5:45A to discover my flight was delayed a second time, though this time only by three minutes. (Why bother announcing such a slight alteration? How can they be so certain the new time will be more accurate than the prior estimate? A computer made this decision, not a person.) Somehow, my breakfast was still rushed. The greek yogurt hit my stomach like a lead weight. I kissed Megan goodbye with bran flakes in my cheek. 

After a brief detention in the security line, I made it to the gate and learned of yet another delay: this time, by twenty-four minutes. I put down my bags, took up my notebook, and began this entry. The gate area’s population is surprisingly sparse. The farther along I get in memorializing the chronicle, the more concerned I am about the paucity of people around me. I check the screen by the door. This flight is headed to Denver, not New York. My app says to wait here, but the Departures screen tells me board to two doors up. I walk over, and find familiar faces in the waiting area. Strike 2, app.

***

I’m flying out on the same day the PGA Championship is ending. This year, it happens to take place in St. Louis. Three of the five people in the waiting area not on a device are sporting their new PGA Championship polos and blather on about golf courses and opine about Tiger. The fourth is a slack-jawed Asian man who is blinded to the world by an eye mask. The fifth is a four-ish year old boy who was clamoring for access to his father’s device.

***

To pass the time before boarding, I chatted with a newcomer to the seating area. If you’re in an elevator, you talk about the weather. If you’re in an airport, you talk about flying. 

We exchanged travel horror stories like soldiers exchanging war stories. “I refuse to travel through O’Hare or Newark in the winter. I don’t care where I’m going. I say, ‘Send me through Dallas.’”

Delayed in Charlotte. Stranded in Chicago. Tornadoed in Denver. She was waylaid by a transit worker protest in San Francisco causing a BART stoppage and a missed flight. She won.

***

I’m in seat 6A, waiting to taxi onto the runway. Dave Matthews Band is playing over the intercom. I know this is happening because social science has found easy listening yields more compliant customers. Damnit all if it isn’t working, too. No one has raised the voices or shown irritation despite being well behind schedule.

***

Our flight attendant is a black man named Nigel. His accent is not British. However tall he is, the cabin is slightly shorter. He shoulders are nearly as wide as the aisle. He has to curl into himself to attend to us. He’s like a full-term fetus navigating an oppressive womb.

I don’t normally feel pity for strapping men of his stature. They usually arouse intimidation, if not admiration. Seeing him trying to get his body out of his way, though, was tragic. Why is he here? Did someone smaller call in sick? Is he being punished? Are small planes demotions? Was he prepared to serve on a diminutive EMB140 when he enrolled in stewardess school or did he only have visions of strutting along 747s?

***

Even after all the flights I’ve been on, taking off still gives me a schoolboy’s thrill.

***

Nigel appears disappointed when I answer ‘coffee’ to his inquiry into my beverage preference. His voice does not verbally betray his perturbation, but I could see it in his eyes. He asks if I want it black or take it with cream or sugar. I bashfully ask for black, a word which always feels loaded when addressing an African American. He explains he will have to come back and give it to me in a moment as he will be brewing another pot. I stress in my most emphatic midwestern earnestness how this is not a problem for me at all. He rolls two feet away and kicks on his cart’s breaks with a vigor I take as pointed. 

I am the inadvertent nuisance in 6A.

***

I leave St. Louis a husband, son, father, friend, neighbor, supervisor, Christian, writer, reader, gardener, and increasingly alienated Cardinals fan. Where I go, this is all still true of me. But few others know this about me. Besides five coworkers at the conference, I’ll be anonymous and unrecognized for the next week.

Out in the world, there will be the usual judgments concerning my physique and attire. What others can deduce superficially is trivial. I am someone’s son, as are all males. But whose? No one knows, so who cares. By the ring on my finger, I’m likely married. Lots of people are married. No one knows my wife there, so who cares. My race is apparent. Lots of people are white. Who cares.  Other conference attendees will be able to size me up based on the title on my nametag, but I don’t mind.

To most everyone I pass by, I’m simply another extra in their films--a figure momentarily walking across their set or seated in their background. The same is true of them.

Anonymity is a sort of liberation.

I am an astronaut now. I have left my orbit. I am weightless. Like an astronaut, I can’t endure afloat forever. My body needs to strain of gravity to resist my movements, keep my muscles strong, and my bones dense. Earth is my home, where I belong, where I am from and where I was made, where I have relative significance. Out here, I am unbounded. It’s a relief to toss and tumble because I normally walk and sit. But there will come a time when I want to be grounded. I know this.

In all locations, my integrity is tested. May I be one and the same everywhere, needing all experience to shape and sustain me.

***

When travelling by myself, my obligations are mostly to myself. The most operative interests are my own. Identify what I want to do, then determine how to do it, then do it. Those are my three reiterated moves. 

Yes, I’m obligated by my plane ticket to be at a certain place at a certain time if I want to fly. Yes, I’m obligated to sleep where my employer has paid for me to sleep, and to attend the conference for which I’ve been registered. Yes, there are a few light fetters to my wife and to my family and friends stretched all the way from home. I must honor my marriage and chose my safety when it conflicts with my desires. 

True, general strictures are still applicable, but the contemporary world has less and less of them. The public expect me not to sneeze on them. They expect I won’t get in their way or step on their feet. They expect I won’t cut in line. Such are the expectations upon me over the next seven days. Otherwise, they don’t care. Do whatever you want. They’d rather I didn’t break a law, but if I want to, they just don’t want to be involved. They don’t want to be my victim or accomplice. Leave them out. 

Not that my contemporaries are opposed to all interactions with me. They’d be open to receiving some of my money. That would be okay. They can always use some money, especially from strangers. But don’t ask for theirs. Keep my distances behind them in an ATM line. Remember what they said about law-breaking earlier. But otherwise, do whatever. What’s it to them?

These considerations are far simpler than those to be managed when living at home, where my interests can and should be weighed against the other stakeholders in my life. But now, as I land, I am the lone shareholder. I am the singular board of directors. I will make decisions and set policies. None can challenge me. None will oppose my motions. I am the chief, and I will executively operate until such time as I once again merge with my partners in St. Louis. 

Thank you for your trust. I am ready.

***

I’ve landed. 

After delays on planes, buses, and trains, I’ve arrived. 

And I must say, I’m intimidated. 

Consider the subway system: there are 36 lines. They are named after numbers (1-7) and letters according to irregular conventions (the A, C, and E lines run parallel at times; the B, D, F, and M lines run parallel at times; there are no H, I, K, O, P, U, V, or X lines, but all other letters are represented). There are 472 stations of varying size, most of which allow you to swap orientations within the station but a rare few force you to do so at street level. There are three types of trains: shuttles (demarcated by an S), locals (demarcated by a circle), and expresses (demarcated by a diamond, though I can see no intuitive way in which diamonds are faster than circles--if anything, the angles would slow you down. No one could possibly commit the totality to memory. I didn’t even to bother studying a map ahead of time.

As a card-carrying Millennial, I delegated directions to my smartphone. I was ill-advised. Google Maps led me astray. The GPS feature was not my phone’s strong suit. Twice in the first hour, it pinpointed me four miles away, throbbing in a spot I was previously. So, I did what I could to decipher the offline maps I downloaded in case of emergency, navigating a town that resists scaled mapping and trying to avoid being trampled. Good luck spotting the sun at the foot of all these skyscrapers. Yes, avenues run north and south and streets run east and west. But, 50/50  odds are longer than you think when you’ve trekked all the way to one end of these enormous blocks to discover you bet on black and red won.

With sand slipping through the hourglass, I hopped on the first 1 Train headed uptown. My relief at sitting down was short-lived. As the doors hissed shut, the subway operator ended his announcement with an unexpected reference to this train being an express. As I write this, I’m freaking out because I’m not certain I can get to where I want to go because I haven’t figured out how to tell which stations the expresses bypass. Guess I’ll find out.

The good news is: if I’m getting lost, I’m getting there quickly.

***

I had the opportunity to feel like a minority today walking away from the Cloisters. I was the only person of my race within a few blocks. This would not be the last time when travelling from personally-desirable Point A to personally-desirable Point B that I was out of place. Each time, I was apprehensive.

Environmental signals were not reassuring. There were too few people walking the streets, too few cars driving past, too many chains, locks, and bars protecting places that didn’t appear worth valuable. And, of course, there was no one who looked like me (so pale) or who dressed like me (a collared shirt, khakis, and Sperry’s). 

Traversing these stretches, I felt more vulnerable. I was more aware of my proneness when the others were other so thoroughly. I was a visitor, an outsider, perhaps prey or perhaps a curiosity. People like me don’t frequent places like this. But was that because we’re not welcome or was that because we’re not interested? 

I felt eyes on me wherever I went. Assuming I was being monitored, I was never abused. I was never approached. As is de rigueur for the five boroughs, I was left to my own devices. 

I kept my head on a swivel. This alarm and vigilance, met with self-recrimination for alarm and vigilance, overlaid with concerns about streets, intersections, lefts, and rights was exhausting. (Exhaustion is a kind of stasis within NYC.) 

Had I been naive in presuming I could walk down any sidewalk unassailed or was I biased in my concern about the potential for trouble? Could that also be what it’s like for a minority to navigate a white neighborhood? Do they feel as exposed? What would it be like to fear the people in uniform rather than the people talking outside a bodega? 

I don’t have time to hypothesize. I may have missed a turn.

***

Advertisements in subways: condoms, services that do your To-Do lists for you, meal delivery (a thrice daily To-Do), cleaning services (a weekly to monthly To-Do, as tolerated), an app that coordinates subleasing, perfume subscriptions ($14.95 monthly to smell in vogue), and poetry brought to you by the Poetry Society of America.

***

Small Victory from Day 1: I (thus far) haven’t boarded a train headed in the wrong direction.

***

I am eating ramen inside a small restaurant beneath subway infrastructure in West Harlem. For a late Sunday evening, this place has far more energy than a commensurate place back home. There’s a clique of smartly dressed students behind me, likely matriculated in nearby Columbia University. The waitstaff fawn over the patrons in a way that makes me equal parts uncomfortable and proud.

I’m facing the chefs, who are separated from the dining area vertically by a bar, counter top, and insulated glass. Judging from the flames and flare ups, the glass is what preserves my eyebrows from incineration. 

I’ve made accidental eye-contact a couple times with one of the chefs. (Is it cooks? Would a chef be offended I called this person a chef?) We both look away with a rapidity that expresses our sorriness. 

The three chefs/cooks are in constant motion, but never seem stressed. They are all doing what needs to be done and are somehow not stepping on each others’ toes despite having 20 sq. ft. between them. There’s a kitchen porter who appears unsolicited at key moments, replacing ingredients, swapping out used pans for clean ones. There are no timers. The chefs don’t even wear watches, but they’re always tending to their various dishes with their various cook times. It was a delight to watch them work together, a chamber performance with nonmusical instruments.

In hindsight, ramen was a great choice for solo dining, it being an acutely undignified meal to consume. All slurping and splashing and fumbling with chopsticks. 

***

I have never been cooler than I am at this moment. I’m drinking at a speakeasy that I entered through an ersatz phone booth in an East Village subterranean hot dog shop. I picked up the phone, a sultry voice asked for my reservation, I testified to being a party of one, and the voice asked for my phone number and told me to wait by the Galactica machine until further notice. The anticipation built. Then my phone buzzed, I reentered the booth, the false wall opened on a secret hinge, and I was ushered into exclusivity incarnate.

The space is dimly lit save for the heavenly white light illuminating the wares behind the bar. Yellow gold accents and the dark plank wood ceiling give off a 70s vibe. Perched atop my stool, my pride builds. I know the ambient hip music. I own half of the liqueurs gleaming above the bar or at least have tried them before. I’m paying 4-5x mark-up on retail prices for alcohol. The drinks on the reinforced leather menus have names like California Chrome. They’re even using my soda siphon… or I’m using theirs.

They use enormous ice cubes here, 1.5” x 1.5” x 1.5”. Some of the cocktails are being served in sterling julep cups, which retail for $100 a pop.  The bartenders shake the shakers so vigorously the crackle blots out the music. They raise their arms high for everyone to see, almost always shaking two at a time. My barkeep, in his tight suit vest and pomaded hair, holds a set of jiggers in his left hand when preparing my first drink. He makes a show of twirling them around and selecting among the .5, 1, 1.5, and 2 oz. options. He slams the used vessels atop the rinser with a flourish and depresses the plate there a moment, gazing off into the ether and thinking godly thoughts.

***

It’s true: fake nails are more common in New York.

***

Ahead of me, a person walked with a tube of Clorox wipes in one hand and a 12-pack of Stella Artois in the other. That’s life.

***

At 9:30P, there’s a line to order take out in lots of Greenwich Village eateries. There’s also 30+ people waiting for a train. A toddler is alert and babbling on the F train. Like the city, he doesn’t abide by sleeping prescriptions. Like the city, he doesn’t seem to be affected. 

***

It’s true: there’s an unwritten Character per Subway Car requirement. I’ve been eying a black man in his 60s wearing a fez and golden tassel on this ride. On my previous ride, I saw a young white male on a muggy night in a black suit, black sunglasses, winter hunting cap (like Holden), and black silk gloves. Yesterday, I averted my eyes from a roaming quartet that sang out-of-tune down the car aisle, asking for handouts after every verse.

***

Forgive my midwestern disbelief, but Bryant Park is buzzing at 10:00P on a Sunday night. There’s a crowd to watch ping pong. People are slurping frappuccinos. I know I am on vacation. What’s their excuse?

8/13/18 - There’s a men’s club on a side street in the Theater District transparently named Mixed Emotions.

***

It’s true: more men wear pinstripes here.

***

I took my first bus this afternoon. It was raining; the bus presented as a mobile shelter. In the traffic, it was a less efficient mode of transport than walking. But I saved my feet for Central Park.

***

Business trip aside: I had seen this older woman around before at other professional functions. She moved like a creature at the food chain’s apex. Her heels were high and her fabrics were haute. She was the sort of person a person safely lower on the food chain really wants to knock down a peg or two.

She made the knocking easy. Her face belied cosmetic surgery, forehead too tight and cheeks too shiny, a halogen’s glare instead of a candle’s glow. Her desperation to halt the unhaltable was superficial. I pitied her, not with a saintly, compassionate pity so often operative in depictions of Christ but with an arrogant, sneering pity so often operative in the hearts of cinematic villains. In so doing, I ascended relatively higher than her.

She stood before us at a plenary session, delivering privileged information to the plebs and prodding us into compliance with newly minted initiatives. While bringing her message home in the presentation, she waxed autobiographical. She revealed her jealousy of fashion models growing up. She relayed a story about her aunt’s response to her protestation of why she couldn’t be as pretty as the models in Seventeen magazine. The point was her aunt’s response (“Beauty is as beauty does.”) and how we ugly people can live beautifully or something. 

But I was struck more by the set-up. This woman, who is so well put together she verges on too well put together, revealed an intimate flaw to a room of subordinates. Not so much her appearance (she is, ironically, attractive) as her preoccupation with her appearance. She made herself publicly vulnerable, brought herself low--wittingly or otherwise. This robbed me of my secretly won sense of superiority. ‘Who does she think she’s fooling?’ became ‘she’s scared she’s not fooling anyone.’ In so doing, she reclaimed her position. She was self-aware. She knew her desires, couldn’t overcome them, accommodated them, and was so self-possessed she could be frank about it. 

Could I offhandedly reference one of my vices like, say, judgmentalism? Never.

***

Has there ever been more frequently flicked-off buildings than those bearing the name of Trump?

***

Despite the umbrella’s obstruction, look around when walking in the city as it rains. You can distinguish the tourists from the locals. The tourists wear plastic ponchos; the natives wear a visage of perfected resignation. So much of urban life is a pain in the ass, rain renders the metaphorically dampened literal.

***

The economic diversity within New York City subways is only approximated within other cities’ airports. While flight is the only long-distance travel option for rich and poor alike, the wealthy elsewhere can drive/be driven short distances. The scarcity of parking, the intensity of traffic, and the reliability of subterranean transit drives the prince and pauper underground.

***

In its scale and frenzy, the Met mimics the city that contains it. So much to take in, not enough time to do it all justice.

***

I sat and stared at the Death of Socrates by Jacques-Louis David for a half hour, trying to burn it into my mind. The floorplan seemed designed for people watching as much as art viewing. 

A few tired children joined me on the bench facing it. Another man sat and listened to his audio tour’s blurb about the painting. A few people turned their heads on their way through the room. A European man held his SLR aloft with the screen bent, trying to frame it perfectly. A trio of college students stood in front of me, the two males pointing to explaining features to the female sandwiched in between. An Asian mother spoke quickly to her child. All the while, Socrates exuded confidence in his final destination.

***

This year’s special exhibit at the Met is Heavenly Bodies: The Catholic Imagination. The exhibit's text explains the Christian rudiments as well as identifies the artwork. This is who Mary was. This is who Joseph was. This is what St. Francis did. And it’s done in a way that renders the Christian beliefs quaint and exotic. 

How quickly culture can change.

I was a history major, which means I know better than to accept assertions the United States of America was founded as a Christian nation. By the mid-18th century, Western intelligentsia as a whole had grown skeptical of Biblical authority. The majority of Europe’s leading thinkers, the offspring of whom crossed the Atlantic and claimed what they found for themselves, doubted Jesus of Nazareth was both God and man. No, we weren’t an explicitly Christian nation. 

But the founding documents bear witness to Christianity’s influence on Western thought. Empiricism alone won’t yield the Declaration of Independence or the Constitution. Both depend on metaphysical realities (e.g., inalienable rights, the common good, etc.), so we hadn’t cut away all the baggage of belief from those centuries of Christian hegemony. Jefferson still dignified the Bible by retaining some parts of it after he put away his scissors. Franklin adhered to intelligent design as a common-sense position.

Still, it amazes me how 242 years after a founding that was born out of a traditionally Christian milieu and 62 years after we switched our nation’s motto to ‘In God We Trust’ that we’re teaching Christianity as though it were a foreign belief system.

***

Being a visitor at the Metropolitan Museum of Art at closing time is like being a cow at the feedlot when the meat packing truck arrives. In the final five minutes, people flit around the galleries like hummingbirds at lobelias. They practically run and take pictures, strafing and shooting in burst mode.

***

The soundtrack of a city: car horns, back-up alarms, first responders’ sirens, bicycle bells, the intermittent screech and clatter of a subway train, conversations in a variety of foreign languages, the hiss of a buses kneeling down, jets overhead, muffled cabbie screams, and pigeon wings flapping.

***

If the size and frenzy of the Met are the museum analog for NYC, then Central park is its analog in diversity. Within in its 843 acres are: 125 drinking fountains, 29 sculptures, 26.49 miles of paths for running, 22 arches, 21 playgrounds, 20 restrooms, eleven bridges, nine concession stands, seven ornamental fountains, seven ponds, an amusement park, a 6.02 mile loop for biking, a zoo, a carousel, a place to play checkers and chess, a volleyball court, lawn bowling and croquet fields, a boathouse, a Swedish cottage, basketball courts, a running track, tennis courts, handball courts, exposed bedrock, a pinetum, sundry gardens and walks, thoroughly naturalized areas that allow you to lose all reference to city life save the sounds of airplanes, a reservoir with the attractive architecture encapsulating water pumps, a swimming pool, etc.

***

The rumble of a train overhead is louder than any subwoofer in the loudest rock concert.

***

This must be what it is to grow up in a large family. You’re never really alone. There’s always a few people cramping your space. 

For the record, those people have all been either completely indifferent (when not engaged) or cordial (when engaged).

8/14/18 - Guess where I am: To my right is golden Prometheus, his genitals tastefully shrouded in a whisp of golden fabric, leaning over with a fireball in hand. He aimed to enlighten us. He must have been interrupted.

***

When we erect skyscrapers now, we don’t go through the hullabaloo of inscribing quotes of the principal financiers anymore. But when Mr. Rockefeller placed his order for Rockefeller Center, it included a side of self-aggrandizement. He must have led a terrific meeting.

A marble slab at the food of the plaza is written:

I believe in the supreme worth of the individual and in his right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

I believe that every right implies a responsibility; every opportunity, an obligation; every possession, a duty.

I believe that the law was made for man and not man for the law; that government is the servant of the people and not their master.

I believe in the dignity of labor, whether with head or hand; that the world owes no man a living but that it owes every man an opportunity to make a living.

I believe that thrift is essential to well ordered living and that economy is a prime requisite of a sound financial structure, whether in government, business or personal affairs.

I believe that truth and justice are fundamental to an enduring social order.

I believe in the sacredness of a promise, that a man’s word should be as good as his bond; that character—not wealth or power or position—is of supreme worth.

I believe that the rendering of useful service is the common duty of mankind and that only in the purifying fire of sacrifice is the dross of selfishness consumed and the greatness of the human soul set free.

I believe in an all-wise and all-loving God, named by whatever name, and that the individual’s highest fulfillment, greatest happiness, and widest usefulness are to be found in living in harmony with His will.

I believe that love is the greatest thing in the world; that it alone can overcome hate; that right can and will triumph over might.

Chew that over while recalling this man personally held 2% of United States’ wealth at one time.

***

Continuing the cultural shift discussion: the relief above the 30 Rockefeller Plaza’s southern entrance mashes up Ancient Greece with Judeo-Christianity by marrying a Zeus-looking God shooting lightning bolts out of his fingers to a Bible quote underneath. 

There’s more biblical references within the lobby, too. Josep Maria Sert* was contracted to fill the walls within 30 Rock after Diego Rivera was given the boot by John Jr. and Nelson Rockefeller for making Lenin his focus. Sert’s sepia toned murals, American Progress, feature strong, industrious men pooling their brawn and bounty to dominate nature and triumph over adversity. Together, they build a better, technologically enhanced America, symbolized here by airplanes and skyscrapers. 

The final mural in the series is a departure. It depicts a central figure clad in a white robe atop a hill (a “mount” perhaps?). His back is to the viewer. He is addressing (preaching to perhaps?) assembled masses that are dressed in ancient middle eastern garb in the background. In the foreground stand representatives from all classes of the (then) contemporary era in 1930s. 

Beneath is stenciled:

Man’s ultimate destiny depends not on whether he can learn new lessons or make new discoveries and conquests, but on his acceptance of the lesson taught him close upon two thousand years ago. 

What happened “close upon two thousand years ago”? Here’s a reference to Christian orthodoxy that needed no contextualization in 1932. I know and the audience of the day required no curatorial blurb to explain, but what about the rest of us? 

* I must add here in an ironic twist that Sert went on to be a vocal supporter of the General Francisco Franco, a fascist dictator whose politics would be at odds with the Rockefellers, too. 

***

NYC is littered with quotes. For no discernible reason, there’s a banner on a streetlight that reads, “Politics is half making an image and half making people believe the image.” 

Ponder the statement for a moment. Reread it. Is that supposed to be inspirational? It’s true but not encouraging. The image need not refer to the truth. It only needs to be enticing.

***

Most of the people who pace back and forth are suited men talking on phones. The men in shirtsleeves are wearing closely tailored dark pants, colorful accent socks, and shiny brown oxfords. The women wearing heels are wearing thick ones.

***

Redundancy is taking a photograph in New York City. Everywhere--at least in Manhattan--has been heavily documented by professionals and amateurs alike. By taking a photograph in New York City, you’re capturing an image that has been captured before you by better equipment in better conditions. The only novelty is that the photograph hasn’t been taken by you before. So, the photograph is unique due to the photographer, not the subject matter.

***

Patrons descend the Guggenheim’s ramps like bubbles of oil down the ramps of children's toys that occupied us in pediatricians’ offices. People ascend even more slowly. 

It’s a peaceful place, gleaming white and rounded. All the curves literally take the edge off. I take in my surroundings for almost an hour.

Too bad the Guggenheim houses modern art. I’d rather look at the bare walls in most cases.

Beauty is singular. The artist cannot impose upon or improve upon it. She must step out of the way and let what’s lit shine through. 

Ugliness is various. It allows for the artist’s personality to assert itself in its unique deformation. She can obscure with her own shadow. 

***

The instant you step foot--er, try to step foot in the bathroom, you know this building was designed by a renowned architect. Only someone with name recognition and its attendant clout could direct construction of a space that, upon entry, forces a visitor to maneuver out of the door's way and practically into the sink so that the door can swing shut behind her and, by shutting, let her walk through the newly revealed two-foot-wide passageway, which she must traverse to discover the toilet tucked around behind an obstructing wall. 

***

New York is a land of obstruction. The buildings obstruct views. Pedestrians obstruct vehicles and each other. Vehicles obstruct pedestrians and each other. Maintenance obstructs progress. Progress obstructs maintenance. Advertisements obstruct attention. Sirens and horn obstruct silence.

***

New York doesn’t have something for everyone. It has somethingS for everyone. In your immediate vicinity, there are multiple options that suit your preferences. So, why the hell aren’t you having a great time? 

You’re more culpable for your dissatisfaction here because there’s ample satisfaction at your fingertips. 

But, it’s also not your fault because those preferable options are also preferred by a host of other people, so it’s going to be busy. Or, it’s closed at the moment. Or, it’ll be damn near closed by the time you get to the other side of town. Or, you’ve navigated and traversed so much that, even though you’re where you wanted to be, the satisfaction is elusive because you’re in the wrong mood for it. Like being propositioned after putting down your fork from Thanksgiving dinner.

I’m flattered, but...

8/15/18 - A mortality play: a roach scurried around a subway station at which I was patiently waiting. It veered wildly, panicked. It changed course and was headed straight for me. I didn’t want to have it fly up my shoe and leg, so I lifted my toes. It crawled right underneath. I put my foot down. Sorry, buddy.

***

I’ve been put in adult timeout. What did I do? Four minutes ago, I swiped my Metro Card to enter the 49th Street station on the downtown side. I need to go uptown and realized my mistake too late. Most stations allow you to cross the tracks above or below and switch orientations. Not this one. I had to retrace my steps and find the opposite entrance.

Yes, but why am I  in timeout? To minimize the chance of multiple people using the same Metro Card, a cardholder has to wait seventeen minutes between swiping to be able to swipe again. Until the hold time elapses, you must stand by the turnstyle and think about what you’ve done.

I keep swiping and swiping, hoping the result will be different. Then I wonder if this is resetting the clock.

After twelve minutes, I retreated to a vending machine and paid $3 for a single fare. An uptown train was approaching, and I didn’t want to miss yet another. Call it a stupidity surcharge. 

***

Time is so precious on a trip. Manage it as best you can, and you still can’t help but squander dozens of invaluable minutes daily getting turned around, going down the wrong side of a subway station, waiting for cell phone service, waiting for a GPS signal, or waiting for another train because the one you just inquired about left the station while you were engaged in an altercation with an irritable MTA employee who had been provoked by your seeking clarification from her. 

Let me explain. The provocation came from the lightest of shoulder taps. Yesterday, I had the displeasure of being beneath Grand Central Station at rush hour, in a hurry like everyone else. Joining the throng on the platform was an attendant whose assignment was to walk up and down the station with a bullhorn demanding people to step back from the track and let passengers exit before boarding. 

The overhead display referenced an uptown express 4 Train arriving shortly and I, as yet, had not alighted upon the secret for which stops are considered local and which are express. I bet the employee possessed the secret knowledge, and maneuvered in her direction. She was paused between her announcements, her back to me. The din inside the subway rendered my speaking voice inaudible. Thinking a tap on the shoulder would be less jarring than screaming in her ear, I touched pointer to acromion. I thought wrong.

She spun around and yelled, intentionally jarring me. 

“Do not touch me!” 

The train was approaching. I shrank back.

“I’m sorry but I…” 

She stepped up. “Never touch me! Never! That is not okay!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just had to… I needed to ask you a question.”

The 4 Express was stopping.

I implored. “I’m sorry. Please.”

The blaze in her eyes was dying. “I get it. It’s a natural human response... but I don’t like being touched.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I wouldn’t have… But I need to know--”

The doors opened. The employee and I were boulders in a turgid stream.

“--is 86th Street an express stop?”

“What?”

“Is 86th Street an express stop?”

“86th? Yeah.”

The last riders piled in.

“So this train will take me to 86th?”

“Yeah.”

The doors closed.

“Um. Okay. I’ll uh… catch the next one…. I am sorry.”

She seemed to have accepted the sum of my apologies. While waiting for the next train to arrive, I watched her avoid contact with others like the plague. She was living a nightmare.

***

Despite my subterranean misstep, I disembarked from the Roosevelt Island Tram with 30-40 minutes to explore. Only four other people rode the tram over with me, the morning commute being denser in the opposite direction. Once the capsule glided to a stop, they took the northbound ramp toward the residential area, hospital, and few isolated businesses. I was the only person southbound.

I came here because of my extensive pre-trip research. I read the Roosevelt Island Tramway was a free bit of fun that few tourists capitalize on. I further read that the island itself was a secluded spot with great views Manhattan. I read that Four Freedoms Park, island’s southern tip, afforded the most spectacular sightlines. I made note it was closed Tuesdays, so I waited until Wednesday to ride the aerial tramway over. While gathering intel for the trip, I read there were two modes of public transit on Roosevelt Island: the MTA’s Q102 bus with service to Astoria/Queens and the Red Bus, a free circulator that tours the island. I saw neither immediately, so I started jogging to provide maximum exploration time.

The oblong East River island quickly distinguished itself by being so sparsely populated. A stone’s throw from the bustling metropolis, and I was nearly alone. Another, more appropriately attired person jogged by me. I skirted Cornell Tech’s gleaming, futuristic campus, which was also empty. My surroundings became increasingly more naturalized thereafter. The flat campus lawn gave way to central grassy hills destined to be developed at a later date. There were no more man-made structures, just street lamps and tree-lined sidewalks. 

I entered Southpoint Park, a public land trust which gives way to the national park I was seeking. I wound my way past the ivy-draped ruins of the Renwick Smallpox hospital. My progress was abruptly halted by ten foot tall bars and a locked gate. 

Damnit all. 

Even when you thoroughly research in anticipation of a trip, like how to get around an island you slated to visit between 7:00A and 8:00A, and allowed for for thirty minutes to return to the conference via tram, foot, subway, and foot so as to return to the hotel in time to eat breakfast, and--gulp--network, you overlook facts you couldn’t have known were important. Put opening time in the Unknown Unknowns bin. 

It never occurred to me to check when Four Freedoms Park opened. Park hours normally function like suggested donations, appealing to conscience rather than advertising enforcement. After all, how can you keep people out of nature? Whenever parks bother posting hours, they tend to sync up with dawn and dusk. Four Freedoms Park is not normal. It does have hours, as well as an insurmountable fence separating it on its north end, and a river preventing ingress from the other two legs of its triangle. And they do not adhere to a celestial cycle. 9:00A-7:00P. 

FML.

I sighed and initiated a Making the Best of It sequence. I stuck my lens between the bars and maxed out my camera’s zoom towards Lower Manhattan, trying to capture the view I would have had had I been granted access. I meandered back towards the Queensboro Bridge. I stopped to read the plaque describing the abandoned hospital’s history. I took a picture of Strecker Memorial Laboratory, though my heart wasn’t in it.

I was close to Loop Road when I heard the distant rumble of a bus. After walking and jogging a fair distance this morning, I seized at the chance for riding the half mile back. I ran around to Southpoint’s entrance and was overjoyed to see the Q102 idling at the nearby stop as though waiting just for me. I hurried across the street and approached the bus. 

I crossed in front and hooked right. The door was shut. The driver did not open it, even though I stood immediately outside. The driver must have seen me cross the street ahead of her, but she did not so much as turn her head to acknowledge my presence. She stared robotically straight ahead at Midtown East. Her sole occupation was not providing customer service. No newspaper. No smartphone. Just sunglasses and an RBF in profile. 

I surveyed the vehicle. The bus was completely empty. I walked around to verify the bus was in service. The LCD display said it was. I guessed the driver was on break. I stood at the door, rocking in her peripheral vision. I waited for five minutes. My rage rose. Couldn’t she indicate how long until her break was over? Couldn’t she at least shoo me away with a hand gesture? A flick of the wrist? A raised finger? Apparently not. She never acknowledged my presence or otherwise demonstrated sentience. This was the sort of practiced indifference life in the Big Apple instills.

I didn’t have the luxury to wait indefinitely until the employee resumed working. I started jogging back indignantly. I imagined the driver reanimate as I retreated, a smug grin on her victorious visage. I alternated jogging and walking, my business casual clothes starting to dampen and accumulate an unprofessional scent. I saw a third person on CT’s campus, a diminutive Asian man getting in his reps at an outdoor ping pong table. I didn’t have time to ponder this oddity, either. A few construction workers congregated near heavy equipment, threatening to do something.

My feet were throbbing as was my regret muscle. I would have benefitted from the extra sleep and a more leisurely morning. Instead, I’m sweating through this oxford shirt for the second time in four days. Dark thoughts grew darker once I rounded a parking garage within sight of the tramway station. Up ahead was the Q102, idling at a different stop. Breaktime must have ended. I glared inside, though the driver would not give me the satisfaction of glaring back. 

Still empty. 

***

With the business part of my business trip behind me and looking forward to three days of pleasure, I grabbed some street food for lunch. I took the yellow plastic bag back to an arcade I noticed on 6 ½ Avenue and sat among other yellow-bagged people. While I ate my schwarma, a butterfly sought its own meal. I watched it flap by, savoring the highly caloric, ambiguously named White Sauce. 

When I turned back, a zombie was lurching towards me. A young Asian woman in a smart business attire was limping along, dragging her dead left leg behind her. Her right arm was stuck out at an uncomfortable angle, trying to mindlessly maintain her balance. This is it! The apocalypse is upon us, and I’m completely unprepared! The only weapon against necrotic flesh I had on me being a plastic knife, I recoiled rather than engaged. 

Once she passed, I realized this was a false alarm. The toe-strap on her high heel was broken, and she was talking on her phone.

***

I’ve taken so many wrong turns here. Navigation accounts for 20% of my fatigue.

You’d think you could set your compass by Central Park--that immense and undeveloped rectangle--but you can never see the damn place. It’s just building after building and double-decker tour bus after double-decker tour bus obscuring all sightlines. NYC doesn’t even abide by the convention that even addresses are on one side and odd are on the other… at least not on all the roads. They switch for no discernible reasons. I’ve seen it.

I have no beef with the streets. Starting from 1st Street at the southern tip of Manhattan, the numbers increase as you proceed northward. That makes sense. I follow. But the avenues… what the fuck, New York?! They generally increase from westward, but in Midtown reason is abandoned. Consult a map. The avenues go: York (I guess that’s okay), 1st, 2nd, 3rd (much better), Lexington (wait, what?), Park (so, no more numbers?), Madison (presidents now?), and 5th (back to numbers?). I have so many questions. Why not start with 1st Avenue? Why are there three avenues between 3rd and 5th? Why are you doing this to me?

***

The Brooklyn leg of my trip began tonight. It’s a relief to see the horizon again. 

I must admit feeling a little less charmed by these environs. The barred windows, prolific graffiti, shoddy construction, derelict parks, and dirty diapers plopped on the sidewalks set an rough tone. Which is strange because, going into the trip, I learned real estate is relatively expensive on this side of the East River, too. Apartments that would cost $200,000 back home sell for $1,000,000 here. But beer cans and security cameras speak louder than Zillow. On my first long walk through the borough, I think I may have made a mistake lodging here.

But the evening proves my only mistake was considering whether I was mistaken. I was never given any grief along my initial two mile trek. And when cross the threshold to the nondescript bar that was my destination (Yours Sincerely), I enter a spirit of collegiality and warmth I never experienced in Metropolis (aside from a lovable East Village bookstore, Three Lives & Co.). 

Everyone is so kind to me. I strike up conversations with various parties. We banter and laugh. We shake hands, exchange names, and raise our glasses. I’m an honorary member of the gang. Someone orders a round of shots. The bartender is generous with information. In an effort to recommend other stops I should make while in the borough, he asks the best question I’ve ever been asked: how do you feel about an alt 80s techno vibe? I honestly didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. I was welcome.

***

Brooklyn is a graffitied town. Some of the spray painting is aesthetically pleasing, most of it is not. Some of it was commissioned by building owners. Most of it was the product of trespassing. Some sought to beautify. Most sought to leave their mark.

In a city where so little is owned by the people who occupy the spaces, it’s natural for the disempowered to want to lay claim. Even if this place is not theirs in the eyes of the law, it is theirs functionally. They have the ground forces to control the block, even if an LLC collects rent.

***

I visited the Frick Collection earlier today. As with all visitors, I was taught Mr. Frick’s rags to riches story: how he teamed up with the Carnegies when the steel industry was in infancy, made a fortune, made enemies, and started collecting art. 

No one knows whether Frick collected art out of appreciation for it or to impress his friends. We do know that after he and his wife died, he bequeathed his stately home and collection to the public--or at least the segment of the public that can pay $25 to enter as of 2018.

Strolling through his palatial mansion with Central Park frontage, I grew disdainful. Kudos for leaving something to the masses who made you wealthy, but boos and hisses for being so ostentatious. 

***

On the day I visited, the Frick encouraged patrons to draw what they saw. A staff member distributed clipboards, sheets of paper, pencils, and erasers. Because I needed a rest, I requested supplies. 

I haven’t really drawn in years. When I was a boy and showed an aptitude for the visual arts, I took a few after school classes. I was encouraged to continue my development. Being artistic was part of my youngest self-conscious identity. For years, my claim to fame was winning a blue ribbon in a city-wide art contest in fifth grade. Sketchbooks of unfinished drawings still clutter my parents basement. In high school, I enrolled in art classes so as to avoid more irksome subjects. The older I got, the more aware I was that what I rendered on the page wasn’t as beautiful as what was in my head, which paled itself to what had inspired me originally. I lost motivation. Since then, the modest skill I possessed has atrophied. As an adult, I identify with words, not images.

Stooped on a step, sketching palms in the garden court as best I could, I was nearly brought to tears. God is so much better at creating than I am at making.

***

I can’t sustain this infatuation all the time, but I am given to fits of bonhomie. There have been times, as when watching a parent and child interact on the subway, where I’m overwhelmed. I nearly cry again. There is so much peace and affection here.

8/16/18 - Decision fatigue is setting in. Today and tomorrow are completely wide open. The only must-dos are natural necessities (eating, drinking and disposing of the byproducts thereof). 

Do I head to Williamsburg for breakfast? But I’m going there for dinner. Do I head to Dumbo? But I didn’t research AM options there. Do I head to Prospect Park? I don’t really want to log more miles on these tired feet.

Time shoves me along. The sun is up and rising higher. Even as the sun rises here, it’s setting. You’re running out of time. Trains are ever departing. You won’t return to this place again. This is your one shot. You’ve invested too much to get here, and your trip is slipping through your fingers. Go. Just do something. Later, you’ll learn if it was the right choice. When the place failed to meet your expectations or completely outstripped them, then you’ll know. And you’ll live with the regret or the pride in a job poorly or well done.

***

A terrible sound: the rumble of your train arriving when you’re too far away to catch it.

A terrible sight: seeing your bus heading away from the stop just ran to.

***

In ways, NYC mirrors our contemporary Western culture. With its frantic pace and torrential downpour of information, it feels like media (social and traditional) in physical form. Nowhere else that I’ve been inundates you with so many discrete bits: the number of people, the number of buildings and storefronts, the number of museums, the number of streets, bus lines, and subways, the number of cars and taxis.

All of it is draining, especially if you’re trying to be vigilant and perceptive and not let moments slip by. I’m endeavoring to be present. My ears and eyes are fully open. I have a pen and notepad in one pocket for all things noteworthy and a camera in the other for all things beautiful. And I’m beat.

I basically can’t retain facts like bus stops or subway stations anymore. I’ve needed to know so many already, it’s like I’ve worn out that part of my brain. You’re constantly obtaining and discarding data. You only need to retain transitional destinations momentarily. Once you get there, you evacuate it and move on to the next dot you’re connecting. The moment after I shift my attention away from Bedford Avenue and N. 8th Street, I completely lose the datapoint. I simply cannot recall it. I have to return to the fact constantly so I don’t get lost and waste more precious time. I consult my phone obsessively to ensure I don’t miss it.

***

People have fine leather accessories around here.

***

A white man in his 60s, with a paunch pulling on his red tank top and sparse hair slicked back in glistening dark rows, breaks protocol on the sidewalk. He stops a person hustling the other direction. The young man doesn’t want to decelerate, but he does. He’s been obligated by another human. The young man stops six feet away, and turns back. He unhappily listens to what the old man is saying to him. The old man closes the gap between them, imploring. Frowning, the young man reaches into his back pocket and drops coins into the old man’s outstretched hand. The young man speeds off while the old man counts the coins in his palm. It’s not enough. The old man exits stage right.

A few minute later, the old man enters stage right and walks across the stage. At the other corner, he stops beside a man closer to his age who is waiting to cross. The other man does not spare eye contact, but does reach into his pocket to spare his loose change. The old man fingers the additional coins in his palm and heads backstage.

A few minutes later, the old man once again enters stage right, although this time upstage rather than down. He’s holding a blue plastic bag. The silhouette of a glass bottle is visible within. He exits, triumphant.

The curtain falls.

***

I’ve never seen so many people passed out on sidewalks before. Two a day, easily. There’s no  nearby cardboard sign making a plea or telling a story nearby, no hat or cup to collect alms, no bag of possessions. Just the precursor to a chalk outline, splayed as he was when he first was felled. 

No one shows any concern about this. I think I’m one of the few pedestrians who noted the obstacles were human. If the poor soul is lying adjacent to a building, you walk around them. If they’re lying in the middle of the sidewalk, you step over them.

***

If the small sample size is representative, New Yorkers have an peculiar regard for their hardwood floors. The two apartments I’ve entered have had strict No Shoes policies. The owners/renters have both pounced on me as soon as I crossed the threshold. The goal seems to be damage prevention rather than maintaining cleanliness because you could ask someone to wipe his/her shoes if you’re worried about muck being tracked in.

It’s not like I was wearing work boots or cleats or cycling shoes with those little metal brackets on them. Rather than hug, shake hands, or otherwise engage, I have to break eye contact, squat down, and fumble with my laces, their socked feet or toes in front of me. It’s as though I’m meeting royalty, genuflecting before the king.

What do I know? Our floors are made of engineered wood. I don't have enough skin in the game.

***

A sticker above the windows in most subway cars reads, “Air Conditioned Cars - Please Close Window.” I shudder to imagine what it would be like to occupy a car without climate control. The smell…

***

The mantras of New York: 

While you’re somewhere: Where am I going next? Where am I going next? Where am I going next.

While you’re going somewhere else: Where am I? Where am I? Where am I?

While you’re at somewhere else: [see 1) above]

***

The itinerary I set this morning was not the itinerary I lived today. I counted on eating lunch at Smorgasburg, grabbing a drink at Skinny Dennis, and watching a movie at Nighthawk. One of those three things happened, despite making it to all three locations. Smorgasburg is only open on Sundays and the 7:30P movie was sold out by 4:30P. In hindsight, I could have verified the hours of operation or have bought tickets in advance. That’s on me. But I’m trying not to be too much of a planner because that MO creates its own problems.

When I returned to my apartment, my host asked about my day. I recounted the unfortunate events.

“What is the phrase? Man plans, and God laughs.”

Yes, and he laughs when you don’t plan enough, too. 

***

While I was seated on a barstool, sipping the frozen coffee drink that had drawn me here, a 40-something man approached the bar beside me. He ordered another beer and shot special. He wiped his eyes and apologized to the bartender for crying.

“I’m sorry. I’m a little emotional.” He sniffed. “My good friend just killed himself.”

The bartender said he was sorry for the man’s loss and poured him his drinks. The man returned to his booth behind me, a drink in each hand. He was alone.

The exchange interrupted my meditation on the day’s wreckage. I had been internally bemoaning the sad twist of fate that had rendered this pregame activity the whole game itself. I was grumbling about how I had transited to this neighborhood, well before showtime, to buy a movie ticket for a Thursday night screening of a decidedly not popular movie, only to learn all the tickets had been sold. I was lamenting how I couldn’t eat truffle-dusted popcorn for dinner while watching an indie movie in an indie cinema, one of those hip venues that changes its food and drink menus to reference the films they’re currently playing, the kind of art house theater where you order by filling out one of the conveniently provided order forms at any time by flipping on the discreetly downcast side table lamps because they’ve thought of everything. But now I was concerned for this poor man’s legitimate plight, instead.

There was nothing I could do, though. It wasn’t my business. I simply overheard him confess his misfortune to the bartender. My place was to note it in my travelogue and make a point about the relativity of sadness and the need to buck up when what’s got you down pales to what’s got other people down. I was going to write a little, “Stop being a whiny baby” pep talk about it to inspire myself and the one other person who might someday read this diary. I thought I’d say something like, “Wallowing in your own insipid grief is disrespectful to those who have real grief,” and, “While you can’t change the way you feel because it does suck there’s a fly in your soup or you’re nursing a Willie’s Coffee Drink like you dreamed you would but not before a movie about the trials and travails of an eighth graders’ life like you dreamed you would and so are lassoing your own thoughts, regrouping, and charting a different course than the one you intended this evening, you should at least acknowledge that your issues aren’t large in the Grand Scheme of Things and you should not fixate on these measly issues exclusively but at some expedited point do something more worthwhile like acknowledge all that’s good and right in your life or do something to alleviate what’s really wrong in the lives of others, such as this man’s who recently lost his dear friend to suicide and is now ordering twice the alcohol a normal person orders each time he orders a round.”

But before I could come to these wise conclusions, the man is already back at the bar again. He places one big empty glass and one little empty glass down. This time, he sits at a stool one away from me. He orders a beer and shot.

“He wrote me a letter, too. It’s fucked up. He hung himself.”

And the bartender does what bartenders can do: he fills the man’s pint glass and pours himself a matching shot. They drink to the troubled man’s friend. The shots will be on the house.

The bereaved turns to me and tells me his friend died. I tell him I’m sorry to hear that.

“I was the guy’s joy, you know? I always made him laugh.”

I do what I can. I look into his eyes, which are blue with bloodshot whites, and tell him he’s not to blame. Unprompted, he apologizes to me for his appearance. He says he was going for kind of a trucker thing. He strokes his stubbly chin. “That’s why I have the hat. I thought it was important to look different. When you look different, you feel different, ya know? I’m normally a clean-cut guy.”

I say that’s true and that sometimes I get my hair cut when I want to feel different. He compliments my hair and asks if I’d like to know a great way to pick up chicks. I don’t know what to say because I have no use for that secret knowledge, but I do want to know what he

thinks is a great way to pick up chicks. He construes my hesitation as an affirmative answer.

“When you like a chick, let your hair get a little crazy. Like disheveled, ya know? And then go get your hair styled and ask her out on a date and she’ll be like, ‘What? Aww…’ and she’ll want to get with you.”

I explain that I don’t need to pick up chicks anymore, but add I’ll keep that in mind for my single friends. He asks if I’m married, and I show my ring. He says, “Oh.” I note his left hand is ringless.

When people say, “it’s a long story,” they are referring to the kind of story that ensued at Skinny Dennis’s that Thursday night. It’s so long, what you’re about to read is less than a quarter of it. There are so many details, pauses in the conversation, repetitions, and asides, I couldn’t jot them all down even though I scribbled everything I could remember on the bus ride back to the apartment and stayed up late scribbling in my glorified airbnb closet.

The red-eyed man led me on a windy, wide-ranging biographical conversation. The details he offered earlier were at turns contextualized and muddled. The friend had hung himself in his parents’ barn, the sort of barn that disintegrates on a wealthy east coast family’s long-held, formerly-farmed land. The letter his friend wrote to him was not to him exclusively but addressed to other friends, too. Throughout the bereaved’s retelling, his math was fuzzy. When he was exonerating himself for his recent distance from his suicidal friend, the bereaved said he had “just had a kid” and he couldn’t be expected to set aside time to talk. Later, he referenced not being able to talk to his friend for six months. Then, he revealed his youngest child was a three years old.

He shared his friend’s backstory with me. Before the hanging, his friend had been diagnosed with tinnitus in 2013 and had gone down a dark road ever since. The friend underwent a variety of treatments--Xanax, hypnosis, being stung by bees--none of which offered lasting relief. The letter spoke to the friend feeling no joy anymore, to which the red-eyed man posited if you could find no joy in receiving fellatio from a beautiful woman, the red-eyed man didn’t know that a friendship stood a chance of lifting his spirits. I made no comment. He suggested his friend should have deafened himself, as being deaf would be preferable to being dead. I thought better of explaining how tinnitus works.

I didn’t need to respond. He asked me about myself. He asked me about my family background, asked where I was from, and what I do. He commended me for overcoming my sad childhood. He asked me if I’m a doctor because of my familiarity with mental illness and asked if my upbringing was abusive. When people ask such a question, it’s often indicative of their backgrounds. My suspicions were confirmed when he later stated his parents “drunk themselves to death.”

With this, the conversation expanded well-beyond his friend’s suicide. I learned there were more proximate causes of the bereaved’s self-medication than a dead friend. The man’s godmother, who was more dear to him than his own mother, had died a couple weeks prior. Making matters worse, his wife gave him a hard time for attending the funeral. To placate her, he was barely in Chicago a day for the service before flying to New York to tend to business and then jetting to the West Coast to spend time with his immediate family. The constant cross-country travel was wearing him out. I inquired why he was going to California so often. He said to see his kids. He insisted I look at this place. He showed me a picture of a pair of young boys by a body of water. It didn’t look spectacular, a brown pebbly beach on an overcast day, but he assured me it was very expensive. The beachfront was private. He had put his estranged wife up in a rental house after she had absconded, unannounced, with his children and retreated to her parents’ estate with no clear plans beyond getting away from him. She had since enrolled in a culinary school on his dime. Last week, this same well-kept wife served the red-eyed man divorce papers at his place of business. The nerve.

The self-described impulsive Italian man hit back with a divorce of his own. Later, he called the proceeding a “countersuit.” Whatever his legal representatives did, it prompted a text from his estranged wife’s father. He showed the message to me. “Think again about what you’re doing. Pride is not the way. There’s still love for you.” The red-eyed man asked me on a number of occasions to interpret the text. I said I couldn’t speak to his in-law’s motivations, but it could be that he wants to help them reconcile. The bereaved doubted it. He said that his wife’s father was “on the banana boat, too.” He asked me if he should respond with a “Go fuck yourself, Jim” or if he should ignore it all together. I advised, whatever he said, he should not say it in anger. He seemed disappointed in my pacifism.

Despite earlier learning my occupation, he asked me if I’m a police officer. I said no. He asked if I’m a journalist a few times. Each time I said no. He explained he his wariness stemmed from his financial vulnerability. If news of his personal turmoil spread, it would ruin him. He used the words “contain” and “containment” regularly to describe his current life status. He had hired people to help him “contain.” Satisfied with my profession, we exchanged first names.

As his blood alcohol level increased, so did Jordan’s references to his wealth. He alluded to frequent European travels and offered worldly observations like, “Milan is the fashion capital of the world, not New York City.” He casually mentioned his apartment in Brooklyn and his place in the Hamptons. He asked me if I’d heard of the Hamptons. I had. He asked what I know about the Hamptons. I told him it’s a place where extremely rich people live. Satisfied, he downplayed the area. He called it it a nice place to live, but lamented how it’s been changing lately. He clarified he’s owned a place there for a while. He griped about how these hip hop stars and what not have been moving in and showing off, disturbing the peace with loud cars and raucous parties. The established residents have not taken kindly, Jordan among them. “It’s like, what, you’re rich? Great. We are, too. Go fuck yourself.”

Uncharacteristically guarded on the topic, he avoided stating how exactly he earned his money. The most I could extract from him was that people like him and they pay him a lot for what he does. Eventually, he said he couldn’t safely disclose his line of work because it was sensitive information. To give me a ballpark of his net worth, he assured me he’s “at Trump level.” That was all the clarification I needed, not about his income but about his character. Because not even Trump is “at Trump level.” To be “at Trump level” is to desperately need others to believe you’re beyond where you’re at, regardless of your gross income. To be “at Trump level” is to be so wildly insecure you lack the security of knowing the extent of your own insecurity. I pitied him all the more from that point onward.

As additional evidence of his wealth, he described how Will Smith’s personal chef hit on his wife repeatedly at a party they attended last year. I found his brush with the fame’s outer orbit underwhelming, but that wasn’t Jordan’s point. The anecdote was more a commentary on his wife. She told her husband of the chef’s amorous intentions on the drive home to infuriate him. She did stuff like that. She liked to push his buttons. He questioned her fidelity. We spent much of the remainder of our time together discussing his marriage.

Jordan described his wife as lately “having an episode.” This seemed to give him hope that her rage would blow over. He said his wife has been on antipsychotics, that she had switched from Zoloft to something else. He asked me if I knew they used to call bipolar disorder schizophrenia. I gently corrected him by referencing manic depression, but Jordan insisted bipolar and schizophrenia were the same. He called his wife “schizo” and said it was like she was two different people. He provided no insight into the circumstances of his wife’s episode and never acknowledged any personal influence over her health or lack thereof.

As if the conversation hadn’t been serious enough, he drained his beer glass and said, “Let me ask you this.” I held my breath. “Do you think I should stay married?” If I had any saliva, I would have gulped. Instead, I told him it was impossible for me to knowledgeably answer that question. I didn’t know enough about what he wanted or what her side was at all. I said it was good to be thinking about that question and to be talking it over with others, preferably people who knew him better than I do. I said vows were important. I said it would be a long road towards rebuilding trust and that he would need to hear her out about what was behind her flight because she must have had cause to be unhappy with life in New York. Loyal Kantian that I am, I encouraged him to act in a way he would want his kids to repeat. “Oh yeah. Of course.”

He grew more superficially interested in my approval while cracking peanuts and tossing the shells on the ground. He asked me if I believed in God, which I attempted to answer in a couple sentences. He made more religious references after I announced my faith. He averred he believed in God, too. He said that he was raised Catholic. He talked about how he’d given money away to give kids better chances. He offered on four separate occasions to buy me a meal as recompense for my counsel. He said he owned a restaurant not too far away, that we could walk there, and I could order whatever I wanted. Then, he’d pay and leave me to eat it. I told him that wasn’t necessary. “Anything you want, really. Anything on the menu. You like oysters?” No, thanks though.

The more he said, the more I knew I didn’t know. He declared his kids are gone, and he’ll never get them back. He vowed he’s trying to get them back. He introduced topics with, “Get this,” such as, “Get this. Not to be weird but so I sleep in the nude, okay?” From there, Jordan recounted how he’d been awoken last month to his wife lifting up the sheets and taking a picture of him in his customary overnight birthday suit. He was groggy at the time and brushed this off with a subdued, “What? Stop that.” I doubted he was initially so blasé. Regardless, after he dozed off again and she once more pulled back the sheets for a compromising photo, he was more insistent. He seized his wife’s phone and, I imagine, did a whole lot more because the cops arrived. His wife had called 911 on a phone that must not have been hers. Unfortunately for her, he enjoyed a good reputation with the local police. He testified he hadn’t done anything wrong, and they believed him. He instructed them, “Don’t cuff me and stuff me,” and they did not. Jordan asked if that sounded crazy, to take pictures of your husband naked while he’s just lying there, sleeping. I said it sounded crazy to me. He asked me if his wife sounded crazy. I said his wife did not sound well. He told me he paid the head of psychiatry at New York Presbyterian $500 an hour to arrive at the same conclusion.

“She told me she just wants to be more rich. She actually said that to me.” I said that wasn’t a healthy goal for someone who already had sufficient means. He agreed. We were reaching our denouement when he finished a beer I didn’t remember him ordering. He told me he still loved his wife and, choking back tears, asked me to read the lyrics to a song while he hits the can. He asked me to just read the song. I reached for his phone. You Are My Sunshine was on the screen. I scrolled, skimming it while he was away.

I waited and reflected on the song. It’s one of those deceptively sad songs, the ones with lines that sound saccharine in isolation but that add up to despair. It was a song about infatuation and the limits of communication, about the cruelty of dreams and the vanity of prayer, about separation and the ambivalence of reciprocity, about desperation and threats, about one and the same person being taken away and willfully leaving. And while Jordan likely is only conscious of those sweet romantic verses, he’s subconsciously promoting the dire ones, too. I wanted to propose this to him, but I couldn’t imagine how long it would take to get a person in his state to understand my thesis. Something told me it would have been a pearls before swine effort.

When Jordan returned, I told him it was quite the song. He emphatically agreed. He told me he wanted his sunshine back. He asked me what I thought about him reading the song to her or playing it in a voicemail maybe. I said she needed to hear more than a song, but it might be a start. He scratched under his chin and demurred.

After a beat, I told him I needed to be going. It had been more than two hours at that point, and I was running out of emotional steam. He said of course and asked for the last time if he could buy me something. I told him no and added I didn’t want anything from him. I didn’t want this evening to involve anything other than genuine human connection. I asked him to think about how a stranger cared for him that didn’t want anything from him and to maybe stop thinking so transactionally. He thanked me for listening. I told him he was welcome and that I was really sorry about everything.

I searched for something better to say, some parting wisdom to leave him with. But his trucker hat and moist eyes threw me off. You can’t fittingly wind down a conversation like this. It’s like trying to wrap a football for Christmas. You’re better off sticking it in a bag. I asked if he’s a hugger. He said he was. We embraced. I walked out the door into the surprisingly bright evening.

Outside, I retreated to the patio out front of Nighthawk and called my wife to recount the highlights. While I was claiming she won’t believe what just happened, I saw Jordan up the way on his phone. It was awkward for only one of us. He didn’t notice me. By his tone, he sounded better. Maybe I had alleviated something, or maybe he reverted to pretending. I’ll never know.

8/17/18 - In Manhattan, a hired crew powerwash the sidewalks each morning. In Brooklyn, shopkeeps sweep them with a broom and pan.

***

The proper term for the atmosphere inside minor/local subway stations is: dank.

***

Sometimes, the only sound you can hear clearly on a train announcement is the click of the microphone being turned off.

***

I’m inside The Oculus, watching clots of people course through the ground floor. This is the Grand Central of our times: a cavernous temple to transport and capitalism with unobtrusive music droning above the hushed din of hundreds of people saying, “look at that.” Minimal ornamentation adorns the structure’s interior and exterior. The absence of color is total. There is only line. Hundreds of white lines bending above and around. Like like an avian skeleton arrayed midflight from without. Within, it’s as though we’re all Jonahs swallowed up by the whale of Commerce. 

To exit, you’re funnelled through corridors of shops and fast food pretending to be slow, past 100 foot long screens advertising Pringles, and 30 foot tall screens informing women of Trend Alerts for items to purchase nearby. Once out of the belly of the beast, it’s a 180° emotional turn and a short walk to the 9/11 Memorial. 

***

I rode the 11:30A Staten Island Ferry. Like nearly everyone else not seated inside the boat with earbuds blocking out the tourists, I was not motivated to visit Staten Island itself. I mostly wanted the free close-up of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty perched above. That view was the destination for most riders, not the eponymous island. The ferry noticeably keened starboard as we passed Lady Liberty. Those on deck jockeyed for position, craning their necks, and hoisting their smartphones aloft to photograph the same thing.

After we docked, some riders sprinted down the gangway and around the corner. At first, I assumed they were on a tight schedule to catch a bus. As I progressed through the terminal, I saw they were running up the ramp to board the noon ferry. They couldn’t even stomach a layover on Staten Island.

For my part, I was willing to spend my lunch break on the the unloved burrough. I knew there was a good pizza shop within walking distance of the St. George Ferry Terminal. I hurried there, ordered a slice grandma’s pie (a margherita derivative), waited five minutes for them to bake it, and ate it as I walked back. It was delicious. The bottom of the thicker crust was crunchy without being burnt. The tomatoes and basil were fresh. The sauce was sweet. The cheese was gooey.

My palatable meal was in stark contrast to my surroundings. The walk did not endear me to the island. All rust, chipped paint, and flinty eyes. But at least I was there. Staten Island: I gave you $5 and 30 minutes: ya welcome!

***

One of the unimpressed ferry passengers was swilling a Coors Light tall boy at 11:50A. That’s the intoxicant of choice for lower class New Yorkers. I’ve noticed it in the hands a few locals. A gruff drunk riding the subway in Brooklyn was sipping on one through a straw. A younger man was slumped on the steps up the station I exited with an empty by his hand. 

***

My back was aching from so much standing and walking, so I took a seat inside the Rose Main Reading Room. The space is a “room” like Buckingham Palace is a “house,” though. The RMRR is an enormous and enormously inspiring Beaux Arts achievement within NYPL’s Stephen A. Schwarzman Building. If I lived in this city, I’d frequent the central library. I’d have a favorite nook that I’d try to occupy every time I’d come. I’d look around and watch the steady stream of gawkers whenever I needed a break. 

Or else I’d look up at the beautiful sky, painted in sunset hues, and mingle my daydreams with myriad others who have stared at the same murals there before me.

***

I’ve conquered Manhattan today. 

Thus far I’ve: eaten a donut in Bed-Stuy, downed a cortado in Dumbo, crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, took in City Hall, looked up at the Woolworth Building, swung by the Oculus and 1 World Trade Center, paid my respects at the 9/11 Memorial, laid eyes on the Charging Bull, gazed at Wall Street, climbed Federal Hall’s steps, felt mixed emotions outside the Trump Building, riden the Staten Island Ferry, strolled around Madison Square Park, snapped a backlit picture of the Flatiron Building, surveyed the inside and outside of the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, and Grand Central Station, toured the New York Public Library, circled the Seagrams building, admired the Lever House, tiptoed to see Starry Night at MoMA, hoofed the length of the High Line, ate Cambodian at the Chelsea Market, and now I’m sitting atop the eighth floor balcony at the Whitney watching the city lights turn on.

***

Museums and galleries are generally independent institutions and, naturally, have inconsistent policies. Some insist you check your bags. Some have nowhere to check your bags. Some don’t care about your backpack. Some insist you wear your backpack with one strap. Some insist you wear your backpack on your front. Some prohibit water bottles. Some prohibit the water in them. Some prohibit photography. Some prohibit flash photography. Some prohibit flash photography in this area, photography generally in this area, and allow it everywhere else.

The one commonality among all museums and galleries: the assumption that their peculiar policies are self-evident and that all violations of said policies are intention, brazen, and worthy of stern correction.

***

Everything about Times Square is obnoxious. Even at night and from a safe distance, it’s annoying. The buildings’ spires are lit up in irritating bright colors that disrupt the tasteful white every other building emits. A pale TV glow looms above those hellacious few blocks. And tourists love it. The sidewalks are congested into the wee hours of the morning.

I am a poor tourist.

***

Love was in the air Friday at 10:00P in the East Village. Men were kissing men. Women were kissing women. Men were kissing women. But not all were smitten. Some were smote. I crossed paths with a woman who was crying. What went wrong?

***

After leaving the Whitney for what would be my third failed attempt hear jazz at Smalls, I noticed a magazine in the gutter. In bold letters, the periodical commanded: “WRITE.” What could this be? A sign from God? I’ve been pondering my future as a writer. Was this the answer? 

Like St. Augustine before me, I was compelled to pick it up and read. I flipped the issue over to learn more. I assumed it was a purveyor of fiction. Perhaps my competition lied within.

I never found out. Something cold and slick was on my fingers. An unknown substance had been smeared onto the other side of the paper, and now I transferred it onto my hand. 

I sniffed. 

Dog shit. 

In the following moment, a pair of additional facts became clear. 1) When there’s no grass nearby, there’s also no good place to wipe something off. This was true of someone’s shoe earlier today and my hand just now. 2) If you’re going to lend credence to coincidence, be prepared for discouragement. 

***

I got greedy and tried to visit both MoMA and the Whitney during their free hours. Since MoMA’s free hours started first, I headed uptown first. Expecting the illustrious museum to be crowded, I resolved to limit my visit to laying eyes on Van Gogh's Starry Night. What a terrible idea that proved to be.

Within a half hour of the admission fee being waived, thousands of people had crammed inside. Hundreds more, myself included, queued up around the block. Once inside, the guards yelled above our heads into the cavernous space like a MTA employee with a bullhorn. They barked orders to us about where to go and what to do. 

The herd clambered up the steps, cheek-to-jowl, to the first gallery space. Navigating the hallways was impossible save for swimming downstream. I gathered Starry Night was on the top floor, so I looked for a means of expediting my ascent. The line for the upward escalators acted like a felled tree in a river, creating little eddies of patrons circling endlessly where the flow was disrupted. 

Imagine my surprise when a poorly marked elevator’s doors opened. Three people stepped  out. None walked in. I checked the corridor. No one was looking. I dashed in, as did a couple others. I pushed the button for the fifth floor. The new pair accepted my initiative. In the moment before we moved, I felt triumphant. Perhaps the crowd hadn’t swollen to the top yet. Then the doors slid shut, the elevator descended, and my heart descended along with it. After battling my way up one flight, I was back to where I started. 

The doors slid open on the ground floor. A guard looked in on us. “Where’d you come from?”

“The second floor,” I answered.

“This elevator isn’t for public use.”

We were at an impasse. We were locked in eye-contact, but the guard didn’t instruct us to leave. Others boarded. The guard moved on. Once again, I was cheek-to-jowl. We rose, stopping at each floor. A few tried to squeeze in, but most looked in at us like the forlorn awaiting a lifeboat. When we finally reached 5, we spilled out into halls as congested as those in the lower floors.

When everyone took a right, I took a left. I paused near a couple paintings no one was appreciating on the dead-end hallway: one was a dimly lit New York Cinema by Edward Hopper and the other was Christina’s World by Andrew Wyeth. I recognized the latter work and had been moved by the desperation therein. I lingered for a while, appreciating the oasis of peoplelessness. I focused on Christina’s wisps of hair, the perfect wheat texture, the ladder to the distant house’s roof. But I could not tarry long. NYC is not a venue for tarrying. I wanted to pay my respects to Van Gogh and flee this teeming place.

But that did not prove easy. The staff had a prescribed route established when touring the floor. So, I bobbed and weaved as best I could to comply but also to advance. I turned a corner and reached another dead-end. The line looped around and headed back from whence it came. I could comply no longer. At the next entrance to a gallery, I bisected the line. The room was packed. Through the shoulders and gaps between visitors, I didn’t identify the dark blues, whites, and yellow. 

I pushed my way to the right and to the left and entered the adjoining gallery. Swarming around a central wall, a mass of 50 people held their smartphones aloft. Fearing we all shared a common goal, I approached the throng. Of course this was the wall on which Starry Night hung. At any given moment, I could see 25-50% of it. The rest of my view was of arms, wrists, torsos, heads, and screens. I knew it would be impossible to draw near the painting and behold it unobscured. Instead, I wound my way to the back of the gallery. I snapped a few photos of everyone else snapping photos. The uppermost third, where all the stars shine, was visible in my photos as are a dozen phones with better views than mine. Whatever. I have proof I was there.

But is that good enough? Among the throng, not a single one of us had a single aesthetic experience. I doubt a single aesthetic experience occurred after 4:10P in the entire building. What we endured was the exact opposite of what experiencing art should be: noisy, cramped, amended with human odors.

Since at least November 2004, MoMA has been opening its doors on Friday nights and dropping the high entrance fee. Whenever a new sponsorship deal is struck for these free nights, there’s talk of egalitarianism. Both the museum and the corporation take turns praising each other for their dedication to the public, talking a good game like Rockefeller before them. But if that was the elite’s gift to the rest of us, the rest of us should return it. If this free evening is typical of free evenings, they’ve not actually made art accessible. Or more to the point, they’ve made art accessible but in no way enjoyable. The only engagement one could have was with the bodies of other people, which rich and poor alike can do whenever they wish on nearby subways.

It would be more conducive to art appreciation to raffle off free tickets at random daily and exercise a little crowd control. Otherwise, what’s the point of visiting the museum? Is it simply to be within the same room as art? Then I know how you can save yourself the hassle of this MoMA madness. Tell yourself behind the drywall of every room you enter and hall you pass through there’s a Rothko or a Rembrandt. In every bathroom you occupy, believe that the locked stall next to you contains Michaelangelo’s David. You’ll have greater access to art than even Mr. Frick, and you’ll have no less enjoyment than if you were in a overcrowded museum.

8/18/18 - My trip began inauspiciously with a delayed flight. It ended inauspiciously with a public transit imbroglio.

Previously, whenever I’d checked the estimated travel times from my Brooklyn apartment to LaGuardia (because I’m that thorough of a planner and I do things like estimate transit times to airports), I was told to expect 50 minutes. That’s a long time to traverse nine miles, but that’s life with a Metro Pass. Absurd as it sounds, since there is no light rail to LGA, I had to head west to Manhattan, north to the Upper East Side, then west to Astoria to pick up a special bus that drops off at the airport.

Last night, when I rechecked before going to sleep, the estimate was an hour and 40 minutes. Hmm. I thought it was a fluke. Maybe the routes and frequencies they run changed after 11:00P. When I checked this morning, the duration was basically the same. An hour and 44 minutes. At this point, I should have resolved to free up space on my phone, download Uber again while connected to WiFi, and cough up $30 to ride in a stranger’s car and save an hour. But ideals obstructed my judgment. For starters, I had already paid for a week pass--which was ending today. I was enamored with the prospect of relying on public transit for the entirety of my trip. That would be a future point of pride. After all, if you can make it there (on public transit), you’ll make it anywhere. Plus, I liked the closure of touring Manhattan one last time, albeit underground. My commitment to thrift was the stoutest roadblock to common sense, though. I ate cheaply earlier in the week so my unspent per diem would cover the rest of my stay. If I was to brag about travelling on a shoestring, I needed keep costs down.

So, I planned accordingly and counted backwards. My flight departed at 1:21P. I gave myself an hour to get through security. 12:21P. Subtract the hour and 40 minutes for the buses and trains. 10:41A. Subtract a half hour for something to inevitably go wrong. 10:11A. I needed to be closing the apartment door behind me at 10:11A to comfortably catch my flight.

So, after strolling through the streets of Bedford-Stuyvesant (inexplicably pronounced stigh-vuh-sent), drinking espresso and nibbling on vegan pistachio bread, impulsively walking to get a Haitian treat for Megan and Isobel, eating a cod fish hand-pie to round out breakfast, awkwardly carrying a piping hot cup of needless Haitian coffee,  impulsively buying one last New York bagel to stow away for lunch on the plane, not being able to constantly consult my phone for directions because of my full hands and, thus, the anxiety about getting lost combined with the glut of caffeine keeping my heart fluttering, somehow returning to familiar territory, showering back at the apartment, and wiping down the tile so I would earn a favorable airbnb review, I exhaled. I closed the door behind me at 10:00A, smiling to myself about how competent a traveler I am and how I nailed it, timing-wise.

I leave the GPS on my phone and take all due precautions to be certain I’m walking the right directions. (I am not a fan of my phone’s GPS, but that’s another story.) Before I board the bus, I verify with the driver that this one will take me to the N train and she says yes, last stop. I board, sit, and take satisfaction in watching my little blue dot glide alone the prescribed route. 

I am doing it. Look at me go.

The ends of trips and location precision being dicey, I start looking for the telltale subway entrances as I approach the end of the line. From the bus, I can see a set of stairs labeled AB. Nope. Another says AB·R. Not that one. The little blue dot is at the destination when the bus stops, so I climb down the steps. I look around. Still, no references to N. I turn around and ask the driver who’s idling the bus, “I’m sorry, but do you know where I can pick up the N train?” She looks around as though she can see better from her perch, and says she thinks it’s back that way but admits she doesn’t really know. She drives a bus, not a subway train. I thank her and walk back toward the wrong train entrance, aimless. 

Google does append walking directions after disembarking the bus, but it looks like I’m right where I should be. Meanwhile, trains are leaving, dominoes are falling, and Google is telling me if I hop on a train right now, I’ll arrive at LGA at 12:15P. That is too close for comfort. I’m envisioning a serpentine line snaking from the TSA checkpoint, a modern day Ellis-Island-of-a-wait, and I’m making zero progress.

I approach a coffee stand and ask the attendant if she knows where I can pick up the N line. The woman doesn’t know. The man who was in front of me tries to help. “You want DeKalb. Go up the block. Make a right. Then you’re at a shopping center. Make a right, a left. DeKalb.” I don’t comprehend anything beyond go straight to start. I thank him and walk straight, not seeing DeKalb on my screen and watching as I stray from Google’s prescribed course. The live updated arrival times lurch five minutes later with every N train departing from the station I can’t find. I am well on my way to a panic.

After a couple blocks, I ask a group of construction workers where to go. They make a joke about $5 being the cost for directions. When I don’t laugh, we get to business. They say nothing about DeKalb. They don’t really even reference streets. Just left. Right. Quick right, and left. My confidence is shot when the guy adds, “Ask agin when you closah. I don evah use da N.”

When I reach the next major intersection with no subway signs or indicators, I spin around. There’s a tiny rectangular park up ahead. The road I rode down on the bus fifteen minutes ago is on my right. I am lost and despairing. I’ve made it to my last day in New York having squandered maybe an hour being lost. Now, when I have maybe another fifteen minutes to spare before my flight leaves without me, I’m stuck. Because the stupid, reptilian parts of my brain are taking over and I need a better executive, I call my unsuspecting wife. 

She answers with a cheerful Hi and I greet her with a brief history of my disorientation and plead for her to simply tell me where to go in plain English and stay with me as I follow her instructions. I tell her the corner I’m standing on is adjacent to, ironically, a Subway restaurant. As she boots up our laptop a timezone away, I wander in desperate search for a sign that isn’t there. Megan tells me I should take a cab if I’m really freaking out and I say of course, but I don’t want to admit defeat. I’d rather be defeated. I spent $38 to travel without limit for seven days, damnit! Today is the seventh day! How can I give in now and repudiate my reputation as a thrifty explorer? Besides, I’ve never hailed a cab before. I’m near some university midmorning on a Saturday. I haven’t consciously observed a cab all morning. I recoil at the prospect of searching the internet for a cab company’s phone number, and reading the reviews of the various companies to help make the right choice. I can’t.

Megan starts talking about taking a bus somewhere, and I rule it out immediately. Looking for the right bus stop to hop on and hop off and continue looking for the hidden subway stop sounds unbearable. I’m fragile right now. I have at most one more attempt at transportation before I call 911 and ask to be taken anywhere but here.

As Megan’s trying to make sense of a foreign map, I retrace my steps with a plan. Girded by her soothing voice and steadfast love, I take action. I’m going to enter the wrong subway station and ask the MTA employee in the ticket booth about the missing N train. I retrace my steps in a dignified hurry. After channelling my fear into my precious wife, I tell her I’ll take a cab if this doesn’t work and thank her for her help, which proved to be more emotional than logistical.

I descend the steps I spotted and ruled out while exiting the bus a fifteen frantic minutes ago. I round the corner and descend further. I get to the entrance and... of course, this is a small, unstaffed station. So much for that idea. I look around. As above, so below: no references to N on any of the signage, only his yellow line brother, R. 

Because the time for dithering is over and I need to act, I decide to enter the station, read more signs, and see what lies within the gates. If I can’t figure out where the hell N is or when I can switch from an R to an N, I’ll resurface and pay whatever a cab requires of me--assuming I can hail one. 

I swipe and descend steps to one of the R platforms. No one is waiting there. I read the signs. None of the endpoints are familiar. Perfect. I head back up to check another spur. A Latino man carrying a stroller reverses course to let me by. I ask him if he knows anything about the N. He says no, turns to ask his partner if the N is “one of the lines affected.” His partner shrugs. Everyone is sorry, and I move on.

I go down another flight of steps and find a few people waiting. I look up at the LCD display that announcing impending arrivals. 

Mother...

...fucker

An N to Astoria arrives in 2 mins!

I set aside the burning question of what exactly is an N is doing in a station not marked for N trains. I stare at the banner until the train pulls in, then stare at the train’s ID until I can be no further convinced this is in fact the train I’ve been hunting for. 

I board, look up at fancy new train’s LED desplay, and spot my destination… 22 stops away. The destination is so far away, part of the route is abbreviated with an ellipsis. I’m in for a long ride. Google now claims I’ll arrive at 12:45P, though it insists I’m not on this train and will need to catch the next one--such is subterranean GPS accuracy. 

It’s at this point that I touch the little hazard triangle on Google maps that indicates a service alert. As a rule, I never tap to expand the details beyond Point A to Point B because why the hell do you need to see a list of all the intervening stops that aren’t yours? But when I click the triangle, I receive a little message written by the administrators of mta.org that says, in far from plain English, N trains will be running on R lines from late Friday (when I first saw the longer estimated travel times last night) through Sunday. 

This explains both why Google told me to go to an R station looking for an N train and why the travel time ballooned because the N train’s routes are far more direct--heading due west from Brooklyn whereas the R swoops southward to pick up Staten Islanders who disembarked from South Ferry. Why Google buries this crucial information on a hidden screen instead of calling users’ attentions to it can only be explained by the limitations of automation and entrusting AI to decode and convey humanly relevant data when the thing is far from human.

As my blood pressure drops and heart rate lowers, I progress to the next issue at hand: do I still  have enough time to catch my flight? To answer that, I first need to determine why Google is allotting 22 minutes for a final 1.1 mile walk to terminal B. Why won’t the bus drop me off directly at the terminal? I picked the bus up from the terminal last Sunday. Is there another service alert? I poke around online during the blips of service I receive within the 21 subway stations I’ll be passing through and see no reference to service outages. Even though I’m travelling light, I cannot possibly run over a mile with this luggage in my hand and slung over my shoulder. The slice of Haitian coconut cake won’t make it. Nor will my nervous system. 

I open myself to the possibility of taking a cab for the final mile to expedite matters as my arrival time is dangerously close to my boarding time, and I have no idea what kind of security line awaits me at one of the nation’s busiest airports. I am in a state of suspended anxiety, with plenty of time to be acutely aware of my running late. 

I consult my phone, which is the most any of us can do anymore in desperate times. The travel forums online are as reassuring about wait times as Brooklyners are about N trains.

Taking a different tact, I close out maps and search afresh from Google. I key in Terminal B explicitly in the search bar. This time, when I pull up the route, there’s the red line symbolizing the M60 SBS dropping me off at the terminal directly. Magically, my estimated arrival time drops to noon--when I wanted to arrive in the first place. WTF, Google! 

Before, I was calculating directions based on a pin I put in my personal Google Map of NYC. Still, the app knew I wanted to go to Terminal 2 because it had me walking there. I am profoundly enraged at what modern technology has put me through and relieved the digital oracle now pronounced my good travel fortune. 

I blink.

Whatever. 

I’m coming home.

***

New York wore me out. It damaged me. It took more than it gave.

I averaged six hours of sleep for the duration of the trip because I would end the day late and would rise early the next morning so as to cram in more. As the fatigue mounted, I became less and less enthusiastic about what I was doing. I moved on, rather than soaked up.

Past the saturation point, you can absorb no more.

Past the saturation point, I longed for more human connection than elusive aesthetic pleasure or gustatory satisfaction. I didn’t want to see any more buildings in which I can’t afford to rent a room or behold more art that an heiress collected. I just wanted to swap stories and share human moments again.

***

I’m in seat 10A, waiting to taxi onto the runway. In another couple hours, I’ll be back in a metro area one tenth the size of New York’s. In my lap is a sheet of oil paper, unfurled with a couple dots of cream cheese in the center. My bagel sandwich was worth the wait. I chew it while Michael Bublé sings to me. This isn’t serenity, but it’s as close as I’ve been in a week.