August 29, 2011--Welcome to New York
It took more than seven hours to drive from our house in Maine to the northern border of New York City. At least an hour longer than usual. Clearly many others were bugging out from vulnerable places to find somewhere to ride out the hurricane. Brick- and granite-built New York, we knew, would see us through.
We hit Riverdale in the upper Bronx at about 4:30 p.m. and Rona's GPS said we had "only" eight miles to go. We began to talk about an early dinner. We hadn't eaten anything on the road and I had a developing yen for sushi and so in my mind I began to make plans to head for Sharaku, our favorite local Japanese restaurant.
But those eight miles, after the initial 320, took more than another hour-and-a-half and by the time we got to 14th Street I had lost my appetite for both sushi and the City.
"Who are these people coming into the city?" Rona wondered out loud, "They all seem to have New Jersey license plates."
"Maybe they're going to Broadway for dinner and a show. You know the show must go on."
"But shouldn't they be headed to Jersey to protect themselves from the predicted storm surges and power outages?"
"Maybe they have summer places there and register their cars in Jersey but really live in New York. Like us."
"But we still have New York plates," Rona persisted.
Wanting to change the subject--traffic is to be endured, not discussed; that only makes it worse--I looked around at who was in the street. Mainly young people, tens of thousands of them it seemed after three laid-back months in sparsely populated Maine, mostly in their 20s, and from the nonchalant way they were strolling, jogging, and biking one would image that is was just another lazy summer Friday.
Ah, I thought ruefully, to again be that young, that casual and unaware. They weren't, I was certain, worrying about losing power and getting stuck in elevators or if there was enough emergency food in the house. I was even thinking we should fill our bathtubs with water so we could flush our toilets if the worst happened. Such are the concerns of those in late middle-age.
"Look at that," Rona said, all excited. She was pointing at something on her side of the car.
I was busy dodging taxis which were rampaging around in a big city variation of bumper cars. One passed us on the right by jumping the curb and half riding on the sidewalk. It came to a brief stop at Hudson Street and then, against the light, barged though the gridlocked traffic snaking its way toward the Holland Tunnel. A policeman at the intersection sitting in his car drinking coffee was oblivious to the situation.
Immediately transformed back into a cynical New Yorker, I thought he probably was counting the days until he was eligible to collect his pension and thus couldn't care less.
I muttered under my breath, "It's crazy here. Crazy. One step from full anarchy." The youngsters filling the streets seemed unaware of anything but their mindless texting and wandered as if sightless along the teeming sidewalks, ignoring the tangle of trucks and cars.
"It's a miracle they don't get killed," I muttered. "No one pays any attention anymore to traffic lights much less crosses at street corners."
"Can you see that?" Rona asked again as we ground to a complete stop. "Over there. At the top of that building." I strained to see what she was pointing to. "That sign. For Kenneth Cole. You know, who designs shoes and handbags. He is so clever."
"Yes. We see them in his shop in Soho."
"Often they have a political edge. This one, though, is his best. Here, lean on me so you can see it."
By almost laying my head almost in Rona's lap I could read the billboard atop a nearby 15-story building. It read:
Gay People Getting Married?
The next thing you know they'll want to vote and pay taxes.
"That's great!" I exclaimed, happy to have something other than street chaos to focus on. "It reminds me that though I hate it here, I have to admit I still love New York."
Rona smiled and started humming New York, New York. She then broke into the chorus, "If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere."
Joining her I thought, I'll settle for making it to our apartment in one piece.
We hit Riverdale in the upper Bronx at about 4:30 p.m. and Rona's GPS said we had "only" eight miles to go. We began to talk about an early dinner. We hadn't eaten anything on the road and I had a developing yen for sushi and so in my mind I began to make plans to head for Sharaku, our favorite local Japanese restaurant.
But those eight miles, after the initial 320, took more than another hour-and-a-half and by the time we got to 14th Street I had lost my appetite for both sushi and the City.
"Who are these people coming into the city?" Rona wondered out loud, "They all seem to have New Jersey license plates."
"Maybe they're going to Broadway for dinner and a show. You know the show must go on."
"But shouldn't they be headed to Jersey to protect themselves from the predicted storm surges and power outages?"
"Maybe they have summer places there and register their cars in Jersey but really live in New York. Like us."
"But we still have New York plates," Rona persisted.
Wanting to change the subject--traffic is to be endured, not discussed; that only makes it worse--I looked around at who was in the street. Mainly young people, tens of thousands of them it seemed after three laid-back months in sparsely populated Maine, mostly in their 20s, and from the nonchalant way they were strolling, jogging, and biking one would image that is was just another lazy summer Friday.
Ah, I thought ruefully, to again be that young, that casual and unaware. They weren't, I was certain, worrying about losing power and getting stuck in elevators or if there was enough emergency food in the house. I was even thinking we should fill our bathtubs with water so we could flush our toilets if the worst happened. Such are the concerns of those in late middle-age.
"Look at that," Rona said, all excited. She was pointing at something on her side of the car.
I was busy dodging taxis which were rampaging around in a big city variation of bumper cars. One passed us on the right by jumping the curb and half riding on the sidewalk. It came to a brief stop at Hudson Street and then, against the light, barged though the gridlocked traffic snaking its way toward the Holland Tunnel. A policeman at the intersection sitting in his car drinking coffee was oblivious to the situation.
Immediately transformed back into a cynical New Yorker, I thought he probably was counting the days until he was eligible to collect his pension and thus couldn't care less.
I muttered under my breath, "It's crazy here. Crazy. One step from full anarchy." The youngsters filling the streets seemed unaware of anything but their mindless texting and wandered as if sightless along the teeming sidewalks, ignoring the tangle of trucks and cars.
"It's a miracle they don't get killed," I muttered. "No one pays any attention anymore to traffic lights much less crosses at street corners."
"Can you see that?" Rona asked again as we ground to a complete stop. "Over there. At the top of that building." I strained to see what she was pointing to. "That sign. For Kenneth Cole. You know, who designs shoes and handbags. He is so clever."
"Yes. We see them in his shop in Soho."
"Often they have a political edge. This one, though, is his best. Here, lean on me so you can see it."
By almost laying my head almost in Rona's lap I could read the billboard atop a nearby 15-story building. It read:
Gay People Getting Married?
The next thing you know they'll want to vote and pay taxes.
"That's great!" I exclaimed, happy to have something other than street chaos to focus on. "It reminds me that though I hate it here, I have to admit I still love New York."
Rona smiled and started humming New York, New York. She then broke into the chorus, "If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere."
Joining her I thought, I'll settle for making it to our apartment in one piece.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
5:07 AM
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