Epic Night in New York City

The last time I was in New York City, I had only been on the earth 6 times round the sun. I have only tendrils of memories...

Looking through the heavy coin-operated telescopes from the top of the empire state building, down on an incomprehensible bumpy gray-brown landscape of concrete.

Getting a penny stamped with the emblematic pointed tower, which I later touched thousands of times back home in Oregon, as it hung on the end of a purple ribbon from the closet lamp.

Gaping at the world records displayed museum-like on the upper floors...a plastic case of fake fried chicken with the caption, "So-and-so ate 25 pounds of fried chicken in one sitting on December 18, 1980."...a newspaper photo, pinned to the wall, of a man (or was it a woman? I couldn't tell) with an enormous wad of cigarettes stuck in his mouth, with a similarly absurd description. I don't remember if I got into the Guinness Book after this surreal introduction to the genre, or whether I was enthralled because I had already gotten the bug.

Floating along the dingy Hudson on a dingy day and straining to see some recognizable part of the famous Statue of Liberty through all her scaffolding.

Playing tag and hide and seek among bunk beds and across hard wood floors, with kids whose parents baby-sat me one evening.


So, when I walked through the archway from the train tunnel and saw the white marble of Grand Central Station, I was at once transported to a childhood storybook and back again, blinking my eyes in wonder. "We're in New York!" I turned to Adam and nearly shouted, eyes wide with glee.

From the station (in which I could have wandered for probably an hour at least), we were led by grand overhead signs to the yellow taxi-lined curb. The air was hot and thick with dew. It called forth in us both the memory of our arrival in Bangkok 9 years ago. We chose a cab at random, climbed into the back, and gave him the address, realizing that knowing the cross street would have been helpful, but I figured he would get us there anyway. And he did--to the grimy, rain-drenched West 30th address of the Freak Factory.

Men slept under awnings and trash decorated the gutters. Women and men dressed in the Black Rock City garb cued up at the door, laughing and chatting. We showed our IDs and tromped up the dark staircase. Greeted by cheerful doorfolk dressed in black, we gave our name and were checked off a list, our hands duly stamped and wrists ribboned.

In we went to the din. Lights and sound streamed toward us, gathering us up into the scene. We surveyed the three dance floors, up stairs and down, navigated past great white fabric balloons that stretched from floor to ceiling, through strobing lights, and found ourselves face to face with Holly. A familiar face! Hugs were had all around as Kenny was just around the corner. They led us back stage, a bright room filled with people in various stages of donning and doffing costumes. We stashed our packs in the corner and cracked open the first of our 3 energy drinks. It was then when I felt we had really arrived. We had landed at that most desirous of destinations: a dance party 3,000 miles away from home, where two of our bay area friends would be inciting our bodies to shake and undulate in rhythm.

We moved out and into the dancing fray and began to stomp and sway and gyrate and groove and get into the beat and I looked around at all the people doing the same and smiled. It felt good to be dancing after so many days of driving. About 20 minutes into our first stint, I realized how crazy we were to think we could stay up ALL NIGHT after so many hours traveling. The morning train to Bethel was at 8:30 am. The party was to last till 6 am.

Somehow, we drifted between dancing and snoozing in corners (no chill space) and standing still gazing at the festival of wonderfully freaky people, in whose company we feel so comfortable, for 6 hours. Women in ripped fishnets and feather-festooned hair danced on platforms in front of the DJ station. My favorite was the couple who performed their own personal Capoeira dance with each other. When Kenny came on at 2:30 or so, I found myself mesmerized by Holly's feat of vibration and I smiled broadly, as with eyes closed I brought my feet down again and again in sync with Kenny's beats.

At one point during the second of these cyclical activities a light shone in my face and a voice told me, "Gotta stay awake!" I got up and stared at two large men in uniform, with flashlights. "Are you serious?" I came back, incredulous. "Yes, you need to stay awake!" came the untoward reply. Dismayed, we arose from our bench behind an apparently not-so-stealthy cloth balloon, and stared at the dance floor, wondering how we could manage until the appointed hour of departure.

Somewhere around 3 am we decided to get some air and went for a brief walk around the neighborhood. We passed Penn Station and found a clean bathroom at a bar. We avoided an angry, drunk Irish dude who brandished his Celtic tattoos and threatened an African American guy who was minding his own business. When the angry one pulled out a knife, we crossed the street. While it was all just talk, we felt a brief thrill of danger and felt our night in the big city was certainly following its reputed form.

5 am came and we were amazed--how had we lasted? We were too zombified to really think about it. Holly hugged us goodbye. We braced ourselves for the last hour, wondering where we might go to eat and wait out the hours between sunrise and sleep. Holly's form appeared a few minutes later, and relief washed over me as she offered us the floor of her friends' house for our much needed slumber. Kenny chimed in, "I mean, we could all 4 try to sleep on the double futon, but..." Smiling, we heartily accepted the floor and made our way out to the drizzly street to find a cab.

We made a bed of baby's sheepskins and cardboard, throw pillows and t-shirts. Holly wrote a note to her friends, letting them know who was sleeping on their floor, and would be tottering to the bathroom in the early hours of the day.

At 9:30 I awoke to pee and greeted a freshly showered Kenny in the hall. He had just come from the party. With bleary eyes I met Catherine and her 3-year old, curly towheaded daughter, Sophie. Catherine warmly invited us to continue our slumber in their bed, as the family had all risen. We gratefully accepted.

At noon, we rose and officially met Catherine and Blake, our incredibly friendly hosts, and their two daughters Sophie and Lila. Sophie crowed about her superman Hallowe'en costume, fed me sunflower seeds and cashews from glass jars lining wooden shelves, and Lila pranced along the top of the couch against the window, looking out at the rain streaming down the grass, filling the crevices in the stone patio.

We spent the next few hours ensconced in the rainy warmth of Brooklyn and the world of new and familiar friends. We took the umbrellas we bought just days before and watched them turn inside out at the merest gust as we marched down the street, in search of a burrito. We stopped at a cafe so Kenny and Holly could get their daily caffeine. Not being a coffee drinker myself, and having just had tea back at the house, I just stared at the monstrous and fluffy pastries in their case, trying not to salivate, and swearing these looked a fair sight better than the pastries back home. But knowing looks can be deceiving, and saving room for real food, I refrained from temptation. I gazed around at the cafe-goers, trying to understand what makes New York feel so different from the West coast. It was many small things, which crept into my mind and sent the sensation of new and exciting down to my finger and toetips, but didn't reveal a single, conscious answer.

Back at the house, we ate our burritos with forks and knives, as they fell open immediately. Satiated, we bid goodbye to Holly and Kenny. We chatted around the hour with Catherine and Blake, and felt at home in a far away place. The hour came for us to embark on the adventure back home, to our van in the parking lot of a tiny Connecticut train station. Before we left, their housemate arrived with fresh-caught tuna and disappeared again. It was the best sashimi I've tasted. Blake laid it out in pieces on a green plate with wasabi soy sauce for dipping.

Everyone waved and hugged goodbye and we were invited to come back next time we came to the city. We made our way to the subway station and after a couple tries, found ourselves on the Manhattan-bound R platform. I kept my eye on the map inside so we wouldn't miss our transfer stop at 14th and Union Square. The difference between the two stations was that of rich and poor. I suppose even public transportation follows the money from Brooklyn to Manhattan. We gawked at the lamborghinis being shown on the main floor of Grand Central, found some chocolatey cheesecake for the train, and bought our return tickets.

The ticket agent slipped a receipt under the grate and there was some confusion as to whether it was ours or the woman who'd come before us, still at the counter near our elbows, waiting. The agent grew impatient and yelled, "Sign it! Sign it!" Taken aback and living up to the infamous New York attitude, Adam came back with a sarcastic agreement. Something like, "Okay, okay, give me a minute, GEEZ!"

I read the train schedule and determined we were bound for tunnel 21. We arrived early and asked if the train already boarding was the right one. I wasn't convinced until I heard the announcer say "South Norwalk," our transfer point, which I originally thought was just an accented way of saying, "South Newark."

In our van at last, we tried our luck with hotels but the hour was late and we weren't up for a drive or dealing with people anymore. So we holed up and slept at the train station, hoping we wouldn't get rousted. At nine the next morning, I woke to see Adam's finger on his lips and a whispered, "shhh, the police are here." A few breathless moments wriggling on clothes without shaking the van ended in relief: they left us alone. We quickly broke camp (which mostly consists of tying back curtains, shoving bedding toward the rear door, and plunking various objects behind the back seat), and made for The Roos's house. We spent a 1/2 hour or so getting to know Hans's brother Mark, his wife Linda, and their 14-year old son Kyle. We ate a decent omelette breakfast at packed Jacqueline's in Bethel, made disapproving eyes at the party who stole our table, and made off for the final stretch toward Maine!

Night in Chicago, 4 days in Pennsylvania, Arriving in the big apple

Silly us for not realizing how horrid parking is in Chicago. We've been there before, though not in our own car. It took 1/2 an hour an a lot of grumbling and some fierce space-guarding to find a spot that would fit the van and trailer as one piece.

This was about all we could handle as far as excitement for the evening, though we had hoped to find a comedy show or some such locale-inspired entertainment. About this idea that the internet "saves" time: Uh, sorry, not true. Especially when you factor in a spotty cell phone card connection and not knowing thing one about where things are in Chicago. We did not find what we were looking for by the time we hit the Chicago traffic: an improv show starting conveniently an hour or two after our arrival.

After our parking fiasco, we gave up on trying to find an improv show for the night and our stomachs commanded that we find some good grub post haste. The organic food restaurant I found online turned out to be more expensive than advertised, and had nearly an hour wait, so we found a more reasonable place--surprise, surprise, and Indian food restaurant. The spinach dish touched some taste bud that had been asleep--and what a bright and beautiful morning it awoke to see! Each bite was fresh air through a sunny window on a hillside overlooking a heady field of spice crops. The lamb dish, however, was a mundane and chewy affair, rather like we were cows in that field, forbade from eating the spices surrounding us, confined to munch on dry grass cuds and trying, with marginal success, to translate smell into taste. The soft-spoken waitress, whose eyes swept away the usual barrier between customer and service employee, had told us it was her favorite dish. Another instance of how differently each person chooses favorites. Still, recommendations are a better bet than chance.

Not wanting to go anywhere (there was a WalMart 40 minutes away) after our late dinner, we opted to guerilla camp on the street. Partly due to low energy and partly due to an increased chance of being rousted, we did not put the leveling blocks under the wheels. We surrendered to a slanty night's sleep instead. Using our tiny red key-chain flash lights only, we did the minimal amount of bedtime preparations and settled in to the hot night, dispensing with the usual down comforter.

As we left the packed-in streets of Chicago (after that breakfast I wrote about in my last post), a feeling drew in like the clouds that covered over us between night and the gray sticky morning: we are almost there--the other side of the country. Road weary as I was, the feeling was tinged with melancholy. I have thoroughly enjoyed being on the road. I love seeing America and a few loved ones slowly enough to feel engaged in my experience, but quickly enough to keep this sense of movement, and to drive home the vastness of our home country.

The lakeside and Chicago skyline were early sights of Sunday morning that sparked my few memories of being here a few years ago. A great fountain enthralled me for a few moments at a stop light. The day became one endless flatland of dry corn fields and service plazas once we passed Gary, Indiana--a cluster of industrial pipes and buildings of the type you'd imagine from storybook descriptions. Oh--and toll booths. Lots of toll booths.

We spent Sunday night near Cleveland and saw The Corpse Bride in Strongsville, Ohio. What I liked most were the vibrant colors of the underworld, compared to the shades of gray in the land of the living. The story never really drew me in--I was always aware of myself watching a movie, the uncomfortable armrests, and the constant need to shift position. At the end, it joined the realm of movies after which I turn to Adam and say, "Huh. Strange." And then feel nothing significant. I realize that I could analyze the obvious themes of death, eternity, the binds of matrimony, waiting to be saved, etc., but am not compelled to do so.

We spent Monday morning in Streetsboro, Ohio, outside the VW/Audi shop next to the onramp, agonizing (Adam was doing most of that part) about how to proceed with fixing the oil leak. At long last and a few phone calls later, we opted to wait till Maine to have any more work done on the van.

The states are getting noticeably smaller now. We crossed one and a half states the first day after Chicago and another one and a half at the end of the second day. Just before Cleveland we determined that the leaves had not started changing on the coast of Maine yet, and that we would not miss the peak, and that it seemed a shame to miss out on the opportunity to dance to one of our favorite DJs (a bay area friend) in New York City. What are the chances we would coincide in the east coast? Hearing quite a lot of excitement about the event--Freak Factory--we decided at the last fork-in-the-road-moment to head for the city. This meant a slightly more southerly route on the 80.

I let go of seeing the town where my dad grew up, as going through Michigan was now decidedly off-route. We contacted a friend who lived in Chicago last we knew, but found out she had just moved to East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. Turns out she lives just off the 80, near the border with New Jersey. It dawned on me that we live on one end of the 80, and Michelle and James live on opposite end, 3300 miles away. Quite a mind stretch to think of that.

Pennsylvania is festooned with forests, nestled along rolling hills. I realized we must be driving through the Appalachians, though I expected them to be a little taller. I am so used to the big mothers in the West.

Half way to the eastern edge of the state, I invented a fabulous snack, which always makes me pleased as two peas in a pod. Peaches with honeyed goat cheese and walnuts (that peach made it all the way from Oakland to central Pennsylvania and was still firm and tasty!). While we're on the subject, I also made a delicious turkey-swiss sandwich with the inner leaves of a romaine head for bread, and stuffed with parsley, mint, ketchup, and mustard. And, I made chicken lettuce wraps with mint, parsley, green onions and spicy cucumber-mint raita. My how I love new, good food.

At dusk, we approached the house where we would be settling in for a few days until the venture to the city. The forests had not let up--still shielding our view from the hills and valleys beyond the two-lane eastbound freeway.

It was as if no time had passed since we'd seen Michelle at our wedding 2 years ago. We cohabitated in mellow, homebound coziness for 4 days. I did some crossword puzzles with James. We watched some Daily Shows. We started the first season of Lost, on which we are now (no surprise) hooked. I began my writing schedule and it completely changed my sense of progress in being a writer. I always knew structure was the answer, but Wow--it's hard to understate its importance now that I've settled into it. The days were wet and infused with dim light. Warm rain and greenery hung over us and enveloped me. Leaving involved a franticness I was not prepared for.

But, on Friday morning we scampered around and managed to lose Adam's keys and leave the gas can nozzle in the driveway. We left for Bethel, Connecticut an hour late, missed our train after making our way through car-choked, rain-drenched streets for 2 and a half hours, deposited our pod at the bottom of our friend's brother's driveway, found a pizza joint stacked with pizza boxes to the ceiling, melted into the warmth of cheesy vegetables (including eggplant and broccoli!) on a crunchy crust, took a nap in the train station parking lot, and woke up at every train noise thinking we were missing it again. But, we did get on the right train, endured lots of loud, drunken chatter, and arrived in New York City at Grand Central Station.

Breakfast in Chi Town

This morning we made our way to Pauline's restaurant in Chicago's Ravenwood neighborhood on the Northside. It took two tries of inquiring with locals to get us somewhere we could have eggs without having to unload and cook in the van on the streets of Chicago, among the blocks of brick houses and tall, overhanging trees. The food was mediocre (Adam said afterward they must be in the Slow "crappy" Food movement), but the scene was a constant source of entertainment. Two families sat together, two feet from us. A couple sat next to us in the other direction. We just sat and listened and watched as our food twiddled its thumbs in the kitchen. I'd like to write it all out like a story, but I'm not sure how to do that. So, I'll just write what I remember - snippets of conversation.

"I want a chocolate chip pancake!" yelled the precocious blond boy at the end of the table.
"I want one too!" yelled the brown-haired boy who couldn't keep still in his chair.
"I don't WANT a huge meal!" yelled a third boy.
"I know what we could do while we wait for our food!" said the only girl at the table, her small mouth and freckles poised in an adorably expectant expression. "We could play..." and here she named some game I've never heard of. And of course I thought of how I never tired of "I'm thinking of animal," from age 6 to puberty. At restaurants I invariably thought of it and my mom humored me even when she didn't feel like guessing the obscure name of some creature I had just read about in Ranger Rick magazine.
"Let's all sit quietly," said the clean-shaven father with rimless glasses and a trim brown haircut.

The boy closest to us dropped his silverware and looked down at it on the cement patio where we all sat, crammed in so close the waitresses had to turn sideways to get by. He made no move to retrieve it, but sat looking chagrinned. The fair bear at Adam's elbow offered the boy his flatware set, wrapped in a paper napkin and taped tightly in green. The boy looked at him in alarm and did not accept. Adam chuckled saying, "Don't take knives from strangers!" The man didn't get the joke and explained, sounding a little hurt at being called a stranger, "Well, he dropped his knife..." At this point the mother of the young girl was saying something in an apologetic tone about having plenty of spare silverware at their table. "I know, I was joking," said Adam jovially to the knife profferer, suddenly remembering his last awkward experience of trying to make light with a Midwesterner a few years ago.

Our chai finally arrived, surprisingly with whipped cream piled on top. We both scraped it off onto our saucers and discovered bland, barely infused tepid water underneath. I added back all my whipped cream and mixed it in to get some milky flavor. It hardly hit the spot, but my body responded to the motions.

The families' food arrived and everyone's eyes popped at the size of the pancake platters. I read Pauline's tag line above us, "Where quality and quantity meet." I hoped they were right about the quality part. So much for the kid who didn't want a huge meal.

Our omelets arrived about a month later and we dug in, less enthusiastic, hungry though we were, as we discovered the claim to be only half true. Adam commented that raisins got their own distinct, cool name, so why were sun dried tomatoes left with such a mundane description for a name? That's exactly the kind of story I would go searching for and give up after an hour and a half of googling. So, if anyone knows the story, you know whom to tell.

As the food didn't hold our attention, we kept our eyes and ears on the goings on of the neighborhood. Gay couples in shorts and shirtsleeves, women fresh from their morning exercise in clinging clothes, mothers and fathers with gaggles of scrawny kids, jaunted through the doors at all intervals. A tall man with the palest brown skin walked by hurriedly every 5 minutes, each time offering us coffee, not seeing the tea bags in our mugs. The family seated near us ploughed their way through pancakes as big as birthday cakes. "I don't want to finish my pancakes cause I wanna save room for toast!" yelled the precocious one, who went on to explain that he had never actually tasted the middle school food but had heard it was quite excellent, particularly the pizza. His brother (or his friend?) listed off all the foods you can eat everyday at school in a loud voice, "You can have sandwiches every day, you can have pizza everyday, burgers, hotdogs..." he counted them off on his fingers pointedly. The precocious one took a moment to transfer his mound of pancake crumbs to his sister, who stood up on her chair to cup them in her hands and plunk them onto her plate. The couple on our other side discussed at length the meal they had had last night, how the food was not that remarkable, but the company and ambiance were lovely, asking after each other's enjoyment of their dining experience. They both weighed at least 250 each, and without hearing them speak I would have opted not to run into them in a dark alley. I love being surprised with gentleness wrapped in stereotypically gruff packaging.

I normally walk away from a run of the mill meal disillusioned and depressed - I've been known to look forward to especially promising meals for a week (or longer if you count the hors d'oerves at our wedding). But the cultural experience of this meal eclipsed the blunt fact of bad food. And for that, I am glad.