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!