Leaving was less stressful than arriving because we made certain not to exit during rush hour traffic. Jaimee' took the GPS in hand and gave me point-by-point directions which made negotiating the city streets pretty simple and straight forward. And, unlike the day we arrived, no one swung around me while I was waiting at an intersection to turn left, so he could turn left before me. I admit I laughed and admired his brazenness.
The panoramic view of the city was breathtaking as we crossed the George Washington Bridge and headed toward New Jersey. I left with plenty to think about from our short visit.
The millions of people who call this city home come from every corner of the planet. It was a new experience to be the rarity, surrounded by people from diverse cultures and ethnic origins. Growing up in Amish Country means almost everyone looks like me. I found it an interesting and vulnerable sensation to be the minority; I think it's something everyone should taste at least once.
I wondered, while riding the subway, about my fellow-passengers. The man wearing a robe that reached the floor, the beautiful lady carrying large shopping bags emblazoned with designer names, the petite twenty-something in the burqa, reading a tiny book written in Arabic script, the young Hispanic housewife, heavy with child, a pre-schooler in tow, the weary, middle-aged Asian woman who determinedly dove across my lap to reach the vacated seat beside me. . . what were their lives like? Where were they from? What brought them to New York? Or maybe they were born here. Maybe I was the foreigner.
I had an in-law, years ago, who found the country frightening. All the strange night sounds, the darkness, even the silence; she found them all strange and unsettling. She felt about the solitude the way I felt about the crowded trains.
Since our trip to the city coincided with the NYC Marathon, an event with 47,000 participants, police presence was heavy, with, at one point three cops beside me on the train. I found it reassuring to see them and I tried not to think about the bombing, only five months ago, during the Boston Marathon. When the train I was riding stopped between stations, underground and with no explanation, several scenarios played themselves out in my mind, none of them pleasant. It was a little late to be wishing I hadn't seen movies like Daylight and The Taking of Pelham 123. I'm both claustrophobic and afraid of exploding devices, although closed-in spaces hold first place on my fear-factor chart. No one around me seemed to notice we had stopped. No one even looked up from their cell phones, magazines, or iPads. Give me crickets and the occasional raccoon anytime, I thought to myself. At least there's no danger of a fiery demise with them. Of course there's no amazing global cuisine or incredible Broadway entertainment either. There's just. . .well, crickets.
A big surprise for me was the friendliness of the New Yorkers. I thought big-city people, especially in the east were, uh, how do I put this. . .rude. I thought it was every man for himself. I did not meet one such person. It was great fun haggling with the vendors in China Town. I got the impression they enjoyed it as much as I did. The proprietor of the little coffee shop tucked in a side street off Madison Avenue was a great host who obviously loved his job. The policeman handing out flyers about the missing 14-year-old with autism paused to exchange pleasantries and give us directions. Even the sales people along Fifth Avenue who could surely tell we were a lost cause for any potential commissions treated us with respect.
When I drug my tired self into my own bed after a long day on the road, looking forward to a night without partying neighbors to wake me at 2:30 in the morning, I remembered thinking when we planned this trip I wouldn't want to do it more than once. I was wrong. There is so much more to see than can be packed into two days and three nights. And I still haven't tasted a knish.
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