New York, New York
Cary Grant is one of my heroes. Loved how he defied the march of time, dallied with gender-bending relationships and finally found happiness in late-stage parenthood. He was so very sui generis; a Brit who would slowly over time embody the very essence of cool, American, male, insouciance. And, yet behind that ever present twinkle in the eye, there had to be a bit of remorse.There had to be. He was a British expatriate at the height of World War Two (I fact checked this. He becme a naturalized US citizen six months after Pearl Harbor.)
I felt a little bit of kinship with St. Cary while up there in Middletown, watching the daily news reports from New York. I needed to get back for strong practical reasons. But, as I ordered my ticket back, I began to feel a sense of relief that I would be joining my people in their Finest Hour.
The Amtrak train was blessedly empty; my car was blanketed with food trays that had obviously been extended out as a result of cleaning. I chose a window seat nearly exactly in the middle of the car, stumbling across one or two stray people curled up in fetal positions along the way. It stayed that way the length of the ride.
I had texted Sis that I would attempt walking the rest of the way to Brooklyn. She urged me to call Big Bro' to pick me up from Penn Station and only relented after I promised to call a cab. But, what I found when I emerged to the surface at 33rd Street was that it was actually easier to walk once I gained a steady pace than it was to stop. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other and kept it up for approximately two hours. It was like the Young Adults Hike without the young adults.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I felt I had done this before. Back when I was still living at home, I think there was a transit strike and my friend Howard Senzel let me house-sit for him at his apartment in Hell's Kitchen. It took very little time for me to realize that Broadway was designed as an express route to get from the Upper West Side to the civic center at the bottom tip of the island.
And, that is what I did. I just followed Broadway to about Union Square where Fourth Avenue branched off even further east. Crossing Fifth, I could see all the way to the Washington Square Arch with no traffic. I would have taken a picture, but by that point it was all about conserving energy and maintaining my pace. It was about 45 degrees outside and I was already drenched in sweat underneath my Ralph Lauren sailing jacket.
I was actually disappointed by how many people were on the street. New Yorkers are known or their casual attitudes toward danger and this COVID-19 pandemic seemed to be one of those instances. Any time I saw a group approaching that was just a little too dense for comfort, I veered away even to the point of walking in traffic, if I had to.
I was getting pretty close to Canal Street where I knew there was a pedestrian entrance to the Manhattan Bridge and soon realized I had undershot the roadway by about a block and a half. Nevertheless, it was good to see the enormous pile of limestone markers guarding it from a distance. Along the way I must have seen dozens of people huddled in doorways or walking the streets seemingly oblivious - or, unable to heed - warnings to remain indoors.
I was home.
I felt a little bit of kinship with St. Cary while up there in Middletown, watching the daily news reports from New York. I needed to get back for strong practical reasons. But, as I ordered my ticket back, I began to feel a sense of relief that I would be joining my people in their Finest Hour.
The Amtrak train was blessedly empty; my car was blanketed with food trays that had obviously been extended out as a result of cleaning. I chose a window seat nearly exactly in the middle of the car, stumbling across one or two stray people curled up in fetal positions along the way. It stayed that way the length of the ride.
I had texted Sis that I would attempt walking the rest of the way to Brooklyn. She urged me to call Big Bro' to pick me up from Penn Station and only relented after I promised to call a cab. But, what I found when I emerged to the surface at 33rd Street was that it was actually easier to walk once I gained a steady pace than it was to stop. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other and kept it up for approximately two hours. It was like the Young Adults Hike without the young adults.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I felt I had done this before. Back when I was still living at home, I think there was a transit strike and my friend Howard Senzel let me house-sit for him at his apartment in Hell's Kitchen. It took very little time for me to realize that Broadway was designed as an express route to get from the Upper West Side to the civic center at the bottom tip of the island.
And, that is what I did. I just followed Broadway to about Union Square where Fourth Avenue branched off even further east. Crossing Fifth, I could see all the way to the Washington Square Arch with no traffic. I would have taken a picture, but by that point it was all about conserving energy and maintaining my pace. It was about 45 degrees outside and I was already drenched in sweat underneath my Ralph Lauren sailing jacket.
I was actually disappointed by how many people were on the street. New Yorkers are known or their casual attitudes toward danger and this COVID-19 pandemic seemed to be one of those instances. Any time I saw a group approaching that was just a little too dense for comfort, I veered away even to the point of walking in traffic, if I had to.
I was getting pretty close to Canal Street where I knew there was a pedestrian entrance to the Manhattan Bridge and soon realized I had undershot the roadway by about a block and a half. Nevertheless, it was good to see the enormous pile of limestone markers guarding it from a distance. Along the way I must have seen dozens of people huddled in doorways or walking the streets seemingly oblivious - or, unable to heed - warnings to remain indoors.
I was home.