Starting with The Met and ending with Times Square (oh and Hamilton in between)

This has to have been the most action-packed day I've had since before face masks became all the rage. Mom and I started the day with free breakfast (as you do at Fairfield Inn, even in NYC!) and then Ubered to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Do I really need to say anything about how much I love a museum filled with art? No. No I don't. But I'm gonna anyway. The Met is delicious, all covered in marble sculptures, Egyptian relics, period rooms, and perfect paintings. And we spent the whole day taking it in. Can't top that, right? Well...

Tonight Mom and I took an 18 hour Uber ride (well, maybe not 18 hours, but a really, really, really long ride) through the gridlock traffic to the Richard Rodgers Theater on Broadway. Those in the know understand why. Of course we were there to see HAMILTON (!!!!!!!!). I can't even write about this. I don't know what to say - I guess only this: I am so lucky. And that would be enough. Just seeing Hamilton would be enough of a vacation. And we haven't even really started. We've got 5 weeks in Europe to look forward to. That's the vacation. And before we set sail tomorrow, we had The Met and then Hamilton. Lucky.

After the show, Mom suggested we walk away from the theater to make it easier to grab an Uber. But we definitely walked in the wrong direction because moments later, we found ourselves in the middle of Times Square. Well that's a busy place. Lots going on there. Very well lit, too. Our tiny bit of payback from having the audacity to have such an extraordinary day was the difficulty of finding our way out of the square and into our last Uber of the day. A friendly chap named Yao, who had completely incased the driver's area of his car in clear plastic as a Covid precaution, finally helped us escape and make it back to the safety of good old Fairview. We are tired, but carry on we must. Tomorrow we start our vacation when we sail towards Europe on the QM2. Ahoy? Ahem.

Riding the rails and thoughts about New York

We hopped our New York-bound train when it was already past my bedtime (which really isn't saying much - don't spread it around but I'm usually in bed around 8:30 or 9:00 at home - keeping the granny hours) but that didn't stop mom and me from enjoying a tour of our new digs. It was a 10 second tour, given that the sleeper car was maybe 6'x9' or so. Our bathroom, complete with shower, was slightly larger than a casket and a bit smaller than a port-a-potty. We were definitely gonna be experiencing portable pottying for the next 22 hours. Oh, and to use the shower a person would have to sit on the toilet or stand flat up against the door. 

Sounds like I'm complaining, huh? I'm not. I'm just giving the lay of the land. Train travel, even in smaller-than-usual compartments, is my jam. I had the best sleep, rocking back and forth with the movements of the train and listening to the distant whistle of the engine. Our trip took us through some beautiful country, and we rode alongside both the Mohawk and Hudson rivers. Picturesque. 

In New York, mom had arranged for a red cap to meet us at the platform so that she could get through the terminal without putting too much pressure on her bum knee. Our red cap came with a dolly for luggage and a whole lot of New York seasoning. He, alas, did not have a transport vehicle to help with the walking part of red-capping services. Then, he got lost on the platform. We attempted to keep up with him as we walked half way towards the exit, turned around and went all the way to the other exit and then turned around again to the first exit, and when I say walked, I mean New York walked, which is more like a cantor, or perhaps a trot. There was an older man with a cane also in our red cap parade and I couldn't help but laugh at the image of gimpy people attempting to keep up with their luggage circling the train depot. Cane man won the luggage dash - we were a distant second. 

So, New York City. I have history here. Right out of college I moved to Brooklyn along with three college pals, We lived in what I can only imagine is a multi-million dollar brownstone now in Park Slope, which in the 90s was not the coveted zip code it is today. Living in New York was magical, spectacular, painful, tragic, awesome, peculiar, lonely, crowded, heartbreaking and joyful. Ten months. That's how long I lasted. I felt like I had to put armor on every time I left our house. And I'm a lover, not a fighter, so in the end, I had to go. I haven't been back again until today. I used to have dreams about returning to New York and they always involved some kind of barrier that prevented me from getting there, like a raging river I couldn't cross or a lost airplane ticket. The memories I have are all bizarre in the way only New York can be. On the subway, there was always someone selling something or trying to get money. The toy man was a favorite. He'd set off a dozen motorized toys and cars that zoomed all around passengers' feet, lights blinking to the music they emitted. And miraculously, they'd all return to him by the time the train arrived at the next stop. How did he do that? Then there was the local grocery store. It had this huge bulletin board called THE WALL OF SHAME, which featured Polaroids of shoplifters AND the item they tried to steal. There was the guy with the huge mustache holding a sirloin steak and the lady with the long red fingernails gripping a bottle of vodka. Dozens of these pictures existed and I coveted them. And then there was the time I was booking it to my subway platform when I saw a bunch of photographs laying in the snow. Because I'm me, I grabbed a handful and when I looked at them on the subway I held several pictures of the reverend Al Sharpton, all mixed in with unrelated pictures of a bat mitzvah. That's New York. So here I am, back again - a very different me and an equally different NYC. We venture out into it all tomorrow.

Chicago Art Institute reunion and a little bit of panic tipping

I suck at tipping. I mean, I'm not a bad tipper in terms of leaving a generous gratuity, but I AM very clumsy at the actual act of tipping. So, when I went to the bellman this morning to have our luggage stored for the day, tipping anxiety prevailed. Backtrack: I forgot that cash was a thing. Pandemic times are pretty cashless, so I didn't to my usual stock up on bills before I left Minneapolis. In my wallet was four crumpled dollars that have been in there for months. Is four dollars a good tip for a bellman holding your luggage all day? Dunno. So when my worried self handed over my wad of bills, I said a bit too loudly, "there's more where that came from!" Did I mean I was going to tip again when I picked up the luggage (probably so - actually did) or was it a signal that I wasn't done with the tipping and had more bills up my sleeve? If you're new to my panic tipping, please read this entry from my 2017 trip with Alex. Once again, I slinked away, a tip-failer. My pretending to be posh has definitely come to a sad ending.

One of my very favorite places on earth is the Chicago Art Institute. I grew up in the northern suburbs of Chicago, so as a young person, I'd take the El downtown to walk the corridors and dream of becoming an artist. It's been so many years since I've seen that building - 25? 30? Too many years. But today we arted the entire day. O'Keefe, Chagall, Seurat, Sargent, Whistler (but not his mother), and all the others sent me back in time and reminded me of my age all in the same instance. Mom rode in a wheelchair through the museum, saving her walking legs for another adventure. It made for some interesting space negotiation and it reminded me of touring with George in 2019, always looking for the elevator. Thank you art, for existing and for bringing me all the feels.

After more Palmer House loafing (this time as interlopers - we'd checked out in the AM), we headed towards Chicago's famous Union Station to catch our overnight train to New York City. We had to enter a different door than when we were here last, and befoe us we encountered. the grand staircase. Ever seen The Untouchables? There's that scene when a rogue stroller bounces down the very staircase before us. Instead of a stroller, I bounced two suitcases down the whole thing, relieved that unlike the stroller scene, there was not also shooting happening. But one wrong step could have ended our trip half way down the marble staircase. I survived and am now writing this entry while sitting in the lounge, waiting for our 9:30 departure. Phew. Thanks Chicago! See you all in NYC.

Pretending to be fancy and contemplating beheadings

Woke up at the Palmer House, muddled from sleep and also from the fancier-than-me surroundings. We are pretending to be people who frequent such establishments, making us feel a bit like spies and even more like anthropologists, studying the habits of the rich and famous. Pretty boring, actually. 

There is a mandatory Covid test prior to getting on the ocean liner in New York and Mom and I have been trying to stay away from unmasked folks, since you know, we don't want to miss the boat. So breakfast (and all other meals) was delivered by Door Dash, and when I say "delivered" I actually mean that a car pulled up outside the swanky Palmer House entrance with bellhops staring all side-eyed while I ran out to grab our goods from the passenger seat of a bright blue hatchback. This is how we do it, Chicago. Don't complain.

Mid-morning found us on the mezzanine level of the Palm where Mom and I read books in expensive chairs, with our legs crossed neatly in sophisticated poses. Mom found a prop wine glass (actually a real wine glass, complete with a lipstick stain, left from the night before) and used it in a photo, thus appearing to fit in with her surroundings. Also, I skulked around checking out paths less traveled in the hotel. This led me to a Palmer House museum, which was closed. BUT the walls were all glass so I was able to see inside and take in the history of Palmer (pretty sure there was a guy named Palmer) and his deluxe hotel of yesteryear.

Today's entertainment was quite conveniently located one block from the hotel. We went to see the touring Broadway musical SIX and it was good. The six wives of Henry the 8th performed a sing-off for the crowd, each vying for the title of 'saddest marriage to Henry'. Two were beheaded, Anne Boleyn and the other one, so they pretty much win. The wives were all decked out in sparkly, Beyonce-type outfits (well, maybe not Beyonce...I don't know my diva singers' fashion as well as perhaps I should). Let's just say this. There was glitter, fringe, plunging necklines and hiiigggghhh-heeled shoes involved. Is that like Beyonce? I am now admitting that I can't think of even one Beyonce song. I mean, I know she's legendary and can sing a song of sixpence (six - see what I did there?) but my hermit-like nature and aversion to, well, almost everything, has me lacking in this space. But I digress...

The evening was spent in our hotel room, which looks straight out of a Poirot episode, so much so that I fear someone may have to get murdered. Oh - also I tried to put my leftover Poke Poke in the room fridge. It was filled with beverages and snacks, so I moved some of them out, figuring that I'd just put them back before we leave. Then I found out that the hotel charges you by using a sensor that can tell if you've removed anything. Even if you don't consume it! So lesson learned, I am allegedly now the proud owner of a Coke and a Sprite, which likely costs more than a share of Twitter today. 

I kind of suck at being fancy so far, and we haven't even made it onto the Titanic, er, Queen Mary 2 yet. Gonna have to sharpen my game.

  

 

We are back. We are changed. We are travelers of the Covid era.

Have mask. Will travel. Finally! It’s been a long strange travel drought and today, it’s time. This time my travel buddy is my mom and our plan is epic. During the depths of Covid-related travel drought, I mused about past travels and recalled the last time the two of us (plus George) were on an airplane. It was a trip from Milan to Atlanta, and everything airplaney that could go wrong did. What would it be like to take a trip to Europe without giving the airlines a chance to make us miserable? So, our game this time is take a boat across the Atlantic, Titanic style (but hopefully without the drowning). Today, mom and I met up in Chicago after taking separate trains from Albuquerque and Minneapolis. Train travel is my favorite, and this trip did not disappoint. Beautiful scenery passed by as I listened to an audio book and enjoyed the ability to stretch my legs in a very un-airline-like fashion. Union Station in Chicago is quite classy and gave us all the feels of the retro trip we’re embarking on. And just for an extra spash of the roaring 20s (not roaring like the world ending roaring we know, but the flapper girls and art deco of a cetnury ago), we are staying at the Palmer House, Chicago’s oldest fancy-pants hotel. Strategic location, it is, blocks from the train station, adjacent to the Art Institute, and steps from tomorrow’s adventures in musical theater. Six weeks of adventure starts now!