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.