And the award for the Best Airport in the World goes to … JFK! Said no one ever! After a long flight across the country, I arrived at JFK, which was freezing cold, surrounded by snow drifts and about the greyest place I have ever seen in my traveling life. Nothing seemed to connect properly, the signs were ambiguous, you had to get trains everywhere, deal with broken escalators, the Welcome staff were not welcoming. I saw the looks on the real visitors to the country, the ones for whom English was not their first language, and I felt so very badly for them. They are probably still there, trying to find their way out of the airport, also known as hell on earth.
I waited forever by the Avis car rental for the courtesy hotel bus that never seemed to arrive, despite three phone calls to the contrary, and I thought to myself, “So far this city is sucking.” A hot shower and meal later and I felt a little better, despite my scenic view of the grey freeway from my room and a 100% promise of more snow. The cyclone bomb had passed through the area leaving enormous grey banks of mush and ice in its wake, but I was grateful for the fact it had left — at least for now.
My childhood friend was coming by train from her home in Annapolis, Md., to meet me in the Big Apple — no one calls it that anymore, by the way. We had planned and booked our itinerary, so no one was going to rain on our parade! We gratefully met at the Martinique hotel where an early check-in will cost you 75 big ones, but we didn’t care. Our window was dirty and covered with scaffolding, but the hotel was comfy and clean, our shower worked and the Carnegie coffee shop and diner totally winning.
Our first day together we had planned nothing except for lots of catching up and walking. Though the snow could be a little precarious underfoot, this is not their first rodeo in NYC, and we were still able to get around, never mind this girl was a little anxious about falling on her brand-new knee. The sun came out and we enjoyed a piano player with an upright piano delighting the crowds from his position in the snow of Washington Square. Hey, I could get to like this place! Having grown up in London, I do love a walking city, especially with the new knee and hip-titanium warrior that I am. You forget that in America, where mostly people don’t walk for pleasure unless they target a destination and go hiking there.
Our hotel was beautifully situated on Broadway and West 32nd Street, right next to the subway and in a perfect spot to hail a yellow cab. Couldn’t have picked a better spot had I known what I was actually doing in the planning of this aspect of our adventure. We wandered through Greenwich Village and had some nibbles and drinks, collapsing later back at the hotel diner for dinner.
The next day was a big one. We were going to the 9/11 memorial and museum. The skies were bright blue, just as they were on that fateful day. Not many people were visiting the memorial, so we had room to breathe and reflect and walk around the footprints of the twin towers. What a very suitable, thoughtful and peaceful monument we both reflected. The museum was an overwhelming documentary of the day and the aftermath of days and years of grief and recovery. I could only manage half of the exhibits, noting that I must return and absorb the remainder. For most of us that day is etched in our memory — where we were, what we thought was happening, how we reacted when we realized what was really happening. (“No day shall erase you from the memory of time.” —Virgil)
We felt thick with emotion and found our way to the firefighter’s pub from 9/11, the famous O’Hara’s, where you could feel the camaraderie and love inside its beery walls. For no particular reason, I felt moved to have a pint of Guiness. And then we needed to walk back, if only to clear our heads of somber thoughts and memories.
Later it was showtime! We were off to Broadway to see a Brit play “Operation Mincemeat” that we absolutely adored. It felt so good to laugh our heads off after our day of somber reflection. It also reminded me of how much I love live theater.
Next it was time to go off and see the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Another beautiful day embraced our adventures — how lucky we were — and we did absolute justice to the views and the history. Ellis Island reminded me that we are all the same — most of us immigrants, seeking a better life for ourselves and our families and happy to work hard to achieve our goals. The theme was the same over and over, no matter where the people originated from.
Sunday was the day for culture. Father had informed me that we “must” go and visit the Duchess of Alba by Goya. She could be found in the Hispanic Institute a little off the beaten track from where we were staying, so we obtained tickets and gainfully mastered the subway, (easy peasy, $3 charge wherever you go) and enjoyed a nicely local lox bagel while we waited for the gallery to open. From there we further subwayed (a new term, obviously) to go and visit the Frick Gallery on 5th Avenue, across from Central Park. I could have pinched myself — I was seeing so much during this long weekend and soaking in the real flavor of the city. Lots of delightful faves could be found in the Frick, from Matisse to Renoir to Rodin to Gainsborough. The Met was an enormous gallery that would take lifetimes to view, and we gave her a good three hours, but I have learned to just take a nibble and soak that in rather than consume the whole meal, as it were. So much to see and we packed in as much as we could.
Saturday night was Broadway Comedy Club time and time to yellow cab it again because some of us were just a few short weeks out of surgery! What a delight that was — our expectations had been low, but there were some truly excellent performers that night and we came away telling ourselves we needed to do that again sometime.
Monday was time to fly back across the country via the lovely JFK, which did not bother me a bit after the amazing few days I had just enjoyed. I had fallen in love with a city I knew not at all and seen so many historic and astounding sights that I would need several days to digest it all in my memory bank.
If you get a chance to visit a place you never have with a childhood friend who knows it well, I highly recommend it. I returned home full of color and light and desires to further explore. We are talking about going to Chicago next. How about you?
“Nothing comes from violence, nothing ever could.” —Sting, “Fragile”
