Leaving New York

I can't remember how many times I've been to New York City. It started decades ago when, as a child, our family would take the sleeper train from Buffalo, New York. I'd always have the top bunk. Outside the short, rectangular window, all I'd see were the black sky and bright stars. As you'd imagine, the monotonous rhythm of the train would force me to sleep. It was always a flurry of activity when I woke up, hurrying to wash and dress and get off the train at Grand Central Station. It was as if I found myself inside a new world, filled with busy people hurrying past and buildings bigger than I'd seen anywhere. I'd always hold on tightly to my father's hand, feeling giddy at the noise and sights around me.

When I lived in Philadelphia, New York was always my favorite weekend destination. But once, in the pre-Giuliani era, things had gotten rough there. My husband and I noticed it first around Columbus Circle. It was filthy and, atypically, not many people were around. It's always eerie when a normally busy place seems deserted. We stopped in one of our favorite nearby stores. We were the only customers there. That is, until a clearly unbalanced man raced inside.

"Don't argue with me!" He shouted, "Just don't argue with me!"

He charged towards the counter and we quickly edged our way out. Horribly, this seemed to be the pattern all day. Exhausted and dispirited, we ate dinner quietly at an Indian restaurant and were relieved that at least the food was good. The restaurant had felt like a haven from the rest of the city. When we stepped outside, there were few people on the sidewalk. We began walking back to our hotel when we heard footsteps behind us. They seemed to start moving faster, as if they were gaining on us. Fortunately, we were already at our hotel and hurried into the lobby.

"This whole weekend has just been weird and scary," my husband said as we waited for the elevator.

Just then, the elevator doors opened and we stood there, face to face with Stephen King and his wife. What's the likelihood? It had felt like our whole day had been spent inside one of his books. It was perfect. We both tried not to laugh as we got into the elevator and listened to them talk about a book signing earlier that day.

We checked out of the hotel the next morning and started on the drive back to Philadelphia. This was the era of the "squeegee guys". Throughout New York, there were questionable men who would jump out at your car whenever you were stopped and start squeegeeing your windshield, then ask for payment for the unrequested service. It really was a problem for a while. In keeping with the general tone of the weekend, we got treated to an especially memorable squeegee guy. Traffic into the Lincoln Tunnel was inching along when it wasn't at a standstill. We saw a squeegee guy make eye contact and race towards our car. My husband tried to wave him away, but he threw himself into his squeegeeing work with gusto. My husband rolled down his window about 1/2 inch.

"No, come on, stop. Really."

Squeegee Man looked upset, "But, I need a dollar! I need a dollar so I can get my butt washed."

What? Was this an independent business or a franchise that provided the service? He kept repeating himself, but fortunately, traffic finally started moving.

That particular weekend had not gone as planned, but at least we knew that next time, it would be better. And it always was.