On the first day we went by ferry. It was warm. The back of a man’s shirt sitting in front of us was already drenched in sweat. The shirt was blue, collared. A working man. My mother couldn’t imagine the men of the city walking about in suits and ties and long, dark pants. I sat my water bottle on the ledge and leaned my head against the window. I don’t remember what I was feeling. No excitement, but no trepidation either. When we made it to port we got out on a street at the curve of the city. On a road so small, already there were drivers honking, gesturing angrily with their hands, and darting wrecks by inches. We stood around for a long time waiting for a tour bus guide to sell us tickets, but no one was there. Is this what we came for, I wondered, to sit on a bus? I wanted to roam, observe, learn the language of the streets, but I knew I wouldn’t get to study the place like I wanted. Even though the trip was advertised as a graduation gift for me, I was bound by my family’s itinerary.
After a long walk into the city we finally came upon Times Square. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before, at least in person. For blocks, there was nothing but flashing billboards, bright signs, and people. Oh, were there people. People of all kinds of races and backgrounds and stories. It was just like you heard about and saw in the movies. Everyone was in a hurry, talking on cell phones, walking in huddles. You could tell the tourists from the locals; they were the ones idly stopping to snap pictures here and there. The New Yorkers hustled around you, gave you funny looks if you held them up. I spent a great deal of time pushing my mom out of peoples’ way so as not to get run over. As we walked into the square, we saw a long, skinny man in black tights and white makeup wearing an umbrella skirt promoting a Broadway musical. My breath caught at the sight of him. I waited for one of my grandparents to spout a derogatory comment about a man in makeup and flamboyant attire. “Chhh, gah!” My grandmother turned her head at my shoulder. “Do you see that?” That was the moment I began to ignore my family.
We spent a good hour walking around, and it soon became apparent that it was not the kind of day to wander about the city without direction or plans. The sun beat down harder than in the south. Temperatures were warmer than the Carolina’s. I wondered what New York was playing at. I’d packed chiffon blouses with long sleeves thinking they would be perfect for New York weather, but my tongue was dry and my skin sticky with salt air. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and tasted that familiar tang of brine on my skin. I began to understand why Carrie’s hair was so poofy in those initial days with Mr. Big. At last we settled into a window table on a street corner in TGIFriday’s. Later we would learn it was laughable to eat at a place in New York at which you could eat anywhere else in the country. But I got a tall Mojito with what I maintain was mint leaves, and was happy to be in an air conditioned building. After a half hour of dining, I became aware that New York, or maybe northern states in general, liked to make their drinks strong. With what I’m sure was a drink that wouldn’t have affected me back home, I felt the denseness in my head grow heavier, my brain like stone floating between the membranes. I laughed at everything. A good buzz gave me the nonchalant attitude I needed in a big city with my family.
After lunch, we perused with musicals showing and decided on Sister Act, but only after reassuring my grandparents that Whoopi Goldberg wasn’t involved (don’t ask), and upon my insistence that I must see Raven-Symone live on Broadway the one time I was in New York. It’s not every day you get the chance to see your Disney Channel idol of the new millennium live on Broadway. At that point I couldn’t have cared less about my family’s Civil War-era thinking habits. I looked at one of the guys standing by the box office helping people with questions about the shows. “So, what’s the best show?” I asked. “Oh, Sister Act. Definitely,” the guy said, flicking his wrist. “Sister Act it is.”
When we came out of the theater it was storming – the thunder loud, cracking and sonorous. A bike carriage flipped and people screamed. I thought someone had run up on the sidewalk and slipped in the rain. A school bus hauled a team of students in blue t-shirts out of the storm. As the crowd thinned, so did the rain. My grandfather bought two umbrellas. My mom and I huddled underneath one and began walking down the street. Water sloshed into my shoes, my feet slipping on the slick soles. I loved New York in the rain. Just how I secretly loved Columbia on campus in the rain. It was something about the patter of bulbous drops of liquid popping against the ground. The city gleamed in a way it couldn’t dry.
As the rain stopped altogether, my grandfather consulted the map, trying to lead us back to the ferry. Only every time we headed in one direction we realized it was the wrong way. I spent the entirety of the day surrendered to the assumption I couldn’t find my way around, even with a printed guide, but as we walked along the edge of the wrong pier I knew I had to give reading the map a shot if we were going to find our way back before the ferry’s stopped coming. We had somehow ended up in the Financial District. This was the place of business suits and high heels. This was the side of town I expected to see all over New York. I led us down Trinity and took the corner at Wall St. We followed the road all the way down to the piers and finally saw South Street where we started. As we waited for the 9:00 ferry back to Jersey City, I realized what I’d done. I’d made my own way through the streets of Manhattan. That was when I started fantasizing about the place. That was when I started fantasizing about the possibilities.
