Our American Vacation Part IV: New York City

After an exhausting day in Boston, Joaquin and I departed from Plymouth, but not before, we made a visit to Plimouth Plantation. Plimouth Plantation is a re-created historical settlement with actors playing the parts  of Native Americans and pilgrims. Joaquin and I arrived early when there were no crowds, so it felt like a nice, nature walk through time. I even saw a cardinal, which to me topped the experience because I had only seen the vibrant rouge delight in books. Something else that very closely topped the experience was watching Joaquin help the pilgrim girl fetch water down by the creek. He was loaded up with a yoke and had to balance two buckets of water at each end. It was an idyllic scene with a bunny rabbit hopping away from the creek as we approached, and my little boy slaving away (much to my entertainment). Some people may be under the impression that I am a nice person, but I do not know after considering how much pleasure I gained from watching my progeny struggle. I justify my pleasure as knowing that it was a character building moment for him, and any parent who cared one bit for their children would gain as equal amount as pleasure as I did knowing that their child might grow up to be a hardworking individual. I also fervently felt that my money was well-spent on this tourist venture; I was investing in my son’s future.

    The rest of our day was spent navigating traffic to get to our next Airbnb in Cos Cob, Connecticut. I had picked this charming location because it was within a block of the train station, and we had plans of going into New York City the next day. Our Airbnb abode was lovely and uniquely decorated; the owner had taken the time to organize all the books according to color on the wall sized bookshelf. It looked modern and sleek and simply beautiful to my book loving sensibilities. I loved the idea so much, that I tried this decorating technique about a month later, and with lament, I can tell you, the level of sophistication in my book decorating did not pan out to the vision of elegance and modernity of our Airbnb studio. My version ended up being a hackneyed version of the book shelf in Cos Cob; I will say my selection of books is far more superior though. I didn’t see the Cos Cob bookshelf boasting Dostoevsky, Twain, Euripides, or Faulkner. However, it did have several copies of Calvin and Hobbs in which Joaquin quickly delved.  

    The next morning we found a tiny, empty place to stand on the train into New York City. People were commuting to their days of work in the city. We got out at Grand Central Station and hooved it for many a block to witness the famed Empire State Building and then go to a breakfast joint that a friend had recommended called Serendipity 3. On the way, Joaquin stood on the steps of the Liberian Embassy, and asserted his status as a world traveler, claiming he had been to Africa. New York City was still waking up, only a few hardcore morning people, including us, were meandering on the streets, and we could actually see open space available on the streets, not the bumper to bumper traffic that we would encounter later in the day. It was the calmest part of the entire day for us. When we arrived at the acclaimed Serendipity 3, both Joaquin and I were enamored with the bedazzled space around us; it really was just a hole in the wall, but when entering, the effect of the mirrors, and the whimsical decor made it seem like we were entering a magical place. We both ordered frozen hot chocolates and french toast. Our eyes popped out of our heads when they brought us our treats, partly because they looked amazing, and partly because they were huge. I knew right away that Joaquin and I would probably have to waste a large portion of our meal. My globally aware and humanitarian conscientiousness was whispering things to me such as: “You wasteful American...Don’t you know there are starving people in the world...Think of the poor people who picked the cacao; you are shaming them.” But let me describe the gastronomical delights placed in front of our wonder filled eyes and empty stomachs. The french toast gleamed a golden aura, thick slices of challah bread with melting butter streaming down the sides rested gloriously on its white throne of a plate. The frozen chocolate, contained in a glass goblet about the size of our heads, was covered in a heavenly cloud of whipped cream (probably the whole can). Its rich brown, divine chocolatiness sat below those pure clouds of sweetness and diabetes waiting to happen. Chocolate flakes topped  the entire enterprise, as if the mass of dopamine inducing substance was not enough. True to my fears, I could consume only about one-third of my food, and Joaquin consumed just about the same. That breakfast was the most expensive breakfast I had ever had. I spent about seventy dollars to waste more than half of my food. The waiter, insincerely said, “ I should have told you about the portions.” If he had really cared about us, and had any powers of observation and had seen that Joaquin was a little boy, and that I was half the size of a normal woman, then he would have made us aware of the portion sizes. Isn’t it fun to blame others for our ignorance?

    Our stomachs rounder, we headed out into the city. I wanted to embrace the quintessential New York life and hail down a cab, so I did, and I should have known better. Some taxi drivers are unscrupulous and take advantage of unaware customers; they will take longer routes in order to rack up their fares. This had happened to me  in Rome where I had paid an exorbitant amount of fifty euros, and  this taxi driver was no different. He had probably talked to that Italian taxi driver. I can hear the conversation: “She is an easy target. She has money because she is on vacation. Take her around the city. It doesn’t matter that she has a son; they are well-fed Americans; plus, you deserve it, risking your life on those streets everyday just so you can get people from one place to the next. Take her for everything she’s got.” Of course he would be saying this in Italian, and the Pakistani taxi driver would magically understand every word he said. I know he was swindler because later on, we took another cab back to the same place we had caught one, and the fare was a lot cheaper. I paid him the fare with the “tourist tax”, and then stood in line to get our ferry tickets to Liberty Island and Ellis Island.This trip can be defined by standing in lines. After the ticket line, ensued the line to the ferry, which was nothing less than ranchers prodding a mass amount of cattle into one small space, and later a line to get off the damn ferry, then a line to get food, lines to bathrooms, lines to see exhibits, and ultimately, a line to finally depart that hell of writhing tourists(of which I am aware I was one) at Battery Park. I was trying to keep a positive spirit for my boy, but I felt I had descended into one of Dante’s layers of hell, and I was probably being punished for my deadly sin of gluttony, greed, and waste from my earlier breakfast.

    Despite the state of my soul and my physical discomfort, we continued our journey to Liberty Island to witness the famous Lady of Liberty first hand. Once there, a photographer approached us to capture our profound experience with the iconic statue. Joaquin and I both are completely inept when it comes to posing for photos, but we gave it a shot. It was clear that the photographer was becoming very frustrated with us because Joaquin would not open his eyes and I looked like I was being tortured. He took twenty more shots than he would regularly to get at least some decent photos. Later when Joaquin and I went to the gift shop to see if the photos were worth buying, we laughed at how horrible every single one of them were and walked away without our classic Statue of Liberty shots. I did take some pictures of the statue itself to prove that I had actually been close to the hunk of metal. I know I sound irreverent, but to be honest, I did stand before the statue, with swarming people all around me and observe her details. I saw where she had cracked, and observed the beautifully sculpted curves of her robe, face, and body. In those moments, I truly was able to appreciate the artistry and the power of this icon. I imagined immigrants coming into the harbor and this beautiful woman being the first thing they saw; she must have been an amazing sight; many hoping eyes held her image in their hearts. Appropriately, the next stop was Ellis Island. 

    Ellis Island was designed to accommodate mass amounts of people, so I appreciated the relative space away from strange bodies that the facilities afforded. Ellis Island was a humbling experience and made me reflect on just how much immigration and the American Dream has changed. It made me contemplate how our country’s philosophies have changed, and how America is becoming more and more exclusionary. We walked through the buildings that immigrants had walked through to be examined, poked, prodded, and tagged in order to gain admittance into a new life. It must have felt humiliating, nerve-racking, scary, exciting, and boring all at once. I felt that any complaints about being prodded along like a cow was nothing in comparison to what the immigrants who had walked through these halls had experienced. We walked through rooms where there was still remnants of immigrants’ graffitti. I guess people back then were no different than people now. They constantly want to mark a place’s significance by their presence. This place, a gateway for so many, was worth the hellacious lines and mobs of perfumed, powdered bodies in yoga pants and khaki tourist hats. I felt the human spirit lingering in the massive hall and in the photos of the immigrants, just people like any of us, displayed on the walls.

    Back in the city, we found our way to the 911 Memorial. I ran my fingers over the names of the people who had fallen that horrible day. Joaquin did not quite understand why I was clearly moved by this memorial. He observed, “You know, people don’t get emotional about things like the Civil War where countrymen were killing each other like crazy.” I thought about his statement, and how many of us have become so distant to those  major historical moments, but those who watched our country being attacked and watched as normal, everyday people who had gone to work that day jumped to their deaths, won’t forget those images. They are not construed and collected images from history books; they are real, live images engrained in a collective memory. I could not explain that to Joaquin at the time, but having time to reflect, I feel like 911 will become just like other historical events. People must experience tragedy to know it.

    On a lighter note, I had made an earlier bargain with Joaquin that if I was to be submitted to the horrors of lines and crowds and waiting, then he had to be submitted to shopping with me. There was no way I was going to come to New York City and not shop. We went to Times Square and I indulged in a mini shopping spree that consisted of one store. Joaquin sat like an obedient son while I pawed through garments and tried them on. I think he even gave me his opinion once or twice. Not one complaint emerged from his lips. I think he was enjoying the rest from walking all day long.

 It was getting late, and our delectable breakfast of seventy dollar french toast and frozen hot chocolate had worn off, so we went in search of a restaurant. Unfortunately, Joaquin and I really enjoy good food, and the cheaper option of fast food was not an option for us, so we found an Italian restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen. When I asked the hostess about the name Hell’s Kitchen because I had only known it to be a show where an angry chef belittles anyone who makes a mistake, she did not know what I was talking about. She barely spoke English, but eventually I got the answer that it was a neighborhood. Dang! I couldn’t brag to my mom(who watches the angry, yelling chef) that I had eaten at one of the show’s restaurants. Joaquin and I were both pleased with our pasta. Over dinner, we  decided that NYC was a nice place to visit, but it wasn’t for us; the cram packed streets of moving people and constant traffic did not appeal to our rural sensibilities. Unacceptable traffic for us was having to wait for three cars. An acceptable distance between strangers was a good five feet, and I very rarely had to share the sidewalk with strangers(there are no sidewalks in Fall River), for I have always held the anomalous belief that if something is within walking distance, then there is no need to drive. The majority of Fall River people like to drive their huge pick ups to the post office, even if it is only two blocks away.     As we retired in our fashionable Airbnb studio that night, we longed for the peace, quiet, and simplicity of home.