This adventure begins, as classics oft do, at Newark Airport.
It’s a Tuesday – or maybe a Monday, doesn’t matter – in Terminal B. Had we flown into JFK, surely an army of penguins, platters of hors d’oeuvres held high, would greet these slack-jawed southerners to the world’s capital: Moët popping, a small orchestra trumpeting out Glenn Miller favorites.
But perhaps sharing my concern over the rattles emitting from somewhere beneath our venerable McDonnell-Douglas, the pilot instead went ahead and stopped at Terminal B.
Is there food here?
On any other day I would’ve scarfed down several of Delta’s knife-sharpening rolls and wilted ham, but today the nerves are aflame so forgive me, I opted for bourbon.
A sign promises a new fish hut soon, and I make a mental note to arrive early for my next flight, but it does not appear there are other options. An Indian gentleman operating the sundry shop is here only to read his book, not entertain the whims of needy customers, but kindly puts it down long enough to retrieve a sandwich from what appears to be his personal beer fridge.
Its room-temperaturedness is startling. The Indians at the office enjoy lukewarm water, so perhaps this is how he drinks beer. I’ll be culturally sensitive and keep my mouth shut. Anyway, beggars can’t be choosers, and I had the option of Delta ham and turned it down so that’s on me. If this ends poorly don’t let me blame the innocent proprietor, just wanting to kick back with a cheap novel and warm beer.
How many giddy visitors are deflated on welcome by New York’s gritty ports? Surely the arrival onto sunny Ellis Island was magical for those fortunate to escape Irish famine, but what of the Mickey-eared British tourist today, certainly questioning his choice of destination upon sticking to the floors of the LaGuardia loo?
There are dumpy airports around the world, make no question. Berlin’s tiny Tegel was built with all of the pizazz of an airport designed to receive Cold War coal, Detroit could host marathons between its two terminals and my only lasting memory of Shanghai’s Pudong is a flickering lightbulb above the Gatorade cooler in the lounge. But perhaps no city can match New York’s cigarette smoke-cured triumvirate.
Bags in hand, I retrieve a note from my pocket, scribblings from my cousin’s husband detailing instructions on navigating New Jersey Transit, and toss them in the bin before hailing a car – train-riding pedestrian, I am not – my headphones making clear I want no discussion on the weather or traffic or certainly the Yankees. I’m a Braves fan.
In silence we putter along cracked roads, paying a day’s salary in tolls on the turnpike and finally lifting onto the Pulaski Skyway, Manhattan’s sea of towers coming into view.
Architecture would have been a nice field, though to design a masterpiece only to have it squat underneath a sheik’s bedroom in one of those new park-side pencils would sure be a shame. I suppose the same was said of the original World Trade Center towers, though now either in deference to tragedy or exhaustion with ubiquitous glass boxes we speak glowingly of the steel-hardened presence they brought downtown.
So I’m here. The adventure the shrink ordered. A touch of excitement builds, then we hit traffic for the tunnel. That touch of excitement waits, and waits, and I look for another song to keep it going while stuck next to a Sears for what seems like a half hour.
Jesus, it’s hot.
The car is stuffy, the driver bundled under six layers, perhaps just off the slopes in Vermont, though by smell I’d guess a morning swim in the Hackensack. But I’m a southerner, not the type with six inches of thick-sliced bacon wrapped around my waist but also big enough to warrant a “you’re looking good” at family gatherings when I don’t take a third slice of cake, and southerners need air conditioning for chrissake, especially when roasting in late-summer exhaust.
Six months ago, give or take, a friend made me see a therapist who prescribed a move out of Atlanta. Try something new, she said.
Eight years of turmoil had given way to eligible bachelorhood at thirty-two, in Georgia a mother’s nightmare, requiring her to brag a bit excessively about any perceived strengths to head off questions over the naked fourth digit. Even the last of the stragglers among my friends was moving on, and success at work flung the banner ever higher – “something is wrong here!”
It wasn’t for a lack of candidates. There were the Elaines, a series of girls immediately after the break-up whose names I mostly don’t recall, though they were certainly not named Elaine, but it stuck.
HRH Elaine I of Druid Hills needed companionship in a hurry before aging out of eligibility for an associate membership at her father’s club. She was also gluten intolerant – years after this was en vogue, no less – a fact she failed to mention before our first date at a French restaurant but for the waiter revealed with flair.
Surely Eisenhower managed to get through a dinner without mentioning that he saved Europe; not so the front-line warriors in our collective struggle with bread.
My friend Brody loved her. Stylish, talented, runway frame and a face for social media, she was everything he craved, and maybe in hindsight I should’ve been less of a jerk and then I, 33 years of age, might not be here single and sweating, stuck in the shadow of a Sears.
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