Ny Day 9: New York State of Mind

Taking advantage of this step in my professional writing career by jet-setting on a lavish vacation I certainly cannot afford. Stay tuned for every inevitable fumble, wrong turn, and overpriced meal as LAUREN TAKES NEW YORK!

(The Subway Girls™️ set off on their last ride)

So it's come to this-- the end of the line. And I'm not just talking about when the A train transfers over to the E. Nine days scheduled and anticipated, then gone much too quickly. Waking up on the last morning was surreal. Had we not just been transfixed for the first time by the lights of Times Square? Hadn't we barely set our (four inch heeled) feet on Broadway? What about the snoozed alarm and frantic journey to the airport in San Francisco? That crappy documentary on the plane about Brad and Angelina?

But, I guess that's what they say about all good things (I'll spare you the cliche, but I bet you're thinking it anyway.) We lay in bed mourning, all cheesy and nostalgic that we'd never be on this exact trip again. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you slice it, we could only afford this corny reminiscence for a couple of minutes. The reality was my alarm was going off, we both had planes to catch, and our room still looked as if each suitcase had vomited its contents.

Packing your suitcase is like the dentist's visit of vacations. It is a necessary and inevitable part of a quality experience, but God is it boring. Still reeling from the high of our nine day journey, the last thing I wanted to do was play Tetris with my luggage. Folding and shoving, and then taking things out again to include souvenirs and impulse purchases, could only kill my buzz. I knew it was a necessary burden if I wanted to head home. Of course, it was up in the air whether or not I did.

Still, we packed, all the while complaining that we'd love to be doing absolutely anything else. Once our bags were zipped and stowed, we treated ourselves to coffee and Jamaican meat pies, bidding farewell to the nearby deli. While ringing up, Kerra nearly got a date with the cashier. Unfortunately she had to decline-- seeing as we would be leaving within the hour, the guy had a double shift, and it was probably a bit too late in the game to start a long distance romance over the register. Besides, there was no way this guy could eclipse Tito's place in her heart. We had been through too many pizza slices for the man to fade into obscurity. Especially after we'd made those cards for him and his uncle with the caption "Family First."

We finished our coffee on the stone steps of the apartment building, surrounded by our luggage. While discussing the merits and cons of taking a sixty dollar Lyft to the airport, we decided we could not bear to make the purchase when we still had perfectly good metro cards. It was wiser to take the subway. The problem, though, was my plane loaded at 3:55. If we were to make it via subway, we should have been on the A train five minutes ago. So we ran from the building and down the sidewalk's incline. We looked like frantic madwomen dragging our suitcases across the street (not stopping to look both ways, acting like true New Yorkers with our complete disregard for safety and traffic laws.) My beanie flapped upward, so that the puff ball at the center looked like the star atop a Christmas tree. Facing the stairs leading toward the subway, we took large breaths before grabbing hold of our suitcases. We made the plunge like amateur power lifters, red in the face till hitting the last step.

(My super sized burdens to bear)

We reached the train and squeezed our luggage through a stream of people who all, like most cars in rush hour, had no where important to be. Finally, we managed to get seats. Placing our suitcases in front of us like a barrier, we let ourselves relax. That is, until I checked the map on my phone, and saw that what was supposed to be an hour's journey, was looking more like an hour and a half. My relief swerved off into panic faster than a Lambo hitting PCH. A man and woman sitting across from us noticed, and after giving us the same advice our host had, ("Oh! you should've gone to Laguardia Airport instead of JFK," as if that could help us at all in our current condition) they suggested we take a different route.

"The E train Uptown is an Express Track. It should get you to the Air Train in twenty minutes. Then you just ride the Air Train in."

I was ready to fling myself across my suitcases and give them both large smooches. Then I remembered that I did not actually know these people, and stifled the urge, opting instead for a simple thank you. We exited on the next stop, following the woman who had been our saving grace until we lost her in the mob. The bus arrived on the opposite end of where the sign said it should be. Unsure, and having lost our guide, we froze on the platform. It was then that we spotted a guy also wielding a suitcase. He looked to the sign, then the train, with the same flashing question marks in his eyes.

He came over to ask the questions we'd been muttering amongst ourselves. His name was Craig and, being from England, also had a complicated relationship with the NY metro system. Deciding we'd at least all go down together, the three of us stepped inside. Seated again, with that same wave of relief, I became wary. Hadn't I been so sure the A train would be successful? Hadn't Google Maps gone from an hour to nearly two in the time it took for me to enter the subway? I slowly looked toward the phone in my hand. I had to check to be sure.

It was like a nightmare! Clear on the screen was the designated ETA of an hour and twenty minutes. If I remained on the subway, I'd arrive at the airport just in time to see my plane fly high above my head.

I told Kerra. We had no choice but to take a lyft. Hoping it would be less expensive this far out, we prepared to exit. Then, with a sudden strike of brilliance, we turned to our new friend from England and asked if he'd like to join. Out of amusement or pity, he agreed. So we set out, a gang of two quickly reassembling into three, and called the Lyft. By the time we made it to the airport, all the way to Terminal 7 (of COURSE I was flying from Terminal 7) I was barely on time, and we'd only spent thirteen dollars each.

But we'd reached our final goodbye. Kerra, flying to Long Beach, was in Terminal 5. Our new friend Craig, Terminal 1. I hugged Kerra for as long as I could within the window of time, and said goodbye to Craig. The two left in search of their terminals, and I watched them go. Stirring in me was that same nostalgia from earlier. Our trip really was over.

I waited in a long Security Checkpoint line, and then to get my things from behind a comically slow woman who used up five bins, and refused to move away from the conveyer belt. My boarding pass didn't have my gate number, and when I asked a man in uniform about it, he said "I don't know nothin' about gates." No better send off than that East Coast hospitality. I found the gate on my own.

I made it to the plane with seconds to spare, and settled in my seat. This time I had the right to be relieved. Sad as I was, I knew it was time to go home. I missed California trees and autumn air. I missed looking when you cross the street. I missed my job, my friends, and my life back home. There really is nothing sweeter than being away, knowing you have so much to come back to.

But I had so much to add. Because I'd miss going through the same revolving door when Kerra and I felt clingy, running from the rain in Brooklyn and Central Park, posing with portraits at The Met, Tito and the pizza place, Columbia University-- our old stomping grounds since Tuesday, the guy on 43rd that said "Girls, Girls Girls," to everyone passing by, our unabashed laughter, and the magic of being somewhere new.

So, thank you, New York, for all you had to give. It's been a real adventure getting to know you. 💙

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