More adventures
Thursday, I went to Rockefeller Center. That was art deco to the nth degree. The view from the top of the building was quite panoramic, and not overly populated. We then went on a crash tour of buildings: UN Headquarters, Chrysler Building, Empire State. Then we went into Macy’s. THE Macy’s with Harold’s Square and all. 8 stories, one men’s bathroom. ON THE SEVENTH FLOOR. Really? What made them think that was a good idea? The escalators were wooden and from the early 20th Century. Rickety? Yes. Immense intrinsic value? Emphatically yes. It’s funny how big Harold’s Square seems when you see it on TV during the Thanksgiving Day Parade, but it really isn’t that big. I’m sure it is larger when there is no rush hour traffic. That evening I went to the South Street Seaport. It was pretty cool. Other that the rain, I had a really good night. I also went back to Times Square, so that I could take a better look around. I went into the Toys’R’Us, which is enormous. The scale models of the Empire State bldg, Statue of Liberty and the Chrysler Building were really interesting. They were really dirty from all the people touching them. Note to the germophobic: Don’t touch the scale models.
Friday! Oh, the day that will live in infamy. In my mind at least. I went back to Rockefeller Center to see more stuff. How descriptive, I know. I wanted to see the Today Show, but it was over by the time I got there. While enjoying my coffee and view of the Today studio, I had a revelation. Children’s Television Workshop has is in New York. I realized that CTW would be one of my dream jobs. Number 3 to be exact. 2? Work for Sesame Street. 1? Be a Muppeteer for Sesame Street. I franticly looked up the address, found out it was a block from Lincoln Center (schwing!) and off I raced. That was crap. I never did find the building, and Lincoln Center is being (surprise!) renovated. I was depressed, yet I was resilient. I confidently headed for Whitehall Station to take the Staten Island Ferry, to see (glorious music ) the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. My entire life I have dreamed of the day I would lay my eyes upon the magnificent wonder of steel. For those of you bridge newbies, The VNB, or Verrazano, is the longest suspension bridge in the United States, and the eighth longest in the world. The Holy of Holies of bridgedom. Forget the Golden Gate, over-seen highly sanctified… Uhh, anyway. I ride the ferry over, and hop assuredly on the train, and take it three stops down. I get off and walk briskly in a north-easterly direction, toward the bridge. An hour later, I am nowhere near it. Did I mention that Staten Island is very hilly? Very frustrated, I hop on a bus to return to the ferry station. I quickly identify the correct route (via a bus. Stupid James) and am on my way. I get off the bus at a National Park (? Who would have guessed?) and make my way to the viewing area. (Heraldic trumpeters announce my arrival at last) There she was. Standing blue and mighty, she welcomes me into her masterful watch, like the sentinels of… sometime. It would have been much better if my moment of visual perfection hadn’t been interrupted by some kids throwing a ball, and hitting me. Darn family-friendly area. Regretfully I must leave her alone. I will never forget that sight. Did I mention that this National Park was also home to Fort Wadsworth, and that the Battery Weed was below the viewing area for the bridge? It made for quite a duo.
I returned to Manhattan, where I went to the World Trade Center site. It was odd seeing empty space amongst giant financial buildings. You couldn’t see a lot because of the construction fences, but as I walked through I could almost get a sense of the chaos that reigned there 7 years ago. It was something I won’t ever forget. I hopped over Vessey Street and headed for Wall Street. I was first greeted with Trinity Church. I went inside and was yelled at by a security guard for daring to insult the Lord by wearing a hat. I quickly removed it but thought, “I’m not Episcopalian, I’m Pentecostal. We put hats ON.” I stood near the back to get a good full view, but again was yelled at. Apparently I was disgracing the Anglican way by not walking around. How dare I. I glared at him, and remained resolutely in my spot for another couple minutes. I was ready to walk up to the altar a few minutes earlier, but I wanted to spite the guard. Once I completed my assay inside, I went out and checked out the graveyard. It was pretty cool. I then walked down Wall Street to see all the hubbub. And what a hubbub it wubbub. Sorry, couldn’t resist. I took some pictures, looked at signs and got on the train for the Bronx…
Yankee Stadium! The highlight of my trip. It started as a lowlight. 1.) You have to go in the exact gate they want you to. None of this “I’ll go in here and walk over” business. 2.) No Bags. After finding the correct gate, I had to troop back around the stadium and cross the street to go to a bowling alley to check my bag. Once again, more yelling. This time I’m standing in front of the bag check table, and the entry guard insists that I need to move in. To where? Behind the table? Am I supposed to climb the wall to have my bag checked? Please. 3.) It was raining. I returned to my gate, and it was raining. I climbed the stairs (no escalators!) and it was raining. I got to my seat (some punk kids were in my seats) and it was raining. I sit down, and it is raining. Do you get the feeling that it’s raining? Not overly disheartened, I sit back and relax. In the rain. Some guys walk up the steps and loudly exclaim their disgust for my shirt. I wore Rangers gear just to return all the Yankees fans favor of doing the same at our stadium. The rain slows down, so I move up to my seat. I kick the kid out of my seat, and sit down. About, I don’t know 13.98786 seconds later the previously mentioned heckler turns to me and asks me about my shirt. Mind you all of his words are edited for my readers delicacies. He used a sufficient amount of expletives. Once I had made it clear that I wasn’t afraid of him, he asked me where the ____ I was from. “Dallas,” I said. We were instantly friends. He talked to me throughout the game, along with his equally intoxicated friend. I never got his name, but he just called me Josh Hamilton. I really was hoping to meet someone like him at the Yankees game, and I did. PTL.
Saturday. The day it all ended. Woke up, went to a park near the Queensboro Bridge, ate lunch, and headed for the airport. Not before I picked up some amazing Mets paraphernalia, a sweatshirt and a cup.
Here I am, after a great week, already thinking about how to top it next year.
Thank you Enobong for all you did throughout the week. I really appreciate it. You should really run a hotel.
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