Some people don’t like hospitals and I don’t like airports. Maybe I’m not a fan because I spent an entire day in Dallas Fort Worth International one Thanksgiving when I slept in and missed my flight. Maybe I don’t like them because they’re chaotic with loud and obnoxious noises, fussy children, and stressed out travelers. All I know is I’d rather go to the dentist than stand in line, remove my shoes, and make my way through the maze of people who are still try to sneak liquids and full sized bottles of lotion through security. It’s been nine years since 9/11 — You’d think people would have gone through all the motions by now. Bottom line: Airports are the pits. They have way too much going on and a bottle of water costs more than a sandwich.
But when I set aside the gripe session and really think about it, there’s more to the way I feel. It’s easy to point out the small irritants. It’s easier to blame my hatred of airports on the crying kids and the monotonous security checks, but the real reason I don’t like airports is because I’m always saying goodbye. Exploring a new place is always a new adventure, but when you say goodbye to someone, whether you’re the one boarding the plane or the one saying “Bon voyage,” it’s always a little rough.
Saying goodbye at KCI
And then I was in New York City. I grabbed my three heavy bags from the luggage carousel (heavy is probably an understatement... these suckers were well over 50 lbs) and headed from the cab line. I observed couples and families, all of them thrilled to be in the city for maybe the first time or that they were returning home. I was alone with all my bags, probably looking confused and terrified. I watched the cab coordinator wave the cabs like dumb cattle and direct pedestrians. When it was my turn he looked at me with that look of, "You're new to this," and said, "Girl, why don't you stack your bags on your cart?" I must have been a lost cause, but I smiled and shrugged it off. I got into my cab, told the cabbie my address and watched the sun set as we drove into town.
It was about 20 minutes into the ride that I realized I told him I needed to go West when in fact my apartment was on the East side.
Luckily I caught my novice mistake before I was dropped at the stoop of an unfamiliar building without a key or roommate. When I finally got to the right apartment I called Mae, my new roommate, and she came down the stairs to greet me. I was happy to finally reach my destination.
But it was far from over. I had forgotten that Mae had told me a month before that the apartment didn't have an elevator. It was going to be me, my three overweight suitcases, and five flights of narrow, stuffy stairs for the next thirty minutes. The journey put my StairMaster workouts to shame, but boy was I glad that I had prepared my legs for the torture. When we made it up the stairs and were finally in the apartment for the first time together, I was needless to say, breathless.
Monday was my first day in the city. I met up with some relatives and explored South Street Seaport and the Financial District. Naera and her son Jorge were my tour guides and it was a perfect first day. We toured the Ambrose ship and Peking ship, both of which are docked at the South Street Seaport Museum. Jorge told me he loves social studies and it definitely showed because he was a wealth of knowledge about New York history. At ten years old he's already taught me more about New York City than I've been able to teach myself. He later showed me ground zero where the Freedom Tower is currently under construction, giving me the full story of 9/11 events.
