Right before I was to leave for New York, I was under the impression that I would write for hours and hours and hours, about my unending adventures and crazy happenings. Mostly because I was going to be unemployed with scores of free time. Well, I was completely wrong there. Sure, I’m unemployed, but job searching and apartment searching is practically a full-time job, so for all three of you that were expecting paragraph upon paragraph, uh, my bad, I’ve been busier than expected.
That’s not to say I haven’t had those unending adventures and crazy happenings; I’ve had more than my share. Sadly, due to my being tied up in other things, I fear that I have forgotten much more than I remember. We cannot blame this on hardcore drug use, either. Just on old age and a decades old hole in my brain. Things just leak out. Last week, I forgot where I was born for a solid thirty minutes. So, I’m going to try and at least mention the best parts of the last three weeks or so, with a slight editing job just in case my grandmother suddenly knows what a computer looks like.
What most people didn’t seem to know about my decision to move to NYC is the little fact that I had never even been to the city before. I was going in completely blind, with only my expansive knowledge of the Ghostbusters films and the music of Barbra Streisand as a guide. This seemed perfectly reasonable to me — people move all the time — yet everyone acted like this was irregular. This is a city, not an STD. “Wait, you went and got the clap without testing it out first? Crazy!” All I knew is I needed an adventure, a place where I could have a chance to branch out, and what better city than this one? If I don’t like it, I can simply leave. This isn’t Shawshank, although I have seen a lot of people eerily reminiscent of The Sisters.
But, hey, if moving out here on a lark makes me either brave or stupid, then I’m bravely stupid, or stupidly brave. I’m thinking, so far, neither seems very accurate. To put it succintly: I love it here, and I’m not leaving anytime soon.
I departed from Cincinnati with a hug from my parents and zero tears, which was the most shocking. I mean, not ONE tear? I’m going to be a thousand miles away, and all I get is a hug and a “good luck?” That’s it…..I’m adding five more years to the You’ll Never Be A Grandparent clock. What’s done is done. I’ll see you at Thanksgiving. Maybe.
The trip started out not so well, as my flight was delayed by two hours, and when we eventually made it on the plane, the power went out and the engines shut off as we were taxiing out to the runway. Hey, no big deal, that doesn’t seem important. People were justifiably freaking out, but mostly in Spanish, as half the plane was from Madrid. I think I caught a few “muerte’s” and “diablo’s” amongst the clatter. I was 99% sure the flight would be canceled completely, which would be a fantastic omen for this trip. But, thank Yahweh, the power kicked back on and we took off, with no clarification as to why the power shut off before. What was to keep that from happening again? A couple hundred prayers from a legion of devoted Catholics? If that’s what we gambled on, then I better write a thank you letter to Benedict, because I’m still here. Thanks, Vicar of Christ!
While on the plane, I began to worry that I might be sequestered by a grand jury for a child endangerment trial. You see, besides the gathering of thirty Spaniards, most of whom were male and in their twenties, there was a gaggle of pre-teens on their way to Europe for a “Young Ambassadors of the World” conference. After being in the air twenty minutes or so, and including the time when we were stuck on the runway, powerless, people began to conversate, to bond with their neighbors. This meant young men who did not speak very much English, trying to flirt with 13-year olds whose primary goal in life is to commiserate with those from foreign countries. From what I could gather, the majority of the conversation involved the men trying to buy a shirt from the girls. Whether this meant that this girl would then be topless, I’m not entirely sure, but the District Attorney in me sure was leaning in that direction. I almost yelled, “citizen’s arrest!,’ but I didn’t want to start an international feud.
What didn’t help was the hour-long wait we had on the runway once we landed. This gave even more reason for the crowd to intermingle, and even more reason for me to have to check my blood pressure. I’m not sure what vendetta Delta Airlines has against me, but not only did they turn off the power before my viewing of 12 Rounds (imagine Die Hard mixed with a dash of Speed, topped off with a dollop of retardation) was complete, but they also added four hours of waiting to my trip, with a sprinkle of pedophilia to boot. Nice touch, guys.
Eventually they let us off the plane, and from what I could tell, the love fest dispersed, thankfully, and I could now begin my time in NYC with a clear conscience. I bee-lined it to the JFK Dunkin’ Donuts, purchased my first of many iced coffees from the many grumpy Indian women working at these chains across the five boroughs, and went off with the hope that my friend Matt was somewhere waiting nearby.
He had also flown in that night, and was to start a new life in Brooklyn with our mutual friend Mickey. No, not that kind of new life. Well, similar, but with more Xbox playing and less cuddling. I found him waiting at the baggage claim, where one would come to claim their baggage, hence the name. Strange that we then waited at that spot for two hours, and not once did Matt claim some baggage. That’s false advertising. With my delays, and now his lost bags, things were not starting out very well. If that iced coffee hadn’t been so damned delicious, I would have booked a flight home then and there.
This post started to get out of control, length-wise (THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!), so I’m going to have to break it into parts (THAT’S ALSO WHAT SHE SAID!!). I’ll put up the next edition in a few days.