On the day I moved to New York, in August of 2004, it was hot, as New York tends to be in August. (Although I wouldn't really know; I've never spent more than 8 days of August in New York. I avoided summers in New York as if this was 1615 and the plague was running rampant in the streets. If New York had streets in 1615.)
So, it was August, and it was over 100 degrees everywhere, and hotter in Manhattan because of those ground-warming subways, and I hadn't yet figured out that it's only something like $6 to take a taxi from Penn Station to the area I was to inhabit for most of the next three years. I took a train in from Newark airport, and then I took the subway to my stop.
I had two huge suitcases plus a smaller carry on suitcase, but in the airport after disembarking from my flight, I had condensed them into the two big suitcases, which had space for more weight than they were allowed, if that makes sense. So I had two huge 70-pound suitcases and I was hauling them through subway stations in 105 degree weather in New York City. Some very kind men helped me carry them up the staircases, since I could only do one at a time, and then I came out of the ground at what I knew was my stop, but didn't know which direction I was supposed to go and there were people all around and I didn't want to take out my map and inspect it. So I just started walking.
Two blocks later, nothing looking familiar (I had visited the school, after all), I put everything down, fished out the map, and discovered that I was going in the wrong direction. I was going north when I should have gone east. I stood on that corner, sweat dripping steadily off the end of my nose, and I wanted to sit down on my suitcase and cry, except that there was no shade and no respite from the heat, so I had to keep going, over and back. A woman moving in her undergrad daughter helped me with a suitcase, and eventually I found my new home.
After I dropped off my bags, I found my way to a bookstore and I sat on the floor in the children's section, reading a book, enjoying the airconditioning, and startling every time the ground shook with a passing subway train.
...
Every once in a while, I am tempted to very patronizingly say, "You are all so CUTE!" to the people of this, my middle and high school hometown. "So innocent! So adorable! So un-worldly!"
Why?
THEY DON'T WRITE AREA CODES BEFORE PHONE NUMBERS HERE. They just ASSUME that there is only ONE area code. Who needs anything more?
I had to tell someone my phone number today and I said, "9-1-7..." and then I stopped, because I saw her type this Michigan area code followed by 917. "No," I said, "9-1-7 IS the area code."
And everyone in the place turned to look at me strangely.
Hey, I'm always startled by the advertisements that just start out, for example, 385-0000. "Where?" I want to ask. "3-8-5, WHERE?"
That said, in Rwanda every (landline) phone number was only 6 digits long. And in my town, every number started with 5-6-8, which means that there were only 999 phone lines possible in the town. You only had to tell people your last three digits.
...
This morning I gave up quite a quantity of blood in the interest of discerning things like my blood type. ("Moment of truth!" I said to my mom. "Here is where we find out if I'm really your kid." As if there was any question, considering that I look, talk, sing, and sprain my joints exactly like a perfect mix of my parents.) Apparently it's good to know your blood type when you head off to little tiny towns in the middle of nowhere. Not that there is transfusable blood available.
Afterward, I went to find my Aunt Lisa, who works nearby and who, I think, does not mind her full name being used instead of "my aunt, L." (Right, Aunt Lisa?) Anyway, she shared the grapes from her lunch with me and we talked about family far and wide and how much fun it is to drive cars with dented fenders. Grapes and conversation, both, were lovely.
(Random movie quote: "There it is! There's that dented Beatle!" Anyone? T, you don't get to play because I KNOW YOU KNOW. Unless you don't, in which case, play on.)
So, it was August, and it was over 100 degrees everywhere, and hotter in Manhattan because of those ground-warming subways, and I hadn't yet figured out that it's only something like $6 to take a taxi from Penn Station to the area I was to inhabit for most of the next three years. I took a train in from Newark airport, and then I took the subway to my stop.
I had two huge suitcases plus a smaller carry on suitcase, but in the airport after disembarking from my flight, I had condensed them into the two big suitcases, which had space for more weight than they were allowed, if that makes sense. So I had two huge 70-pound suitcases and I was hauling them through subway stations in 105 degree weather in New York City. Some very kind men helped me carry them up the staircases, since I could only do one at a time, and then I came out of the ground at what I knew was my stop, but didn't know which direction I was supposed to go and there were people all around and I didn't want to take out my map and inspect it. So I just started walking.
Two blocks later, nothing looking familiar (I had visited the school, after all), I put everything down, fished out the map, and discovered that I was going in the wrong direction. I was going north when I should have gone east. I stood on that corner, sweat dripping steadily off the end of my nose, and I wanted to sit down on my suitcase and cry, except that there was no shade and no respite from the heat, so I had to keep going, over and back. A woman moving in her undergrad daughter helped me with a suitcase, and eventually I found my new home.
After I dropped off my bags, I found my way to a bookstore and I sat on the floor in the children's section, reading a book, enjoying the airconditioning, and startling every time the ground shook with a passing subway train.
...
Every once in a while, I am tempted to very patronizingly say, "You are all so CUTE!" to the people of this, my middle and high school hometown. "So innocent! So adorable! So un-worldly!"
Why?
THEY DON'T WRITE AREA CODES BEFORE PHONE NUMBERS HERE. They just ASSUME that there is only ONE area code. Who needs anything more?
I had to tell someone my phone number today and I said, "9-1-7..." and then I stopped, because I saw her type this Michigan area code followed by 917. "No," I said, "9-1-7 IS the area code."
And everyone in the place turned to look at me strangely.
Hey, I'm always startled by the advertisements that just start out, for example, 385-0000. "Where?" I want to ask. "3-8-5, WHERE?"
That said, in Rwanda every (landline) phone number was only 6 digits long. And in my town, every number started with 5-6-8, which means that there were only 999 phone lines possible in the town. You only had to tell people your last three digits.
...
This morning I gave up quite a quantity of blood in the interest of discerning things like my blood type. ("Moment of truth!" I said to my mom. "Here is where we find out if I'm really your kid." As if there was any question, considering that I look, talk, sing, and sprain my joints exactly like a perfect mix of my parents.) Apparently it's good to know your blood type when you head off to little tiny towns in the middle of nowhere. Not that there is transfusable blood available.
Afterward, I went to find my Aunt Lisa, who works nearby and who, I think, does not mind her full name being used instead of "my aunt, L." (Right, Aunt Lisa?) Anyway, she shared the grapes from her lunch with me and we talked about family far and wide and how much fun it is to drive cars with dented fenders. Grapes and conversation, both, were lovely.
(Random movie quote: "There it is! There's that dented Beatle!" Anyone? T, you don't get to play because I KNOW YOU KNOW. Unless you don't, in which case, play on.)
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