something about that city

A few weeks ago, I took a long-weekend trip to New York City. I had been to New York twice before, but this was my first time to go by myself. I should say: I am a midwest girl. I have spent my entire life in the midwest, except for a couple of trips here and there, and one study abroad semester in Europe. I do fancy myself at least a little bit worldly, and I have a pretty well-developed sense of adventure but nevertheless, I was a little nervous about navigating it all by myself. And people are always talking about how rough New York is. That being said, I really had no solid plan for the weekend even the night before I left. The purpose of the trip was a two-day interview for a Master's program a half hour outside of what I felt very cool to be calling, "The City." I had two different options for a place to stay, and a play I wanted to catch on Thursday evening in Manhattan.

 

I flew into Laguardia at about 11am on Thursday, and I didn't have any solid plans until the next morning. So far so good. I quickly found myself on the M60 bus to Manhattan. As we traveled west, I watched the woman across the bus from me bantering with her beautiful daughter, and it was at least a half hour before I realized that I was the only white girl on the bus and anywhere nearby on the street. Looking out and seeing the word Harlem, I had that impulse, like midwest girls who grow up in 99% white high schools and go to 99% white colleges do, that maybe I should get off the bus. But I didn't. Eventually, I told myself that whenever Pretty Mom and Daughter got off the bus, I'd follow. As we disembarked together a few minutes later, I asked for directions, and she happily gave them to me. And I was off. I passed a beautiful sunny day in the city trying not to look like a tourist (impossible, considering the hulking backpack I had in tow, but I think I gave the judging New Yorkers a proverbial run for their money).

 

That evening I was on my way to the place I had decided to stay-- a half hour outside of The City (I'm getting cooler every time I type it). I was taking a train from Union Square to Grand Central, which is just a few stops. Shortly after I sat down, a handsome bearded hipster dressed all in black sat down next to me. We both smelled vomit. We both simultaneously located said vomit on the floor in front of us and made eye contact.

 

dude on train: mmm, almost home.
me: what?
dude: I can tell I'm almost home when I smell that.
me: oh. gross.
dude: guess you don't live nearby.
me: nope.

 

I'm totally flattered that he actually thought I lived in The City, when I think my coral trench coat (everyone, seriously wears all black!) gives me away but I think this may be his intention.

 

dude: I'm an actor.
me: of course you are.
dude: what does that mean?
me: I don't know. everyone's an actor around here.
dude: where you getting off?
me: grand central.
dude: really? we just passed it.
me: seriously? you're messing with me.
dude: no, we just passed it.
me: well, I'd better go. nice to meet you.
dude: come to my bar tomorrow night!
me: maybe. I'm Arika.
dude: I'm Nick.
me: well, it was nice to meet you. bye.

 

And I'm lost. I ask another New Yorker for how to get on the train to take me back south, cause I accidentally panicked and got on an express train that ended me up at 86th or something. She removes her ipod headphones and gives me friendly, clear, concise directions. Thank you! You're welcome, good luck.

After the interview, I take the train back into Grand Central. The girl sitting next to me, who also had an interview for the same Masters program spills her orange juice in the aisle and as the train moves it stripes down the aisle. It will be a sticky mess. We disembark and find a spot against the wall to wait for the friends we're meeting there. (Why isn't there more seating in Grand Central Station?) I realize, a full seven and a half minutes later that I don't have my phone. I've left it on the train. So, I leave aforementioned hulking back pack with a person I met the day before (also a New Yorker) and run to the train. It is still there! But there is nobody in it. I run down the side of the train. It is completely empty. And then! At about the fifteenth car, there is a man cleaning the car, holding a large trash bag. He has a lazy eye. A really lazy eye. I knock on the door, and he opens it. I tell him I've left my phone on the train. He asks which car and I tell him I can't remember. He says he's been in the front cars, and didn't see anything. I ask him if I can look in the rest. He says sure. As I go in the next car, I see the striped orange juice aisle. And my phone is sitting forlorn on the seat, right where I left it. I thank the man profusely, effusively, midwesternerly (yes, that's a word now). I want to hug him. He speaks for about the length of three sentences and I don't follow what he's saying at all. He's saying words I think, maybe even phrases, but they don't add up to a whole. But I listen carefully and nod. My brow furrows to show him that I am interested in what he is saying, despite the fact that it is completely incomprehensible. I give a little bow as I spew a few last thank you's to him, and I go back to meet my companion who is sitting there with my bag that contains everything I have in New York.

So in conclusion, from the information outlined above, I have to conclude that the whole stereotype of New Yorkers being mean is just that: a stereotype. Nobody stole or tried to steal my money. People looked me in the eye and smiled at me sometimes before I smiled at them. People asked me if I needed help. And when I was in trouble, New Yorkers bailed me out. You don't have to be in the midwest to meet decent people.