I hate flying. I know it is a completely irrational fear, and that there are crates full of evidence to prove that I am safer flying than doing pretty much everything I do on a daily basis, but the fear isn't totally rooted in horrible thoughts of fiery plane crashes. I don't like ceding control to others. I don't even like being a passenger in cars, much less planes. Give me the wheel and let me take control, or watch me squirm uncomfortably in the passengers seat.
Despite my buildup of nerves, the flight went off without a hitch. There was very little turbulence and I quickly settled in to my seat and zoned out for the duration of the flight. After touchdown (and is there any better feeling than when an airplane's landing gear hits the ground? Not to to yours truly.) I caught a cab to Manhattan and began to soak up the city.
From my friends apartment in the East Village I made my way south along Broadway. It was hot and only the shade from the tall buildings that lined the streets gave any rest from the brutal sun. I walked slowly southward enjoying the hustle and bustle around me. Large groups of people flowed through the sidewalks like water down a river, constant motion past any obstacles (be them trash cans, light posts, or wide-eyed tourists).
I made it to the southern tip of the island and took a short rest in Battery Park. Ferries and tour boats moved through the water while the statue of liberty loomed large in the distance. Most pleasant was the smell of the ocean from where I sat. You could feel the breeze coming into the giant maze of waterways that carve up the city. As waves pounded the shore in front of me I felt the urge to jump headfirst into the surf (but my better judgement kept this slight urge in check).
After a long walk up the west side of Manhattan I made it to Washington Square park for a much needed rest. The scene was picture perfect. People were strewn out all across the park and children played in the fountain. There was a man under the large roman-esque archway who played a tune on his tenor sax as a young lady looked longingly at him from the other side. Another man had a group of 5 gallon buckets arranged around him with a snare drum and played wild shifting beats that seemed to help drive the activity in the park. I only wish the two of them would have gotten together, maybe even found someone to pound out a few notes on an electric keyboard, it could have been magical.
(Ah, how my best laid plans have gone awry again. This post was meant to be quickly followed up by another post of my trip later that night to see Wilco play an outdoor show in Coney Island. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the time to write the piece while I was in New York, and that trip was immediately followed by 10 days spent in a cabin in northern Michigan getting drunk and stoned in front of campfires and enjoying a scene much the opposite of NYC. Consequently I have removed the "part 1" from the title, and will be moving forward with another post (as I no longer feel like rehashing the concert). Stay tuned for another Dispatch from the Big Apple)
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