5. USA: New York (part 1)

Saturday, June 30, 230 mile drive, 8:30 a.m. to 4:20 p.m., Gettysburg to New York City, New York.  Sunday, July 1, to Thursday evening, July 4, New York.  USA Today says New York is "oppressive."  As I load up the car in the morning I tell a fellow in the parking lot where I'm going.  He says, "Don't!"

We're on the road at 8:30 on scenic country highways.  First stop, Lancaster, for breakfast (fried mush).  Thomas wants "one da-ha ($1)."  Soon we are on Route 340, through Pennsylvania Dutch country.  We see the black carriages and the Amish people, and notice the many clotheslines and small farms.  We stop for an hour in Intercourse, PA at a country shopping village, before moving on to the Pennsylvania Turnpike.  We haven't made very good time so far and by now we're anxious to get a move on.  We will bypass Valley Forge.  (Once again, it looked easy on paper.)  By two p.m. we're in New Jersey, over the Delaware.

The New Jersey Turnpike looks industrial.  We stop for gas.  It's hot and smoggy and humid.  I can't serve myself—there’s a law (just as I imagine New Jersey would be).  The service is lousy.  We buy ice creams and head to the City, approaching Manhattan from the south.  Soon we see, off in the distance, the unmistakable landmarks of our destination: the World Trade Center, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty.  We have arrived! 

The vision of New York, like Oz, is lot different than the place! We drive under the Hudson through the Lincoln Tunnel and arrive to a gaggle of window washers.  We are spared, however: the Suburban windshield is too high to easily reach.  As I drive through town in what I think to be the right direction (toward 63rd and Lexington), attempting to figure out the one way street system, I suddenly realize how fortunate we are to be arriving (by chance) on a Saturday afternoon when there is no traffic.  Surprisingly, I do not get lost, and we land at the Barbizon at 4:20, 4,470 miles from Las Vegas.  For the fourth and last time, everything comes out of the Suburban.  The bellman can't believe it; we require two or three trips with the cart.  I give him a $20 tip.

We eat dinner at the nearby Mulholland Drive Cafe on Third Avenue.  Walking back, we run into my sister, Alison, and her husband, Michael, on the street, whom we have brought to New York to pick up our Suburban and drive it home. 

The hotel neighborhood is nicer than I imagined.  Our rooms are just right, occupying a spot where the building juts out on the east side.  Cathy and I have views in two directions from the 14th floor, east and south, toward downtown.  We are across our own short hall from the children's room, where the babysitter quickly becomes "Home Alone."

Finally Made it!

Tired Tourists

On Sunday Mara, Cathy and I walk to 8 a.m. mass at St. Patrick's (25 minutes) and once again (!) bump into Alison and Michael on the street.  Later, Michael, Robert, Jeffrey and I head off by subway to see Dwight Gooden and the Mets play the Phillies at Shea.  We take the E/F Subway from Citibank Center to Roosevelt, then the 7 Train to Flushing.  The subway smell reminds me of London, but there is more urine.  The day is gloomy and warm, the Mets terrible and the jets very close overhead.  Back in the City, Alison, Cathy and Thomas visit the MOMA and see the gay pride parade. Thomas gets a flag.  In the evening we drive into the Village for dinner, past hundreds and hundreds of proud, happy gay couples.  The cabby gets lost and we're a half an hour late for dinner with Cathy's brother, John, and his wife, Annie, at La Graziella, which is lovely.