A heavy downpour greeted me, as if to assert the weather’s inherent unpredictability, on the Friday morning I checked out of Connecticut Hotel. Just when the personal leg of my journey was starting, Mother Nature was showing its overwhelming support. Great.
Fortunately a few hours later, the grey swirls of clouds retreated, the rain petered out and my hope of having a swell time in the Big Apple – earlier dashed by the downpour- came back as quickly as it had gone out.
With tons of office work waiting back home, I only had a day; -definitely not enough time to have a taste of the Big Apple -but the vision of my boss giving me the basilisk look, the kind that would put to shame Lord Voldermort’s lethal stare, made the idea of a hastily extended vacation unpalatable.
I arrived at the NY airport hotel around 10 am and was greeted by the devastating news that the check in time was at 4pm. What the *&*^%%^. I’ve heard of check in times as late as 2pm. But 4 pm???, you gotta be kidding me. It was the normal check in time all over the city, I was told. Oh great, thanks for telling me that now.
Fortunately the hotel manager allowed me to leave my stuff at their warehouse. With my luggage secured (i.e. squeezed in an inconspicuous corner of a cramped sundries room), I was free to roam around the city. Clock was hitting 12, when I got back downtown. On hindsight I should have checked in instead in a downtown hotel.
The rest of the day passed like a blur. The twists and turns of the New York subway were more confusing than I had earlier thought; a big chunk of my time was eaten up deciphering the routes. Twice I boarded off at the wrong station. It didn’t help that I was foolishly proud enough not to ask for directions.
With my ever-reliable MP3 player and killer shades, I gallivanted through the stretch of Sixth Avenue, gawked at the looming edifices, browsed through thrift shops, and despite lingering thoughts of muggers lurking nearby, scampered through the dimly-lit alleys, dousing off the persistent fear that I might end up in the operating table of a CSI analyst or in a tubful of ice minus my kidney and pancreas.
My digestive organs were not as adventurous; for lunch, instead of having a taste of the famous Manhattan hotdogs by the stands, I decided to settle for a McBland, Mctasteless Big Mac Meal. It was at that rare moment, that I craved for Chickenjoy despite the annoyingly pacute Aga Muhlach as its endorser.
It finally hit me that I was not Superman (despite the obvious resemblance, ..cough cough). The itinerary I originally set would have rendered any mortal exhausted. Grudgingly, I crossed out the Metropolitan Museum and the Boat trip to Staten Island from my things to do and instead spent the afternoon at the Rockefeller area.
I passed by the infamous “Museum of Sex”. It was not as controversial as I expected it to be but it was nonetheless informative and entertaining. A smattering of contraptions -stuff that Marques de Sade’s dreams are made of - were proudly displayed in one level, definitely not for the prude and the weak-hearted. I remembered Gil Grissom’s line to Madame Heather “I find all deviant behavior fascinating, in that to understand our human nature, we have to understand our aberrations.”
My trip to the Top of the Rock was the highlight of the tour. The elevator ride offered a thrilling view as we zoomed to the top. Just as exciting as the ride up, the view on top didn’t disappoint me. Skyscrapers I only got to see in the opening scenes of CSI NY were suddenly right there in front of my very eyes. Alive. It couldn’t get any more real that that.
I definitely had to have a photo with the Empire State building at the background. I befriended some tourists by offering to take their photos (with their cams of course). Quid pro quo they returned the favor by taking my shot.
I headed back to the hotel at 5 pm for I had an appointment with NY-based relatives at 7. At the subway while I was peering over the map, an old man approached me.
“ Can I help you young man ?”
He was probably in his early sixties, graying hair, decently dressed. He had an umbrella in one hand which he used as a cane when he walked. Something about his features reminded me of the actor that played Jim Phelps in Mission Impossible. Although he limped, there was an air of dignified dapperness in the way he walked.
Hesitantly I answered. Yeah I am headed for Jamaica station and was wondering which train to take.
I am headed that way. You can take the train I’m taking.
A stranger in the NY subway offering for help would probably raise some internal alarms. It didn’t help that I had some preconceived notions of New Yorkers being haughty and inhospitable people. After all this was a fast-paced city, and people here would never stop for a moment to get out of their way to help someone.
I couldn’t bank on my gaydar either; oftentimes screwed up and pathetically calibrated, someone would already be hitting on me before I would have an idea of what’s going on.
But something told me, (probably my inclination to believe in the goodness of others) that this man just wanted to help, pure and simple, with no ulterior motives.
I took his train. For the next 45 minutes or so, we exchanged stories. For that brief span of time, I got a glimpse of his world, he got a glimpse of mine. He would have never thought I was a Filipino if I hadn’t told him. Yes he knew some Filipinos in his work and found them to fun-loving and hard-working people. He had a house in San Francisco but was working in NY as Vice President of a bank. He recounted his days in the Vietnam War and mourned the loss of his comrades. Somehow I noticed a woebegone expression, as he talked about his kids who were all grown up (as if everything happened in a blink) and now living on their own.
Despite the setting, it felt as if we were on a lake and he was teaching me how to fish.
Before he boarded off the train, we exchanged business cards and he wished me the best.
As the train doors were closing I somehow felt some pang of loss, the kind that you feel when two friends part ways at the inevitable end of a journey. For a moment, I hoped that our paths would cross again, but knowing life, it seemed a remote possibility.
I realized there’s a gem in the saying that you can be with someone for 30 years, yet still remain acquaintances, and be with someone for 30 minutes and remain friends for a lifetime.
In this whirligig called life, I am just thankful that occasionally we meet such persons albeit briefly, who make the journey more meaningful.
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