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The drive to Manhattan should have taken three hours. But I’d be lucky to get there in five. Sure enough, my GPS announced I was being routed through Queens to avoid an accident on I-95. I followed the torrent of vehicles coursing through endless urban sprawl, hoping this unfamiliar path would deliver me safely to my daughter’s apartment in the East Village.
After negotiating dicey intersections in Queens, I noticed police directing traffic, and cars backed up along an exit. A deep bass rhythm boomed and vibrations shook my car windows and rattled my chest. Alarmed, I concentrated on my GPS’ instructions so I wouldn’t get lost among the chaos and ear-splitting noise.
I merged onto I-495 and detected an opening in the sprawl. Just off the highway, performers stood on a massive outdoor stage flanked by gargantuan speakers, rapping to throngs of people with arms flailing in unison to the beat.
A tunnel under the East River spit me out onto FDR Drive, and I made it to Anna’s apartment. We spent that night with her twentysomething friends, eating ice cream, drinking prosecco and analyzing Anna’s latest existential crisis.
“I need coffee,” were my first words in the morning. Caffeine was in order. We had a busy day ahead, setting up Anna’s fashion design studio in a warehouse in Brooklyn. Anna walked me to a French bakery loaded with flaky pastries, where the coffee was bitter and perfect.
“Oh no!” Anna blurted on our walk to the parking garage. “Warehouse management locked the freight elevator due to an event on the street today. We’ll have to carry everything up four floors to my studio.”
Arriving at the warehouse, we saw why management had limited access to the building. As far as the eye could see were Comic Con fans in costumes: Superheroes, video game icons, cartoon characters, furries, WWF wrestlers and skimpy outfits of questionable intent.
I inched my SUV through the strange swarm, and parked illegally near the warehouse front door. Anna and I made multiple trips, lugging furniture and boxes through the hideous horde, and up four floors to her studio.
Three hours later, the sweaty task was done. We bid adieu to the crazies, but two blocks into the drive, traffic stopped. “Again!?!” I bellowed, having no idea what caused the backup. There in an industrial area of Brooklyn, a Canada goose waddled across the street., stopping to look back. A fuzzy gray gosling appeared behind her. We all patiently allowed the mother and baby to pass.
“How sweet,” I commented as we stopped at the next light, where a heavy-set woman in iridescent butterfly wings strutted by.
That evening, we walked to St. Marks Street for dinner and a much-deserved drink. Lined with festive outdoor restaurants and bars, the block was teeming with hip young adults. Slathering fresh baked pita with baba ghanoush, Anna and I people-watched.
“What about that guy for your roommate?” I asked.
“Don’t point, Mom,” Anna scolded, explaining that white tennis shoes without socks were objectionable, even though it was what every guy on the street was wearing.
An hour later, a rush of cold wind came out of nowhere. “Strange,” I said to Anna, wiping grit from my eye. Suddenly, trees bent over and umbrellas were sucked out of cafe tables. Swirling wind and pelting rain made a surprise attack. Dozens of white tennis shoes without socks began running. We ran, too.
With each block, rain came heavier. Thunder clapped. Trash whipped in circles. We ran with everyone, chattering excitedly about the crazy unexpected storm. Just before crossing the last street to Anna’s apartment building, a crack of lightning boomed and a powerful gust blew so hard, we huddled together with strangers.
“It’s Armageddon!” I yelled, and the soaked strangers laughed as we darted together across the slick city street.
I’ve never considered myself a city person. But even in New York, where I’m often scared or revolted, I’ve been touched by small moments of solidarity with strangers over shared experiences like music in the subway, the Knicks winning, extreme weather and a mother and baby crossing the street. Sometimes, concentrations of humanity offer surprising opportunities for fellowship.
Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com
