Trust The Women

For all the years I’ve been visiting my daughter, I rarely explore The City solo. That’s the best way to learn, when you have to figure it out by yourself. Like learning a language, when all roads lead back to you, you eventually get hip. Or not.

I’m sitting on a metal, sage green chair outside Le Pain ex in Columbus Circle, Manhattan, waiting for my daughter to get off work. Her school’s about a 20-minute walk from here, but for me, the forever tourist and lame Google Maps reader, I’ve been strolling for about three hours, not on purpose, but because even with technology I’m NYC directionally-challenged. Fortunately, blessedly, I’m not on-the-clock so getting lost doesn’t matter, but one day it would actually be nice to walk less and get-to-my destination more efficiently. 

I read on my Apple news feed today that we have about 40% control over developing Alzheimer’s and dementia. Healthy diet, exercise, limit alcohol to four drinks a week, and learning new things every day, like negotiating The Big Apple on foot. The glass half full part of my afternoon of walking is that I logged-in 10 miles and I DID get to the place I wanted to get to and now I’m treating myself to a superb aux pan raisin and small latte. Magnificent! “The best I’ve ever had,” the New York Explorer declared. 

Today’s adventure is courtesy of my desire to push my boundaries and also have a quick lunch with my daughter. I took the E train from Forest Hills to 53^rd Street, changed the train I was told to board by my knowledgeable daughter, but because I didn’t know which side of the tracks I was supposed to go on because they were both Manhattan-bound. I asked two people for help: a kind woman said to go on the opposite side of the track and the guy who was cleaning the train told me the E train, the one he was cleaning. “It’s faster. Get off on 53^rd Street,” he said. 

I followed the guy’s suggestion because, after all, he worked for Metro, but the mix-up  completely threw me off the directions and sights I was used to. The good news is it all worked out in the end, but my lesson is to give myself more travel time because stuff like getting lost happens more times than I care to admit. And——trust The Women.

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I don’t tire of NYC, this hyper stimulation, hustle bustle city. I mean, how could you, especially during the holidays when everything is festive and over the top? Sitting here is the best place to people-watch and eavesdrop conversations, like I’m doing right now. Next to me, a couple of early 20-somethings are chatting about holiday plans, spicing up their discussion with plentiful F-bombs. Most pedestrians are wearing black overcoats, sneakers and have that New York don’t-mess-with-me scowl across their face. Those in colorful attire, particularly cheerful, hold yellow bags from the M&M store are obviously tourists, like me. 

I like black, always a sophisticated choice, but it’s just not Aloha me. 

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Back at the homestead—a shrunken three-bedroom apartment filled with five adults, three children under four, a big dog and persnickety long-hair cat—it’s transformed into a medical ward with kids throwing up, yelling, screaming, crying, running, teasing Grandma, painting, reading, cooking, laundering, waking up from naps, fighting sleep, getting fevers, coughing, runny-nosing, Play-doughing, truck-driving, Moana-ing, Pink Pony Club-dancing, in other words, a pina colada frothy high speed blender concoction called Life With the Kwoks. It is that time, their time, when little kids NEED everything everywhere all at once and until some clever person invents slip-on octopus hands so parents like my daughter and her husband can solve all the little kid crisis’ at the same time, well, thank God for live-in and traveling grandparents who can pitch-in and take some of the pressure off. 

Yep, there’s a lot going on inside the rockn’ sockn’ brick apartment on Fleet Street, more than this solitude-seeking grandma has the stamina for at the end of a long and boisterous day when I crave sleep but just can’t seem to settle down. What’s up with that? 

When it’s over, when I’m gone or even mulling over the thought of my last day in New York, I become ridiculously sentimental, longing for the chaos of my Littles and their Big Apple world. So, I adjust. Sink in. Plant my slippered feet. Snap photos. Dance to the crazy tunes, and sway to the sweetness of their tiny, changing voices because this view, this magical, imaginative time, this day sitting outside on a Fall afternoon, sipping a latte, eating a pastry, watching the Christmas lights Disneyfy Columbus Circle, is fleeting. 

Take it all in, I remind myself. The discomfort. The predictability. The disorder. The drama and fun. For this is the pure, genuine, manifestation of love. It all is, really. Sitting at a coffee shop sipping on a latte. The rain. The cold. The sun and wind. The arguments and misunderstandings that bring you to a closer reckoning—forgiveness—of others’ flaws, and your own. The magic of getting lost and not worrying, knowing that you’ll eventually figure it out and if you don’t, there’s someone out there who will help you, who will understand.