But by far the most important lesson happened right here in the grand ol’ U.S. of A. This lesson revealed itself over the past weekend in New York City, Hipster Capital of the World. It’s really quite simple.
Don’t travel with bags.
Let me revise that. Don’t travel in New York with bags.
Wait -- one more revision. Don’t travel in New York with bags if it requires taking the Manhattan-bound L train at rush hour with a towering hiking backpack strapped to your back and two oversized purses clutched desperately between your sweaty and rubbed-raw palms.
The story begins like any other story. After a sojourn in Italy, I was making my way back to the Lone Star State by way of the Big Apple. I spent several jubilant days in the city with friends, sipping sangria, wallowing in wine, boozing on beers...and sipping more sangria.
Early Tuesday morning, the time had come to bid my adieus. So I strapped my 40-lb hiking backpack to my back (which seriously impedes one’s vertical versatility), swung a mom-sized purse over each arm (which seriously impedes one’s horizontal mobility), and made my way to the subway stop. By “made my way to the subway stop,” I mean that I waddled to the subway stop, wavering from left to right in tiny, constipated steps and making a kind of zigzag pattern, which is really the only way to simultaneously carry three large bags that are all working in direct opposition to one another and to you, the bag carrier, as you attempt to balance all concurrent vectors of swinging motion while also losing blood flow to at least four different places in your legs.
To my chagrin, the battle had only just begun.
At first, things seemed to be going smoothly. The L train arrived and, though crowded, I managed to maneuver myself into a spot. The spot was directly in front of the door, which meant I didn’t have anything to hold onto...but because we were jammed so tightly together, I fervently prayed that the other passengers would act as a sort of buoying force. Nervous beads of sweat formed on my brow as I focused all of my energies on staying upright so that I wouldn’t plunge into other passengers with my off-center load. So far, so good, I told myself. Maybe I can do this.
The problems began when we arrived at the 1st Avenue stop. Now, I wasn’t getting off at 1st Avenue, mind you...but everyone else was. At least, everyone else wanted to get off at 1st Avenue, but found themselves faced with an unexpected obstacle: the person-sized backpack plastered to my back.
At first, I tried to hold my ground...directly in front of the door. This resulted in people stumbling around me, banging into me with their baby strollers and briefcases and a hostile force that only native New Yorkers can conjure up. It wasn’t long before the verbal assaults began.
“Move!”
“Get off!”
“GET OUT OF THE FUCKING CAR!!!”
...and other such colorful commands. The problem was, I would have stepped out of the car to allow them to pass through, but as my back was facing the door, I couldn’t reconcile the thought of stepping blindly backwards into the abyss with forty pounds of extra weight on my back. The abyss included not only a throng of equally pissed-off New Yorkers trying to get on the L train, but a foot-sized black hole of space between the car and the platform...and I couldn’t see a thing behind me. As I was literally wrestled out of the car against my will, I managed to halfway voice this complaint.
“You know,” I said pointedly to no one in particular, “it’s kind of hard to go backwards since I have a large backpack on my back...”
“I know,” spat a sixty-something woman in disgust, glaring at me like a silver-haired tigress before pushing me out of the way.
As the hoard shoved past, I managed to reclaim a spot in the now-empty car just before the doors closed. I felt absurdly guilty. Just imagine: the audacity of wearing a backpack on the L train! You can wear Buddy Holly glasses, a thrift-store John Deere tee, and skinny jeans so hip-less they redefine the meaning of “hipster”... but a backpack? It’s anathema to even think it!
The transfer to the N was far more successful. Since Queens isn’t jostling for recognition as a popular rush-hour destination, I even had breathing room. I made it to the Astoria stop without further event, except for when the Peruvian guy sitting next to me asked for my number. I did not oblige.
At Astoria, it was time to embark on the next part of my journey: get cash for the airport bus. I waddled out into the morning sunshine to find the streets in an uproar. Two policemen were directing traffic around a regular ruckus -- a legion of construction workers was literally ripping up the streets. Amidst the chorus of jackhammers, I could barely hear myself think. Then I spotted an ATM outside of a small convenience store. I trudged across the street. Because someone had made the decision to place this ATM about a foot above eye level, I had to stand on my very tiptoes to barely see the screen. Considering my three bags and their combined weight of over fifty-five pounds, this was not an easy thing to do. Somehow, I swiped my card.
Nothing happened.
I swiped my card again, and still nothing happened. Then I realized that the screen didn’t look like a normal screen at all; in fact it only had two options, neither of which said “withdraw.” The jackhammers crescendoed as if to honor my plight. I pressed one of the ATM options. It asked me how much money I wanted to put into the machine.
Money's supposed to come OUT of you! I thought in annoyance. Apparently, this machine was in need of bank notes. As was I. I was also at risk of going deaf.
I poked my head inside the store as the cacophonous construction roared behind me.
“I think your ATM’s out of cash,” I said to the employee, trying hard to make myself heard over the unceasing jackhammers. The man was at least ten feet away and glaring at me from behind a very high counter (I couldn’t help but deduce that this store was made explicitly for tall people).
“I have been telling you,” he said, shaking his head at me as if I were the biggest idiot south of the Bronx. “It does not work. I have been saying to you, ‘You go to Sunoco.’” He waved his hands in utter frustration. “I have been telling you, but you do not listen.”
You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought, the jackhammers cracking into my consciousness. I do not listen? How the hell am I supposed to HEAR?
“Well, there’s a lot of construction going on out here...” I started to say, before he cut me off with a wave of his hand.
“Sunoco.” He was literally shooing me out of the store. “Over there.”
The obliging Sunoco ATM coughed up twenty bucks -- and wasn’t even flippant about it.
Finally, I made it onto the M60 bus to La Guardia. I handed my twenty dollars to the bus driver. He didn’t take it. Instead he looked at me grumpily. Then he started the bus with a grunt.
So this was a free transfer. Great. What was not great was that I went keeling sideways the moment he hit the accelerator, just managing to catch myself before tumbling into the lap of a lady who had just unscrewed her jar of homemade tea and was preparing to take her virgin sip.
For a few minutes, I stood in stoic resolve, backpack straps slicing into my shoulders and bags biting into both arms. I valiantly refused to take the only open seat: a seat emblazoned with a venerable white wheelchair and its requisite stick figure, looking generically humbled. I was not disabled. Nay. I was strong; I was mighty; and I would stand.
After nearly plopping directly into the lady’s tea jar about four times, I decided to screw my stoic resolve and plop down in the handicap seat instead. My back and shoulders breathed their gratitude. The woman drank her tea. For a moment, we were all happy, passengers bound together in the camaraderie of a common destination, united in the solidarity of a shared purpose.
It didn’t last long. As we neared the airport, a girl next to me was asking if anyone knew which terminal for AirTran. Ever the good Samaritan -- and because I, too, needed to figure out where AirTran was -- I decided to query the driver.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said politely, ambling toward the front of the bus. “Do you know what terminal AirTran is in?”
“Yep.”
I waited for the follow-up. He said nothing. I said nothing. Aaaaand...silence.
“Uhh...which terminal is it?” I said finally.
“I’m trying to drive here, miss!” the driver snapped at me, raising his voice as he violently gripped the wheel. Helplessly, I shrank back to my handicapped seat. The AirTran girl looked at me, her eyes gleaming with fresh hope.
“He’ll tell us when we get there,” I lied, hoping this was actually true. If not…well, shit.
A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of Terminal C. The driver rattled through the list of airlines -- American Eagle, United, US Airways. AirTran was not among them.
“Hey,” bellowed the bus driver, yelling over his shoulder. “Didn’t you just ask me about US Airways?”
“I asked about AirTran, sir,” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
“I’m not talking to you,” he growled, and repeated his question to the bus at large.
He must not have been talking to anyone else, either, as evidently NO ONE had asked about US Airways. The bus driver’s question hung in the air angrily until, upon receiving no response, he stepped on the gas as we sped off to Terminal B...my terminal, thank god. I managed to knock into two grown men while swinging my backpack on (the secret is centrifugal force) before scurrying out the back of the bus.
Inside the airport, the man checking boarding passes gave me a big grin.
“How are you this morning, Miss Barton?” he asked with a genuine smile.
I couldn’t believe it. He was actually being nice to me? A person I didn’t know? And a New Yorker? It didn’t make any sense.
“You know,” I said, “you are by far the most pleasant person I’ve run into today.” I mentally replayed the events of the morning and felt added emphasis was necessary. “By far.”
“Glad to hear it!” he said, before ushering me into the bowels of La Guardia.
Maybe no one else will be pissed off today, I reasoned, as I began taking off my jacket and shoes. Maybe it’s all uphill from here. I felt a slight smile creep across my lips.
Already feeling cheered, I noticed the woman in front of me in the security line. She was sitting in a wheelchair. I felt a pang, thinking of the bus seat I had theoretically stolen from this poor, gentle soul. The woman was speaking to the airport employee charged with steering her two-wheeled craft.
“You know,” the woman was saying in a low whisper, “I can file a complaint and report your god damn ass…”
Good bye, New York City. Never has Southern hospitality looked so good.
