Some people were born to run marathons. I think I was born to drink beer and walk the streets. Just after noon on Devil’s Night, I hopped off the bus in Soho with my pendulous pack on and hoofed my way over to McSorley’s Old Ale House for some fortification.
I’d done my research the previous night, knowing I’d have a day to myself in the Big Apple. I’ve already been to the major museums, Lady Liberty, even the top of the World Trade Center back in the day, so tourist staples were out in favor of more low-key personal pursuits. Weaving up Broadway, I was re-amazed by how many people there are in that city, people of every nationality, physiognomy and smell.
Green barrels out front announced the pub. Inside, it could have been 1859, were it not for the modern-clad lunch crowd –some of whom were dressed for Halloween early—and for gals like me. McSorley’s is famous not just for being one of New York’s oldest bars, but for being forced to open its doors to women for the first time in 1970. All the wood, black-dark; the walls all covered in yellowed photographs of long-dead patrons; sawdust on the floor, ceramic steins lining the back of the bar. I took a table deep in and beside an unlit hearth. The choices were light and dark ale; I ordered a dark and a clam chowder. The ale is served double, two small heady mugs of it, and the chowder comes with a veritable serving spoon. I put my feet up and alternated beer and broth, bitter and creamy, and it set me up well for the rest of Manhattan.
I hit up Pete’s Tavern, established 1864, to drink a Brooklyn Pumpkin Ale where O. Henry once drank; paid homage to a Bust of Washington Irving, thinking delectably frightening thoughts of headless horsemen flinging flaming jack-o-lanterns. I even stepped into Strand Books to admire the shelf of leather-bound classics, and the people who still love books milling through, touching covers. Everywhere I went, there were skeletons, spiderwebs, pumpkins and freaks. I was having the best Friday!
By the time I got to West 81st, my legs were burning and my neck going numb from the backpack. I was looking forward to lounging around Central park for an hour or so. But the color of the trees and the blanket of fallen leaves mesmerized me. I was soon happily lost on The Ramble.
Wooded paths wound around granite outcroppings and away from the carriages and cabs. I stopped to watch lovers rowing boats on the lake in the angled, afternoon sun, with the San Remo towers rising beyond the trees. The light through orange and yellow leaves made everything seem gilded, like the place and the moment were good as gold for me. Slowly now, I rambled under the stone arch and further into the park, leaves dropping all around like memories through my mind.
I feel at home in the world, I realized. I feel at home alike in the wilderness and the metropolis. I remembered when I first visited New York, and perhaps I was even experientially young for my age (although perhaps the age just seems so much younger from here), but that first trip was tough-going. Oh, I loved the sights and history with my natural enthusiasm, but I was put-off by the city’s closeness and speed, baffled by the subway, the neighborhoods, the Boroughs. I thought it was cold, expensive and dirty. (How young was I when I first visited NYC? Young enough to think wearing camo pants was cool.)
I’d done my research the previous night, knowing I’d have a day to myself in the Big Apple. I’ve already been to the major museums, Lady Liberty, even the top of the World Trade Center back in the day, so tourist staples were out in favor of more low-key personal pursuits. Weaving up Broadway, I was re-amazed by how many people there are in that city, people of every nationality, physiognomy and smell.
Green barrels out front announced the pub. Inside, it could have been 1859, were it not for the modern-clad lunch crowd –some of whom were dressed for Halloween early—and for gals like me. McSorley’s is famous not just for being one of New York’s oldest bars, but for being forced to open its doors to women for the first time in 1970. All the wood, black-dark; the walls all covered in yellowed photographs of long-dead patrons; sawdust on the floor, ceramic steins lining the back of the bar. I took a table deep in and beside an unlit hearth. The choices were light and dark ale; I ordered a dark and a clam chowder. The ale is served double, two small heady mugs of it, and the chowder comes with a veritable serving spoon. I put my feet up and alternated beer and broth, bitter and creamy, and it set me up well for the rest of Manhattan.
I hit up Pete’s Tavern, established 1864, to drink a Brooklyn Pumpkin Ale where O. Henry once drank; paid homage to a Bust of Washington Irving, thinking delectably frightening thoughts of headless horsemen flinging flaming jack-o-lanterns. I even stepped into Strand Books to admire the shelf of leather-bound classics, and the people who still love books milling through, touching covers. Everywhere I went, there were skeletons, spiderwebs, pumpkins and freaks. I was having the best Friday!
By the time I got to West 81st, my legs were burning and my neck going numb from the backpack. I was looking forward to lounging around Central park for an hour or so. But the color of the trees and the blanket of fallen leaves mesmerized me. I was soon happily lost on The Ramble.
Wooded paths wound around granite outcroppings and away from the carriages and cabs. I stopped to watch lovers rowing boats on the lake in the angled, afternoon sun, with the San Remo towers rising beyond the trees. The light through orange and yellow leaves made everything seem gilded, like the place and the moment were good as gold for me. Slowly now, I rambled under the stone arch and further into the park, leaves dropping all around like memories through my mind.
I feel at home in the world, I realized. I feel at home alike in the wilderness and the metropolis. I remembered when I first visited New York, and perhaps I was even experientially young for my age (although perhaps the age just seems so much younger from here), but that first trip was tough-going. Oh, I loved the sights and history with my natural enthusiasm, but I was put-off by the city’s closeness and speed, baffled by the subway, the neighborhoods, the Boroughs. I thought it was cold, expensive and dirty. (How young was I when I first visited NYC? Young enough to think wearing camo pants was cool.)
Who would have guessed that ten years out, I’d be back in Central Park grabbing a hot dog, settling down for a snooze on a grassy hill while a bagpiper busked for dollars in the distance.
A few weeks back, I was ruing my seemingly permanent academic penury – the old “If you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?” routine. And I acknowledged that my oft-empty coffers are no result of circumstance, but a consequence of my choices. Well on the flipside, anyone could ask me (and some have, in their way), “If you’re so poor, how the hell can you be so happy?” What can I say? I feel lucky. And I am enormously, joyously proud of how my choices have changed me.
The trip was a fitting climax to a terrific month that began back when maples were just tinged with color, and we camped with Chris at what’s become our northern local park – Raccoon Creek State Park west of Pittsburgh (our southern local park being Shenandoah). Then we’d gotten in the Halloween spirit with a nighttime stroll through Holy Rood Cemetery in DC, and a visit to Poe’s house and gravestone in Baltimore. We’d toasted to Laura’s 34th birthday at the coolest old bar in Fells Point. And in New York, the Halloweekend wasn’t over yet. Laura finished her conference obligations in Jersey City and I met her at 6th Avenue and 42nd Street, the orange –lit Empire State Building reflected in one glass tower and the Chrysler Building reflected in another. Friday night still lay open before us. “I could use a drink,” she said, and I pulled my Michigan flask from that big old backpack. Such are the rewards of experience.
We finished the weekend in the company of great friends and the revelry of the Village’s Halloween Parade. Sunday morning, it was So long New York, and So long October. We caught glimpses of the New Yprk City Marathoners running in herds across Manhattan’s bridges as our bus rolled toward the Hudson. Some people were born for that. As for me, the broader streets of DC and the season of winter ales are calling.
Next up: Michigan vs. OSU at The Big House
A few weeks back, I was ruing my seemingly permanent academic penury – the old “If you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?” routine. And I acknowledged that my oft-empty coffers are no result of circumstance, but a consequence of my choices. Well on the flipside, anyone could ask me (and some have, in their way), “If you’re so poor, how the hell can you be so happy?” What can I say? I feel lucky. And I am enormously, joyously proud of how my choices have changed me.
The trip was a fitting climax to a terrific month that began back when maples were just tinged with color, and we camped with Chris at what’s become our northern local park – Raccoon Creek State Park west of Pittsburgh (our southern local park being Shenandoah). Then we’d gotten in the Halloween spirit with a nighttime stroll through Holy Rood Cemetery in DC, and a visit to Poe’s house and gravestone in Baltimore. We’d toasted to Laura’s 34th birthday at the coolest old bar in Fells Point. And in New York, the Halloweekend wasn’t over yet. Laura finished her conference obligations in Jersey City and I met her at 6th Avenue and 42nd Street, the orange –lit Empire State Building reflected in one glass tower and the Chrysler Building reflected in another. Friday night still lay open before us. “I could use a drink,” she said, and I pulled my Michigan flask from that big old backpack. Such are the rewards of experience.
We finished the weekend in the company of great friends and the revelry of the Village’s Halloween Parade. Sunday morning, it was So long New York, and So long October. We caught glimpses of the New Yprk City Marathoners running in herds across Manhattan’s bridges as our bus rolled toward the Hudson. Some people were born for that. As for me, the broader streets of DC and the season of winter ales are calling.
Next up: Michigan vs. OSU at The Big House
