nyj72: recovering from a hit of ole suburbia


Ventured down Texas way, this last weekend. Mission: get away from the chaos that is my life and have a newly relocated friend shoot my author photo. I haven’t taken a trip like that in a while. It took me back to another trip to Dallas, that one to see a cousin married. I’d just finished my freshman year of college and barely could have identified my insides if you’d introduced us on the street. It took answering the oft-repeated question, “How was your first year?” for me to realize that, actually, it had sucked. A lot. In fact, when I got on that plane out of Dallas, a great black hole of misery opened up as I realized I was flying back Des Moines way. And at summer’s end ... headed back to the tiny little one-silver-screen town where my school was.

If I expected similar drama this time, it’s delayed so far. No misery on my late-night flight — just gratitude. After speeding past endless semis up the 35 north to Dallas (I’d been in Austin for a spell), I finally had to stop for gas. Alas, I chose the exit that led not to some ubiquitous Texas oil but the “Victory Way” to their convention center. And I was already tight on time for returning my car and checking in for my flight! Twenty minutes later, the downtown nearly had its victory as more wrong turns after further bad directions threatened to induce panic. But I couldn’t cry! I was wearing five times the normal makeup, vestige from the morning photo shoot that put me in this time squeeze. God only knew what sort of horrible rainbow-colored tracks such panicked tears would leave. (This is the genius of the female mind: a ravaged face creates more angst than missing a flight.)

At last the woman outside some swank affair with valet parking knew of a gas station up the road. The gas was even cheap! But this was not the end of my woes, oh no. When I finally reached the rental car return, I couldn’t find the entrance for Enterprise. Made one full circle of the sprawling garage then finally wound up where I started. Not a pleasing development when it’s after 8 p.m. and your flight leaves at ten to 9! On my second loop, I saw that Enterprise was the first gate, wouldn’t you know. Collected my things, caught the bus for the C gate, then made the dash to the ticket counter.

“Is it too late to check in for the 8:55 to New York?” The man calmly took my ID and printed a boarding pass, then told me I’d have to hurry: my flight was leaving from the D terminal! So much for TV monitor guidance. “But I thought it was C17!”

He shrugged. “Gate change. These things happen.”

At least the line at security was blessedly short. No one blinked an eye at the woman toting not three but four carry-ons (at LaGuardia, she wouldn’t let me queue up for the luggage scan till I crammed bag #3 in my purse). Shoved my sneakers back on, made the dash to the SkyTrain, started nibbling an apple, then sprinted down the escalator to my gate. Never has a crowd of people been such a welcome sight. As hoped, the flight was delayed some 10-15 minutes. Not only had did I have time to wet my now-parched palate (panic seems to devour internal fluids), I even got to finish eating my apple. As a final boon, my seatmate on the flight turned out to be going home to Park Slope just like me, so we split the cost of Brooklyn cab fare (at 1 a.m., the subway could have taken nearly two hours).

Once home I was energized enough to stow all the loot from my fabulous foray into suburbia. Bargains unparalleled out there. Got a swank suede jacket from St. Vincent, only $18.50. Stocked up on stationary, a spicy giant candle and deeply discounted perfume at T.J. Maxx. Bought cute, cheap “junior” shirts at Ross.

I realize that I miss those mainstream treasure hunts. And the freedom of a car is rather intoxicating. Drive-through Starbucks! CD players and cup storage! Trunk and passenger space that’s probably bigger than all my Brooklyn storage combined. The last time I left Dallas, I knew I couldn’t face the small town. This time, I’m not sure how long I can put up with the city. I practically froth at the mouth over spaces my friends outside New York call home. Even for those paying California rent, at least it typically covers a spacious pad, a garbage disposal and a dishwasher. Sometimes even a washing machine. Those other places sell liquor and wine in the grocery store — at chains like Trader Joe’s and good ole Safeway (where they will not hassle you for returning milk that spoiled before the due date).

It’s hard not to see some patterns in life repeating themselves. This season in life feels so much like my last year in Arizona — which I spent working on my thesis. Only this time when I finish writing, I get a pile of money instead of the pile of debt that I came into at graduation. Money that just might help finance a move to someplace slightly less urban than here. We shall see. A move is not the same when you’re nearing 30, and you no longer make it fueled by excitement at all the new men you could meet in your new town. My life has rarely had long-term permanence, but this time I’d like to move to someplace I could settle for longer — not the in-between place I always thought New York would be. The only question, really, is can I give back to this city in nine or so months in proportion to what I have taken from it?

posted @ 06:19 PM on Wed - November 16, 2005 remark! Email |  as quoted:
before I said ...  but more recently: 

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