Sitting in the ISS "Candidate Lounge," corralled like so many piglets waiting to be made bacon or, if we're lucky, to be made the next Babe. So, the question is, are you Babe, or are you bacon?
We're sitting in Grand Central Terminal (Station) waiting for our first interview. My $6.95 veggie omelet was tiny but good, and M's croissant was just peachy. It's strange to be sitting in a building that is an icon of business and travel. When I think of it, I always think of it in a nostalgic way despite never having been here. I think that movies and pictures have given us the feeling that it's a part of our lives, or that it was, so when we get here, we're stepping back in time to a false past. We're tricked into having feelings for a strange place.
What makes it jarringly strange is the contradiction to our expectations. If you arrive expecting the past, the very real and very busy present that bustles through takes one aback. These are not hallowed tunnels and chambers; no ghosts sit in corners checking stopwatches for the train to Poughkeepsie. It's just people walking and drinking bottled water.
It's 8 o'clock as I begin to type this. The lights are out, and we're considering going to bed. We've been up since 3:30 (awake since 2), and it's been a long day. I got sick on the flight from KY to Chicago and was yelled at for trying to ralph in the bathroom instead of a plastic bag because the captain hadn't turned off the seatbelt sign. Annoying.
I approached New York in the same way I assume many people do, with a sense of awe and intimidation. As we walked the streets this afternoon, rubbing shoulders with strangers, stepping around puddles, the intimidation melted away. NYC is, after all, just a city. Sure, its name gets whispered in reverent tones by the rich and the elite, and its streets get photographed and filmed more than any others, but it's just a city.
It's impossible to fully comprehend NYC.
It's impossible to see the trash blowing down the street. It goes on and on, millions of little pieces, all planned so carefully and forgotten so quickly.
It's impossible to understand the worn curbs that dip at the corners, etched by millions of feet. There are thousands of corners in the city, the dams that hold the urgent crowds for only a moment before relenting and spewing people into the street.
It's impossible to understand the buildings that stretch up, stiffening the necks that bend the heads that move the eyes up the straight lines. Pigeons and gargoyles, maids and lawyers, all look down at the people playing Frogger below.
It's impossible to follow the painted lines on the street, planned so carefully to corral the herds. They're ignored, laws whose importance is so far below the laws of fashion as to be nonexistent.
It's impossible to understand the thousand dollar suits on the half price rack, the belt that could feed a family in Cleveland for a month, the pink polo with a higher price tag than thread count, the four young girls walking out of Saks wearing hideously designed clothes and carrying four bags worth thousands. It sickens, disgusts, and beckons the green beast which begins the cycle again.
It's impossible to smell all of the fried foods wafting from doorways and stands. They pull you in, repel you, confuse you.
It's impossible to escape the lights. Bright, blinking, always on.
It's impossible to know how many people are laughing, crying, eating, making love, listening to the same song, or walking at any given moment. Within this city, the entire emotional spectrum is constantly lit up, fluctuating like a kaleidoscope. I wonder how many people were laughing when the twin towers fell. I wonder how many were making love.
I can understand a town of three people. The relationships are simple, the roles are defined, the possibilities are limited. New York is incomprehensible. This many people aren't a community or even neighbors. The city is a collection of pieces, tiny parts that people have collected in their minds and labeled "our city." It's a farce, a façade in every sense.
Some thoughts before we head off to NYC.
I always wonder, when I'm driving at 4 in the morning, why there are people on the road. Are they going to work? Coming back from work? It's a surreal time, that window just before sunrise. People talk about dusk as the witching hour, but don't forget it's mate, dawn.
Airports are annoying, in some ways. The TVs are too loud, the muzak clashes with the TV, and strange people sit down next to you. Oh, wait, it's M…
