The Pathway Between Worlds
Originally uploaded by Foto Blitz Color.
500 miles-per-hour and not a minute faster. I’m launched through the atmosphere headed straight for home. Piercing clouds and floating over America and in a couple hours I’ll land in the place where I belong, Portland. But before I get there I’ll share a row with elderly gentlemen who takes his meds with wine, watch the in flight entertainment as it chronicles a large elephant flattening a very unfortunate red ball, consider if the band Silversun Pickups belongs in my playlist or on a compilation CD with Fred Durst, and try to figure out why that cabbie kicked me out of his car on the way to the airport.
“Where are you going?”
“Newark.”
I throw my bags into the trunk and get into the cab.
“Do you know how much it will cost?”
“$40, $45.”
“At least $60. You have to pay me $15 for tolls, $15 for going there and the meter.”
“Damn! Uhhh, just take me to Penn Station.”
The cab instantly stops.
“I’m not going across town. Get another cab.”
And then I found myself on the side of the street. Hailing another cab. Fighting the traffic to Penn Station. Fifty cars deep. A thousand card deep. A Ferrari. A bus. A woman walking across the street. And it all swirls around you when you first move to the city. But I’ve been here for over two years now and sometimes I just sit back and take it in. Like a movie. I’m not really here, I’m just watching.
“Stop right here. I can walk.”
Six dollars later and I’m out of the cab and on the sidewalk with people. Millions of people. It’s like the running of the salmon, before the dams, before fishing, before fish and chips. And they keep coming. At this point I’ve got a suitcase on my back, a computer bag slung over my shoulder, and another suitcase rolling behind me. This takes concentration. Now I know what Larry Bird must have felt like in the last seconds of game 7, down by 2 with the ball and two free throws staring him in the face. Navigating through this human stampede is both dangerous and exhilarating. Now all I need is my phone to ring. And a part of me would like to say that it did ring, and I picked it up, and I carried on an amazing conversation full of perfectly timed comedic one-liners and insightful observations as I weaved my way into the train station all the while carrying a small house full of luggage. But it didn’t ring. Which probably saved my life.
When navigating in New York City, you must remember one thing; they don’t give a shit. Yes they, meaning anyone who is moving in any way through the streets of New York City, definitely don’t give a shit. A car? You’re run over. A young couple in love? Splat. A mother and her stroller containing twins? Never saw you. So with this knowledge I slid and danced and probably ran over a few people on my way to Penn Station. But I got there. In one piece.
By the way, that dude on King of Queens could stand to drop a few pounds; like 80. He just popped up on the in flight entertainment.
So I got on the train, got to the airport, just caught my plane and then waited to take off for over an hour. Lovely. So here I am. Somewhere over the Rockies caught in a small pocket of turbulence just and hour away from Portland. As god gently rocks me back and forth I wonder what will happen next. The Rocky Mountains are beautiful. 500 miles-per-hour and not a minute faster. I’m launched through the atmosphere headed straight for home.
