Author: nuval

They Were Here Before Your Grandparents Were Born

Musings

Every so often, I’m reminded of just why I liked New York and why I find myself missing it every so often.

Tell the truth, I get a kick out of commuting. In New York, it’s especially fun. Your train gets delayed–watch everyone whip out their phones to let people know they’ll be late. The stupendously long line for a taxi at Penn Station. Sidewalk maneuvering. Pre-walking in the subway. I miss it–but I am comfortable with the way things are right now.

The streets and sidewalks just pulse with life, all hours of the day every day. Some people might see the dense city as suffocating, but I look it as a constant reminder of being alive and living.

At night, the inhabitants pack into the bars and restaurants to hang out, socialize, nourish, and imbibe. Me, I spent many a night in one particular place, McSorley’s Old Ale House, a popular little spot on East 7th Street that’s been around since the 1840s. McSorley’s Old Ale House only serves one kind of ale, and that’s McSorley’s. McSorley’s comes in two varieties: dark and light. A round is composed of two mugs that can either be both dark or both light, or one of each. Waiter service is available at the tables, where you will be served by a right proper Irishman who will take good care of you. No matter how big your party is, he will bring all the beer that is due you in a round: it’s amazing how many mugs these guys can carry in one hand.

My friends and I went pretty regularly, usually on Thursdays around 5, which is the best time to go if you want to beat the crowds. At 5pm you will be served by a friendly man by the name of Tommy, who is one of the best waiters you’ll find at this establishment. In the grand tradition of Matty U!, we always left generous tips (so now you know where all my money went).

But graduation came, and we all went our separate ways out of the city, so our at-least-weekly McSorley’s runs came to an end. On graduation day, Gene, Joe, and I went to the saloon to drink our last round–as students, anyway.

On a recent visit to NYC, Gene and I dropped by McSorley’s to grab some lunch and some beer before heading back to his place. It was shortly past 11, so they were barely open. Besides the two of us and another couple that had just wandered in, the place was empty. What’s more, the sun was streaming in through the windows…strange. We ordered a couple of burgers apiece and a round of dark. Halfway into eating, who should I spot but Tommy, dressed quite suavely and heading towards the back. I acknowledge him with a nod. I expect him to just say “Hello, how are you fellows today?” but he stops and, having recognized us, turns around, extends his hand to me and Gene, saying “Good to see you fellows!” A few minutes later, he’s walking towards our table from the bar with four mugs of dark, sets them down with a flourish, saying “Here you are fellows, always good to see you,” and shakes our hands again.

When we get up to settle accounts, our tab is $7 less than what it should have been. Good ol’ Tommy bought us a round! It’s little things like that that make me feel all good inside. It’s little things like that that make me miss New York.

On crisp, cool nights and speedy trains

Reflections

While I await the return of my pounding headache, I’ve got a couple of things on my mind.

I sit outside on a chilly metal folding chair on my balcony overlooking the rear parking lot, in full view of darkened houses and apartments, a thin layer of clouds obscuring the few stars that would otherwise be seen on a clear night. Inhale. Take in the refreshing smell of air relatively unpolluted by garbage, automobiles, and industry. Quiet, save for the occasional rush that marks a passing car on one of the streets nearby.

I look towards the sky. By doing so, I can push the images of man-made objects out of my mind’s eye, and only nature remains. I am taken back to the then-sparsely populated outer fringe of Aurora, Illinois, where a residential high school for the Land of Lincoln’s best and brightest sits, surrounded by cornfields that lay in wait for the developers’ bulldozers.

On many a night such as this one, I would escape the small population of adolescents, the beings that, with their insignificant worries and incessant noise-making, made me wish I were just a few years older. I would escape to a spot where I could tune it all out, where it was just me and the night sky. I would lie on the side of a hill and watch the stars, stars that are unfamiliar to a denizen of the city. There were no aural distractions. I was alone with my thoughts.

As I sit outside I remember how wonderful it felt to be able to escape like this. I remember, too, the feeling of sharing the experience with another, a single person, one capable of appreciating the emptiness just as I did. In those quiet times we shared, a great emotional link was formed. It seemed as if we had found the essence of life.

I miss that.

Earlier today, I left work early, miserable with a headache induced by spending another restless 90 minutes in the scanner bore. I caught a bus that travels along the East Busway, a two-lane road dedicated to bus traffic. Here, the lumbering vehicles can cruise at speeds up to 40 mph past scenic foliage that frame small pockets of urban here and there.

The experience tops the normal stop-and-go bus rides on surface streets. Such rides rank at the bottom of my good commutes list. After that comes riding local trains (here I’m thinking of the 6 train and the R train); then the bus rides on the busway.

But I absolutely loved my commute from Queens into Manhattan. I loved the stretches on the Queens Boulevard line between Queens Plaza (later 21st-Queensbridge) and Roosevelt Avenue, and Roosevelt and 71st-Continental Avenue. There, the trains rain express. Express runs, at least when the train is allowed to reach high speeds, are a thing to be savored. It allows for thoughts uninterrupted, the wheels maintain a steady cadence as it passes over seams in the tracks, and the lights that illuminate the tunnels whiz by your window, giving you the feeling of traveling faster than anyone has ever gone before. It is five minutes of pure speed, five minutes uncontaminated by unintelligible announcements over the public address system advising people to “stan clee da doe”…five minutes closer to home.

I miss that.

weakness

September 11

I broke my stated promise to engage in a media blackout today.

I turned on the TV this morning to make sure there was no HFS redux.

This evening, I watched NBC at 8pm, which featured Tom Brokaw interviewing a group of air traffic controllers that watched the four flights to their fateful end, helpless, unable to do anything about those flights. But they did manage to keep the planes in the air safe, and bring them down when the entirety of US airspace was ordered cleared. Kudos.

Bush’s address at 9pm from Ellis Island was appropriate, respectful and inspiring.

CBS aired a documentary produced by two French filmmakers, brothers who were originally doing a film on a rookie in the FDNY and his initiation into the fold. By pure happenstance, they had their cameras rolling throughout the madness that morning. One was present in the lobby of Tower One, filming the rescue effort and later escape from the remaining tower, surely doomed; the other circled helplessly between the firehouse and the Trade Center, filming the masses transfixed by the burning towers, then the panicked flight north as 2 WTC went down, and finally his own experience, trapped too close to the site as 1 WTC fell.

The shock and denial from that day came flooding back. The guilt, for not being able to help even in miniscule amounts. I, a radio amateur with a commitment to help in emergencies, was improperly equipped.

So why did I turn on the television?

I’ll let you figure that out, because I don’t know the answer.

Notes

September 11

In the end, there is nothing to say. Take a cue from Rudy and Mike. No speeches and no grandstanding. I thought maybe I would have something of substance. In the end, there is nothing to say.

One year later, we have seen things that, in the end, I think only serve to give us false senses of security against a bodiless threat. Where once we stood united, in the end we are divided. Recompense for families affected has been wraught with obstacles and controversy. Consensus on a fitting memorial is proving difficult to reach.

There are questions that are logical to ask, one year later.

For ourselves: Are we doing what we can to better ourselves? Each one of us has a take-home lesson from that day. Have we taken it to heart?

As Americans: Is our country being prudent in its actions? What can we do to be a part of the decisionmaking process?

As for me, it’s been hard these last few days as I try to assess its impact on me, tempered by the knowledge that there are those that experienced much worse and by trying to make sure that I don’t blow things out of proportion nor take things too lightly.

For my part, I’ll be observing quiet moments of reflection at 8:45, 9:03, 10:05, and 10:28.

There is some truth to that New Yorker cover.

September 11

I remember talking to my friends later that week. Maybe the one thing that surprised all of us was all the calls, checking up on us, wondering if we were okay.

School is nowhere near the Towers. We were somewhat confounded by the frantic calls hoping we were okay.

If I told you that it was 1.5 miles to the towers, you might think that that’s pretty close. Well, no. The Financial District was worlds away from the East Village. It’s at least several subway stops. Maybe a thirty-minute walk. You had to cross through Soho. Chinatown/Little Italy. TriBeCa. Then you were in the Financial District. Worlds apart.

But on that day, no matter where in the five boroughs you lived, to a non-New Yorker you were potentially near the Towers. The towers’ footprint grew to encompass the entirety of New York City. The city shrank to those few city blocks bordered by Trinity, Vesey, West, and Liberty.

I’m still not sure if I can answer the question, “Are you okay?”

Funerals and tragedy

September 11

I caught a few bits of last weekend’s edition of CBS Sunday Morning, which was centered around September 11. In one clip, a man likened the attacks and its aftermath to a funeral: many people gather to mourn the passing of a loved one. These are people that don’t normally get together, and may not have seen each other in a long time. After the funeral, they vow to get together sometime soon; only, it never happens. They part, go their separate ways, until the death of another mutual friend.

I’m sure I don’t need to explain how apt that is.

Toidy-Toid an’ Toid

Musings

I picked up on a lot of the New York culture passively. It wasn’t that difficult–a lot of my peers were from the area and were fine, upstanding New Yorkers. Brooklyn and Queens were especially well-represented; toss in some Long Islanders for good measure. So it wasn’t too long before I started to drop my jaw just a little lower in the course of everyday speech–an affectation that means when I think I’m going to say “coffee” like a good Midwestern boy, it comes out “cawfee.” Similarly with words like “awrange” and “Lawng-gyeland.” I think my speech was only modified when I’d be talking to someone with a like drawl; otherwise, I spoke “normally,” an accent that isn’t quite the Midwestern accent that people are familiar with from movies like Fargo, nor is it a true Chicago accent, either. It’s just standard (American) English.

There is a native culture here in Pittsburgh but it’s not as easy to find, since most of the people I interact with don’t affect yinzer mannerisms–they’re not Pittsburgh natives!