early

Did you know there is such a thing as a New York subway schedule? And that, according to it, the No.6 leaves the Bleecker Station, heading uptown at 4:36 a.m.?

By 4:30, we are at the station. Ed is making sure I get to my proper subway/bus connections at this horribly early, or horribly late hour (depending on your habits). As I slip in the money for a subway ticket, we hear the train stop and then pull away. Six minutes early. And now it’s a mystery as to when the next one will come.

The unreliability of these early hour trains and buses causes me to give up on total frugality. I wave to Ed (who’ll be traveling later that night) and catch a cab for Grand Central, where I wait for the first airport bus. Forget about the whole subway to M60 bit. This time I am like one of the anxious in a hurry New Yorkers who can’t be late no matter what.

Even as in New York, it can be tough to be in a hurry.


The streets are almost empty still. Down in the Village, I would come across the occasional dispirited person walking away from someone’s apartment, or the restless night person who sleeps on a different schedule. Here, in these downtown blocks where no one lives, I only see the occasional person who waits, like me, for the working day to begin. Or who is starting to work. Or who waits for work.




But New York is never really quiet or dark. As the bus approaches and I get ready to board, I take one last look.





For a long long time, this was pretty much the America that I knew. Like for so many here, there was only New York, and then some nameless other regions beyond it, they say with purple mountain majesties with oceans on either side. I’d driven through them, I even occasionally stopped for a week-end or a week. Quaint places where I could see more trees or ripples of ocean water, but then I would return to the city that was, for me, the familiar America.


One last look. As the plane taxis in the hour just before sunrise, in the black and white world of a cloudy hazy morning.





I take out my papers and focus on the day ahead.

welcome to Ameryka

In a quote from an immigrant from the economically depressed Europe of the early twentieth century, I read: “we didn’t know of it as the United States, or even North America. We knew it as America (“Ameryka” in Polish) where anyone could make a new life.

If Ed is my occasional traveling companion, would it be correct to say that I come from a family of occasional immigrants?

My grandfather was the first in my family to travel from Poland to America. He came in what was the busiest year for Ellis Island (where immigrants where processed) – 1907. But he didn’t stay. He went back, then came again, only to return for good to Poland in 1951.

My grandmother crossed the ocean to join him here, then she returned to Poland, then came back and stayed until that return trip to Poland in 1951. Except that twenty years later she came back to the States. She died in California not so very long ago.

My mother is another back and forther. She landed on Ellis Island first in 1929, then again in ‘31 (with Poland in between). Some fifteen years later, she is back in Poland and then, in a surprise move, she winds up in California. I doubt that she’ll ever need a passport again.

I’ve always thought that this unsettled nature of my family’s travels was a tad out of sync with the prevailing trends. I thought people who came to America stayed in America. But today, I read this:




For all my ocean crossings, I am actually more stable than these previous generations of family. I considered myself thoroughly Polish until the 1970s, and since then, I have regarded myself very much as an American immigrant.

And yet I am the only one in my America-bound family who did not come through Ellis Island. The place closed down as an immigrant center in 1954 – a year after I was born. But in the 60 years leading up to that year, so many immigrants passed through Ellis Island! (The majority from Eastern Europe and Italy.)


Today, Ed and I took the ferry to Ellis Island.

It couldn’t have been a brighter day (though I would have welcomed a warmer wind).

We left Bleecker Street at an hour where New York streets are empty but for the serious visitors who are anxious to fit it all in. Oh, and the newspaper buyers (there are still those). And dog walkers. And fans of buttermilk scones for a Sunday breakfast.













We are lucky with the ferry. Just as we hike up to the pier, one is setting out toward the open waters. If you’ve done this trip, you’ll know that the boat first pulls up to Liberty Island.





You want to get off?
I don’t know... We don’t have tickets to go inside Ms Liberty...





But we do get off. How can we not? Liberty Island, Statute of Liberty – aren’t these as much a part of the immigrant experience as docking at Ellis Island? Or passing through the Verrazzano Narrows? (I passed through the Narrows on my first voyage to the States, even though I was not then an immigrant.)





We walk along the perimeter of Liberty Island and look up at the green robes of the statue. It’s a dazzling monument from close up. Especially when I am so intensely focused on immigration to this country via New York (as experienced by my ancestors).





We board the ferry again and head for Ellis Island. Twelve million went through the immigration screening here. I keep thinking that: twelve million. Including my grandfather, grandmother, mother.

The wind is even more forceful now. I think about huddled masses. And boat passengers braving the weather. And having, finally, a full view of Manhattan.








Once on Ellis, Ed allows me to take the lead, to take the museum at my own pace.

We join a small group that wants to tour the hospital wing. But I’m restless. I want to cut loose. I can’t feel the place through the words of the young guide. He’s too sing-song, too bland. These are not bland stories! Talk by example! Tell me an anecdote or fact about a Stefania or Wojciech (my grandparents’ names), or anyone else – the doctors who worked here, the people who stayed, those who were turned back.






In the end, Ed and I make our way through the great halls of the arrival building alone. The places of great waiting. Waiting to cross, waiting to land, waiting to move on.









The best, for me, are the photos. Faces, families, so often from Poland. How is it that they came from Poland at a time when there was no Poland? I don’t understand. Could they state country of origin based on a past remembrence? Or a future hope?




And faces of orphaned children, coming here to find a new life. These move me no end. And the woman from Poland who took work scrubbing floors. That could be my grandmother. She cleaned apartments during the day and baked during the night.




Immigrant stories. There aren’t enough of them, I don’t think. I want more details – I can’t have the details about my own grandparents, but I’ll settle for those of others. What were their days here like?

We take several hours to walk through the few rooms with exhibits. This is where they were inspected for health problems. This is where they were checked for legal permission to enter. This is where they were given the literacy test. Or the psychological test. This is where they stayed if they failed.

My mother recalled being scared that the officials would find lice. Would she be sent back? Would her mother be sent back then as well? Do others have similar recollections?

By midafternoon I am intensely tired. There is a chill in the building and I am wishing I had an extra sweater underneath my coat. I tell Ed – let’s head back to Manhattan.

We leave Ellis, swing around Liberty and head home.







And now we walk agaom toward Bleecker. The long way. Past the court house where Ed spent so many days during the trial. Past Chinatown too, and a playground full of families from Southeast Asia...





...and on to Orchard Street where Ed has found the best pickle shop in the borough. (Guss' Pickles; but they're moving to Brooklyn after the new year.)




... and little Italy, where we stop for an espresso and biscotti.










... and finally home. If you can call floor space home. I can. For this week-end at least.


Late in the evening we go round the corner to a local Italian place. The waiters are kind and the food is comfortably good and as we ease into the evening, I’m thinking that this city has been especially gentle with me this time around.

It continues to treat me well. One daughter is calling – the one who lives in Boston. I’m in town, just a few blocks away! The restaurant is closing, but the proprietors are delighted that a daughter should show up. They pull up a chair for her and now she is there, eating a plate full of pasta even as we have already polished off our own dinner and dessert.

And then the other daughter calls: I’m done with my meetings! Can I join you? Sure! The proprietors smile and pull up a fourth chair and now I have my daughters around me and the night air is warm and the wine is mellow and who, under the circumstances, could be anything but enthralled?

Last moments in New York. In a few hours I’ll have to make my way back to La Guardia for a predawn flight to Madison. I have classes to teach and moonlighting work to round off my Monday. It will be a long day. But I’m okay with that. I’ve had my two days.

Two days of thoughts about other places, other generations, another era, another family. That’s all it takes to get myself ready to face the last two weeks of the semester.

cross town

If I think my day was a little undone by the continuance of Ed’s deposition (which we thought would be completed by the week-end), I feel even more sorry for his attorney, who has been robbed of a life since Ed’s case came to trial. (Actually, this is the beginning of case number two which, ironically, pertains to events prior to those recounted in case number one; this is what happens when you place the tools of litigation into the hands of someone - not Ed! - who likes nothing more than to play with them, constantly and repeatedly, in the same way that you and I may like watching the same good movie over and over again.)

Ah well. It cannot be helped. From our Bleecker Street fourth floor empty room, I watch the sky turn a morning pink as the sanitation workers picked up the litter of a week-end night in the West Village.









We set out early, choosing to walk to the swank lawyer offices near Rockefeller Plaza. It's a familiar and not unpleasant walk and the weather is New York's best.


























After a few minutes of case talk, I leave them to their work. For the better part of the day, I am on my own.

I can’t remember when I last had hours to kill within a handful of blocks of Bloomingdale’s. I’m not much of a shopper, but the holiday displays are out...



Bloomingdale's window display features "the world's two perfect couples"


...and the streets are crowded and lively and I'm thinking this might do me good – to just flow with the wave of humanity that is out and about, looking for sales, imagining that this year was no different than any other (my own moonlighting stints and work demands notwithstanding).

I spend a long time admiring the stunning clothes I so rarely see in my home town. I’d forgotten what it was like to care about style. New York sucks you in in this way, even as you vow to never like the place again. It has a way of beguiling you with its haughtiness and rudeness. You feel proud to have once lived here, even as you're always glad to be done with it at the end of a trip back.


Ed calls during breaks, reporting on the slow pace of the deposition (one could speculate if the attorneys on the other side wanted to bring in good billables before the fiscal year ended). Let me walk back to Bleecker and wait for you there, I suggest to him.

I turn south. We came up sixth, and now I head down fifth. Past pretzels and chestnuts and hot dogs...








...past the Union Square market...





...and just as I approach the Village, Ed calls. Done!


And now we rush to fit in promised pieces of a day. We pick up the pace (which means Ed merely takes big strides and I run to keep up) and turn toward the lower East side. This is where Ed would come with his dad. To the deli, on Sundays. For the roast beef on rye and the pickles.





Katz, the oldest deli in New York, the only one where they still carve everything by hand, is crowded and I see someone tucking away a Zagat Guide and I think that by now, every place in Manhattan must have its spot on a google map and in Zagat guides. I listen to customers confer in French and then ask awkwardly for corned beef and coleslaw. A a table nearby, an old couple, surely local, slouches over their plates of food. Outsiders, insiders, mixing at Katz's. In a crowded sort of way.





We take our sandwiches to go and turn back slightly north, past what surely once must have been the Polish neighborhood...









... to the home of Ed’s aunt. We stay there well into the evening. I listen to the two of them review family sagas (including the present one that is playing itself out in court) and I think how important it is to sometimes sit back and hear that narrative through the conversation of someone else.


It’s late, but we’re not done with the day yet. We have another meeting with another family person – a daughter of mine who happens to be in the city for the next few days.

the three of us sit at a bar and Ed eats oysters and sips orange juice and I think that this companion of mine (occasional, traveling) has more of the New York grit and edginess here than back home. Maybe we all do.

My daughter has further plans for her evening. We wave her on as we head up to the empty fourth floor space on Bleecker Street.

city life

This afternoon, I caught a flight to New York.

Leaving Madison. Leaving small city life. I park just on the approach to the airport and walk the last quarter mile. Fifty minutes to departure. I have time.

But I’m stalled at security. My carry-on is flagged. It’s full alright. A sleeping bag takes up half the space. A change of clothing, and Ed’s favorite teeth cleaning gizmo fills the rest. (He’s in New York already, but the gizmo stayed behind – it didn’t fit in his own pack: that space was used up by an inflatable bed. And, I hope, a change of clothing.) It’s the gizmo that set off the security alarm. Suitcase unpacked, suitcase repacked.

Still, I have time. In a big city, 25 minutes before-take off with a flashing security system would make one nervous. But I’m in Madison. I’m okay. I even have a few seconds to pick up an espresso before I board.

I’m flying local this time. That is, the airline (Midwest) is local. Some of my out-of-state students had never heard of it. I tell them it’s the one with the leather seats and warm chocolate chip cookies for everyone. Progressive. Everyone’s special.

The pilot – Justin something or other, welcomes us and leads us in a round of applause for Candy, our attendant. She was just featured as Midwest’s best or brightest or something grand like that. We all shout – go Candy!

Hey, she tells us, it's also Captain Justin’s birthday. We sing happy birthday, dear Captain. Thanks! Just for that, I’ll try to give you guys a smooth landing.

I connect in Milwaukee to the LaGuardia flight. While boarding, I encounter a colleague. Not unusual. I’ve come across many over the years of flying in and out of Wisconsin.

I don’t want to suggest Madison is small and homey. Okay, maybe I do. Because it is.



And then there is that other town. The bigger one.

The arrival is spectacular. Oh, Manhattan! You’re so impressive!





But now comes her tough face. I take Ed’s advice and wait for the city bus. M60. Harlem bound, it connects well with the subway on 125th street. But the bus doesn’t come. People come, people wait, more people come. No bus.

In New York, everyone is in a hurry and yet it is the worst place to be in a hurry.

Finally. Many delayed moments later, it is here. I put in the quarters. All eight of them. One more – the driver tells me. Oops. I have no more. Get off. No, that’s not going to happen. Anyone have change? Surely in this shoulder to shoulder crowd... Someone comes through. We lurch forward.

At 125th and Lexington, I get on the express subway. Crowded. Vibrant. A woman talks rapidly to her friend. Another texts a lover. I glance at her phone: sorry. will do better, she writes. I wonder if she will do better. Or whether she wasn’t the one to mess up, but she’s willing to take the blame, just to get him on her side again.

I get off on 14th, switch to the local and finally I’m on Bleecker. In the heart of the Village. I walk past music venues, tattoo parlors, bars and undefined shops selling -- well, I'm not sure what. Maybe things that make you think of sex?

Up four flights of stairs, into an empty apartment where Ed and I will stay for the next three nights.

spinach walk

And the last class sentence was uttered, and I packed up to go home.

Except, I’d forgotten that this week was the first week of the winter delivery of CSA spinach (CSA: we pay the farmer in advance and every two weeks, all winter long, we pick up a pound of hoop-grown spinach).

I’m without bike, without car and it’s drizzling. So I walk. Don’t have an umbrella. Or, do I need an umbrella? Drizzle is like a slow demise – you don’t realize you’re succumbing to external forces until you've succumbed, totally and completely.

Autumn. It should be waning, but it is indeed a slow wane. From my walk, to the place of delivery, I saw what I can only describe as winter cherries...





...and roses (fading, but still, roses!) and in someone’s yard, these:





November dreams.

From the spinach pick up point to my home is another three miles, but I’m fine with that. I have only home tonight. Home, not work, not anything, no schedule, no deadline, not tonight, just home.

I keep walking.


Oh, but I almost forgot! I stop at David Bacco's chocolate shop to pick up a box of chocolates. For Ed’s aunt. How is it that I should be buying chocolates for Ed’s aunt, who lives in New York?




That’s a week-end story. For now – home. Just home.

hang

So many ways to use the word hang. And each time, the meaning changes: hang on. Hang up (the verb). Hang up (the noun). Hang in there. Hang on. Hang loose. Hang nail. (Or, is it hangnail?) Hang it! (Or, is that one dang it?)


Drizzle. Wet walk, nose turned down to the pavement, hand protecting good camera. Except during this one shot. For the rose that’s hanging in there... until what, Thanksgiving? Winter break?





For me, until the weekend. And a much much needed break from work. Any work. Hang in there, readers. On Saturday and Sunday, I will not write about work.


Evening drizzle. Step off the crowded bus, look up.





Trees, with nothing left hanging. Wet bark, dark skies, a very wet walk to the shop, and then finally -- home.

kick

Rules to live by:

If the IRS squawks at you for not supplying proper documentation with your tax return, give them some more papers. And if they squawk again, supply them with even more papers. Don’t get hung up on the unpleasantness of it all, just keep churning out the papers.

If you find a superb bargain on a replacement camera (for the little Sony that mysteriously lost its shutter release button – that same button that Ed so brilliantly tried to replace and affix, except that in the end, it wasn't quite the same), go ahead and buy it, but be prepared: the bargain may be a scam. Even if the merchant has good online reviews, , it still may be a scam. The good reviews may be a scam. Cancel the order. Don’t keep hoping. Let it go and buy the one at Amazon for $30 more. Don’t keep fretting about losing the good price, because that price wasn’t a good price at all, it was a scam.

If your day has no breaks in it, except for the 15 minutes that you cut out for an espresso down the hill, don’t gripe about how brief that break was. Enjoy the espresso and think of the longer breaks ahead of you.



(a food booth down the hill)


Gripers and whiners are not good souls.

Kick me when you think I am getting dangerously close to their league.

forever

It’s the last of the really tough weeks (for this year; in January, a fresh set of challenging schedules clicks in). I’m sure, we, down on campus, all need a break. Between workload increases, budget cuts, furloughs, swine flu threats – it’s been quite the semester.

Last night at the shop where I moonlight, a most cheerful type came in to pick up a few items for himself. I pegged him as having had a good year. He seemed positively buoyant. Only when I took his credit card information did I realize that he was a top level UW administrator – not likely to be without work anxieties. Some people handle stress well.

And I do too. The previous night, when I had locked the shop and was counting change, a young man with pants halfway down his buttocks tried hard to get me to open up. He looked like he was running from someone. I didn’t let him in, but it didn’t strike me then that he may have been dangerously ill-disposed toward me (and less ill-disposed toward the momentarily opened cash register).

It is true that, for the most part, I stay level at times of crisis.

Of course, these days, I am spending time with a person whose stress levels are at his usual low. Ed, my occasional traveling companion, is unfazed by the cold weather (Brisk! Wonderful!), by the darkness of the night and the darkness of the day (turn off the lights! I like the dark..), by the onset of age (if you make it to 60, you shouldn’t complain), by too much work (retired; what more can I say). Sometimes I think the big decision for Ed is whether to read lying down or sitting up. In any case, I am around a guy who is very very calm.

We pick up bagels for a late (post moonlighting) supper of egg sandwiches and home-made broccoli soup.





In years past, I used to buy bagels at this place quite often. I remember those years: life moved rapidly in shocking ways and nothing was certain. Maybe I learned to shrug off stress then. Over a cup of coffee and a toasted bagel.





Tonight I’ll shrug off ominous threats of stress over a bagel again.

Good thing bagels are forever.