Visiting the Big Apple--Day 1 to 1 1/2

So I've never been to New York before. I should correct myself, I had never been to New York before the previous weekend. We departed Washington, D.C. on Friday night, after getting off work. First, I should identify who "we" are: Jake Van Wynan, Kjerstin Meyers, Jenny, Maren Bishop (yep Rep. Bishop's daughter), Verenia, Dani, and myself. We rode on the DC to NY charter bus line (in the really nice half-million dollar buses), departing DC at shortly after 7 pm and arriving in NYC at shortly after midnight (a very long ride). The ride was rather uneventful; I slept for about two hours of it, watched one of the dumbest movies of my life (The Breakup) for another two hours, and read Man, the State, and War by Kenneth Waltz for the other hour. Only then did I discover that our hotel was just outside Newark, New Jersey. My initial reaction can be described as nothing more than the thought that whoever booked the hotels must have not been thinking. The reason for this thought is that Detroit, D.C., and Newark have a rotating calendar for the title of "Murder Capital USA," last time I checked Newark owns that title this year. After taking Amtrak from Penn Station, we took a shuttle from the stop in Rahway, NJ to our hotel. Just to alleviate my fears, the shuttle driver pointed out the prison that was located less than a mile from our hotel, Hooray! Then it was bed time.

(Here starts my actual journal entry from the following evening)
It is of little use now to attempt to recount or recreate the entire first day of my sojourn in New York. Rather, I want to simply touch on some of what I consider to be the highlights (a list that entails very little of the typical tourist destinations, not that we didn't visit them, just that they are too ordinary and rather unremarkable really).

My expectations of repetitious crime in Jersey were, unfortunately, not ill-founded. While sitting at breakfast, a man came in and stole a woman's purse. Welcome to Jersey! The woman, in an indiotic panic, responded as can be expected of humans, viscerally and not rationally. Instead of responding with the logical cry of "Stop theif!" she responded with hysteria, screaming not in English but in Chinese. Sorry lady, very few people in that room could understand what you were saying. Most comically (and perhaps most tellingly) the Chinese men simply sat and sipped coffee and pandemonium ensued. I'm not sure whether to attribute this apathy to the Confucian/Buddhist tradition of Wui-Wei or as (near universal) male laziness.

Moving on. Public transport in much much much more reliable in nearly every city in the U.S. (at leat those that I have visited) that in Utah. Jersey is no exception. We rode Amtrak from Rahway to Penn Station in Manhattan.

A point now, that I've neglected and necessitates a redress. The West seems to hold more allure to people than the East. My first reaction upon arrival in D.C. was...well, averse. Call it a snap decision if you so please, but I prefer to call it instinct. Today while eating my overpriced hotel breakfast, I struck up a conversation with the busboy--a local Jersey cat. of course we talked about a recurrent topic in my conversations: the gym. Also we talked about life in Jersey, life in general. He seems to like it well enough saying that Rahway is a quiet part of town and (unlike me) expressing no discontent. Like most people, a cool cat just getting by in a way most in-line with his personality.

While paying for my meal I chatted with the (quite attractive) cashier. Unlike the busboy, she hates Jersey, saying that no one is nice and no one cares about anyone but themselves and that she wants to move to California. This reminds me of a Toby Keith song, "Go west young man, haven't you been told, California's full of whiskey, women, and gold." The allure of the west is a quite intriguing phenomena. No wonder (though I decide the way which it was carried out) Manifest Destiny became U.S. policy.

Returning now to the point at which I just was, after the breakfast conversations and train ride: arrival in Manhattan. We did all the touristy stuff: stared up and up and up at the fabled Empire State Building (sadly, no King Kong to report), walked 5th avenue (hooray for materialism, we alsmost caught up with the joneses but they evaded us at the last minute), walked broadway, had pizza (a must in NY), passed through Times square (so many people), checked out numerous stores (various members of my group blew lots of money that interns don't have on clothes that they really don't need, but not me--I'm content...and frugal). But it's the people, or rather my interaction with them that is really worthwhile. Cities in the U.S. are, after all, essentially the same--although cloaked differently.

Which brings me to what may be the most importatnt insight that I gleaned from this first day in NY, a potential answer to one of my recurrent questions. My question is: what matters in life and what am I to do with mine? Today, I was refamiliarized with the idea that it is people that matter. Strolling through NY, I had a chance to have a few "flights of the mind"--as Dr. Reddy calls them. I started thinking about what really matters to me (prompted, of course, by the disgusting excesses of Fifth Avenue). The list that I composed is (in order of importance): Books, fitness, and, occasionally, beer/partying. I was thinking to myself that with only these things I could be happy. But in retrospect that list didn't contain the essential essence of human existence: interaction with other life (especially humans). Humans, for all their, corruption, egoism and violence (to draw on the classical realists); do also possess a certain endearing quality and vast, limitless potential--or at least some do, which makes it all worth it. Case in point the two kids from Jersey that I met at the hotel. The girl especially seems to be a kindred spirit, bound for the Wild West: California. That romantic notion of California that she possesses is truly inspiring (reminiscent of Kerouac).

Human also possess a few misguided souls, and sometime these are too much the point of focus. I saw a bumper sticker once (most portentuously in San Francisco) that seems to capture exactly what I mean: God please save me from your followers. While walking on Times Square, I was accosted (yes Dani, accosted is the right word) by a group of religious zealots (read: fanatics). (Although...they did have some pretty girls in their cult--which is really what organized religion is.) They were preaching the typical rhetoric about everyone living in pride and sing and self-revelry, and about the hellfire and damnation that will surely be brought down on everyone if we don't repent, also a mention of the "heaven" that is possible. "Raven" was the groups name, Raving would have been more appropriate. One member of the group took it upon himself to pin himelf to my side, lecturing me for the better part of a city block, asking me if I believed what the "preacher" was saying. I seeking to avoid an argument as I am usually wont to do (I know, I know, what maturity I showed) simply smirked and chuckled each time my assailant abated his invective--such loquaciousness he exhibited. Seriously though, me, god, church, etc. don't go together...AT ALL. Finally, after that block of my contemptuous "unresponses," the little acolyte departed, off to harass some other unassuming sould.

Darkness certainly leads to bright side of the tunnel because after shaking off the minion of Raving, I encountered a bright spot in the heart of New York. A savior emerged from amongst the morass of materialism that typifies Manhattan. The person of which I speak surely belongs in Berkeley or San Fran, but maybe it is better that he is here in the East--the avant garde of the rucksack revolution, leading the charge on this remote coast. A hippy through and through, with a long beard, long-hair and (assumedly) hand-made tie-dyed shirt; with a simple message (that we all could bear to heed): Stop bitching, start a revolution. That's what the stickers said. He carried them held aloft, not speaking a word. Certainly a much more effective means of promoting a cause that the caustic approach of Raving.

I, being somewhat of a hippy, had to stop to talk to this fellow free spirit. He proceeded to tell me that he is part of an artists and activists collective that resides in the mountains of West Virginia. I gave him a donation of a buck or two, he, in return, gave me one of his stickers. In retrospect, I wish that I would have spent longer chatting with him. He was, after all, more interesting than fucking McDonald's on Broadway. I must visit this collective while I'm living on the East Coast.

(Returning to a point that I had forgotten until now. We also stopped at an Indian restaurant so that Jake, Kjerstin, and Jenny could get sustenance. The who served us is worth mentioning. He was Bengali, not Indian; and Muslim, not Hindu. A great ole guy, who's been in the states since 1990. He was most intriguing to speak with, despite the gruff demeanor that he projected. )

After my encounter with the East Coast Hippy, we proceeded (alluded to above) to McD's. I purchased nothing, desiring to spend no more money for the day. The rest of the night passed uneventfully...until the train. But more on this later.