I told Rod that I was taking him somewhere for his 30th birthday. He assumed, given my preference, it was going to be someplace warm; a beach somewhere. He kept asking leading questions like, “What kind of clothes will I need to pack? Or, “Do I need to bring my passport?”
It all began one night while watching reruns of “Sex in the City”, when he said, “Honey, do you have any desire to take me to New York?” The seed was planted.
The idea began to bloom when I told Alex about my plan to surprise Rod with the trip. “We have an apartment in New York,” he said. “I don’t think anyone is using it. You could stay there. However, I should warn you that whatever you save on hotel costs you’ll probably spend on taxies. It is in the upper east side, about two blocks from Central Park.”
I told Rod about the trip at our birthday party, including two Broadway shows, Mama Mia and Chicago. I had to tell him before we left because I had carefully planned out the dates but needed his help with hotel logistics before and after the trip, as well as figuring out what to do with the car while we were gone. We were flying in and out of Mexico City and I was concerned about a safe place to leave the car, potentially with gifts for his family inside. Andrea offered her mother’s garage but her mother lives on one side of town, the hotel is on another and the airport on yet another.
So I asked Rod to call the hotel and ask them if they would keep the car. “We’ve never done that before,” they responded, “How much were you thinking?”
“100 pesos a day,” Rod replied.
“That’s kind of what I was thinking,” the guy responded.
The morning of our departure Rod’s cousin Gus picked us up at the hotel and drove us to the airport. Given that I now have residence status in Mexico, there is a form that I need to complete whenever I leave the country. After wandering the halls and asking multiple uniformed men where to find immigration, I left Rod guarding the luggage and stood in line enduring some electronic alarm that was going off that everyone else seemed able to ignore. 15 minutes later, when my name was called, I was informed that the forms were at the airline check-in counters. (I’d made the process more complicated than necessary.)
After a smooth flight and a little confusion at the empty Delta terminal at JFK, we took a taxi from the airport. Pushing our way past a stack of mail, we squeezed through the doorway of the apartment that we would call home for the next five days. After quickly freshening up we went out to a gay bar called “Splash” where we were served drinks by nearly naked bartenders with gym-perfect bodies.
The next day we met cousin Tommy (not my cousin but the cousin of my friend Bob back in California), who I have known for 20 years, for brunch and a walk in Central Park. Tommy gave us an attack plan and restaurant recommendations, found us some tourist guides that included street, subway and bus maps, and off we went.
The first couple of days were spent primarily as tourists. We were wandering the streets with our map in hand, camera poised, when Rod said, “Is that what I think it is?” We had quite literally stumbled onto “Ground Zero.” It was eerie, and emotional.
We paid our respects and then we walked, and walked and walked, until we couldn’t walk any more. Trinity Church, Wall Street, the World Financial Center and Battery Park. We opted to settle for a distant view of the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island as it was too cold to take the ferry. I hailed a taxi and told the driver, “Macy’s please”. What a zoo. (Remind me to never go shopping in New York the week before Christmas.) But we had done nearly no shopping for Christmas so we had to power through, and continued to do so over the next few days.
One evening we left Bloomingdales in search of FAO Schwartz. When I found a corner free of the masses of shoppers, I looked at the map and determined that we had walked three blocks in the wrong direction. I looked around and spotted a TGIF’s. “Follow me,” I said to Rod.
When we had finished our chicken wings, potato skins and egg rolls, and washed them down with a couple of cocktails, I turned to Rod. “I’m sorry but I just couldn’t go on anymore. But now I’m ready to hit the stores again.”
“That’s ok. I was getting hungry too but I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want you to get hysterical.”
“Not fair. I haven’t gotten hysterical in a long time.”
“That’s because I’m doing a very good job.”
(I hate to admit it, but he is probably right.)
All in all, the shows were great, the food was great, we figured out the subway and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. The apartment was a god-send as we had our home away from home where, when we just couldn’t do anymore, we could sit back with a dry martini.
The biggest surprise was running into one of Rod’s clients, from San Miguel, with her family, at the top of the Empire State building. They had gone to Montreal to ski but there was no snow so they went to New York. Yet another “small world” story.
Rod’s two disappointments; no snow (even though I explained that snow in a big city is only pretty for an hour and then it becomes a mess) and, when we ordered Chinese food in one night, it did not come in the little cardboard boxes. It came in plastic. (He so wanted to eat Chinese out of one of those boxes.) Maybe next year.
It all began one night while watching reruns of “Sex in the City”, when he said, “Honey, do you have any desire to take me to New York?” The seed was planted.
The idea began to bloom when I told Alex about my plan to surprise Rod with the trip. “We have an apartment in New York,” he said. “I don’t think anyone is using it. You could stay there. However, I should warn you that whatever you save on hotel costs you’ll probably spend on taxies. It is in the upper east side, about two blocks from Central Park.”
I told Rod about the trip at our birthday party, including two Broadway shows, Mama Mia and Chicago. I had to tell him before we left because I had carefully planned out the dates but needed his help with hotel logistics before and after the trip, as well as figuring out what to do with the car while we were gone. We were flying in and out of Mexico City and I was concerned about a safe place to leave the car, potentially with gifts for his family inside. Andrea offered her mother’s garage but her mother lives on one side of town, the hotel is on another and the airport on yet another.
So I asked Rod to call the hotel and ask them if they would keep the car. “We’ve never done that before,” they responded, “How much were you thinking?”
“100 pesos a day,” Rod replied.
“That’s kind of what I was thinking,” the guy responded.
The morning of our departure Rod’s cousin Gus picked us up at the hotel and drove us to the airport. Given that I now have residence status in Mexico, there is a form that I need to complete whenever I leave the country. After wandering the halls and asking multiple uniformed men where to find immigration, I left Rod guarding the luggage and stood in line enduring some electronic alarm that was going off that everyone else seemed able to ignore. 15 minutes later, when my name was called, I was informed that the forms were at the airline check-in counters. (I’d made the process more complicated than necessary.)
After a smooth flight and a little confusion at the empty Delta terminal at JFK, we took a taxi from the airport. Pushing our way past a stack of mail, we squeezed through the doorway of the apartment that we would call home for the next five days. After quickly freshening up we went out to a gay bar called “Splash” where we were served drinks by nearly naked bartenders with gym-perfect bodies.
The next day we met cousin Tommy (not my cousin but the cousin of my friend Bob back in California), who I have known for 20 years, for brunch and a walk in Central Park. Tommy gave us an attack plan and restaurant recommendations, found us some tourist guides that included street, subway and bus maps, and off we went.
The first couple of days were spent primarily as tourists. We were wandering the streets with our map in hand, camera poised, when Rod said, “Is that what I think it is?” We had quite literally stumbled onto “Ground Zero.” It was eerie, and emotional.
We paid our respects and then we walked, and walked and walked, until we couldn’t walk any more. Trinity Church, Wall Street, the World Financial Center and Battery Park. We opted to settle for a distant view of the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island as it was too cold to take the ferry. I hailed a taxi and told the driver, “Macy’s please”. What a zoo. (Remind me to never go shopping in New York the week before Christmas.) But we had done nearly no shopping for Christmas so we had to power through, and continued to do so over the next few days.
One evening we left Bloomingdales in search of FAO Schwartz. When I found a corner free of the masses of shoppers, I looked at the map and determined that we had walked three blocks in the wrong direction. I looked around and spotted a TGIF’s. “Follow me,” I said to Rod.
When we had finished our chicken wings, potato skins and egg rolls, and washed them down with a couple of cocktails, I turned to Rod. “I’m sorry but I just couldn’t go on anymore. But now I’m ready to hit the stores again.”
“That’s ok. I was getting hungry too but I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want you to get hysterical.”
“Not fair. I haven’t gotten hysterical in a long time.”
“That’s because I’m doing a very good job.”
(I hate to admit it, but he is probably right.)
All in all, the shows were great, the food was great, we figured out the subway and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. The apartment was a god-send as we had our home away from home where, when we just couldn’t do anymore, we could sit back with a dry martini.
The biggest surprise was running into one of Rod’s clients, from San Miguel, with her family, at the top of the Empire State building. They had gone to Montreal to ski but there was no snow so they went to New York. Yet another “small world” story.
Rod’s two disappointments; no snow (even though I explained that snow in a big city is only pretty for an hour and then it becomes a mess) and, when we ordered Chinese food in one night, it did not come in the little cardboard boxes. It came in plastic. (He so wanted to eat Chinese out of one of those boxes.) Maybe next year.
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