Yesterday was a day of anxiety for me. I always feel on edge when I am about to go on a trip. There is anticipation, but also nerves as my brain goes through all the worst case scenarios incessantly. Everything always seems to work out so I need to learn how to stop torturing myself. I was up early, made sure the garbage was put out, laid out my meds, had muffins and tea and sat on the porch knitting while I waited for Gila to drive me to the airport.
My record for giving the wrong directions is intact. I misinterpreted the airplane sign and instructed Gila to drive by the airport turn off. I don't know why she still listens to me! As we sat is a parking lot waiting for the GPS to set us on the right course, I got a text message from Air Canada. My flight had been cancelled and I was rebooked on a flight one hour later. The message was annoying, but as I already had added being late getting to the airport as one of my anxieties, there was now some relief that I had more time. For what? To wait and recycle through my anxieties of course.
Terminal 1 is overwhelming. As I usually fly Westjet, I have become used to the inefficiencies of Terminal 3. This terminal was like culture shock for me. Huge numbers and letters hanging everywhere, long lineups snaking around and through mazes, carts full of baggage, children whining, people rushing in every direction. My boarding pass was no longer valid and not seeing anyone to ask about where to go, I joined what seemed the shortest line, emphasis on seemed. When I finally reached the counter, I was told to join yet another line. Fortunately, at this point, an Air Canada employee started to cull single passengers out of the line and brought us around the corner where the attendants had nothing to do. Why was my flight cancelled? Too many planes arriving at LaGuardia at the same time.
The flight was packed. Many of the people on my flight were on this plane as well. Boarding started at departure time and I was certain that we would be later still, but I was amazed at how fast the plane was filled. We even arrived five minutes early. The deboarding was just as efficient. Seated at the back of the plane, I thought it would take at least half an hour to get into the terminal, but within a few minutes, I was outside at the passenger pick up spot.
I think you have to be crazy to drive a car in New York. The traffic around the airport was dizzying and the highway just beyond was bumper to bumper creep and crawl.
My ride arrived, but he was totally stressed out. The car had been overheating and he was not sure if he could drive it into Brooklyn. Our first stop was a gas station. There was no oil in the car. We both hoped that oil would make the car happier, but we were wrong. After just a few minutes on the expressway, the car was redlining it again. We pulled off at the first exit to try a non highway method of getting to the apartment. In the meantime, the car was turned off at every red light in the hopes that we could reach our destination without blowing up the engine.
Our new route was through Williamsburg, one of the orthodox enclaves in the city. It was getting late and I hadn't had anything to eat since that early morning muffin. I suggested parking to let the car cool down and taking a walk. I was curious about this part of the city. It was hot, in the thirties before the humidex was considered. My shirt was sopping wet and sweat was streaming down my face and yet everyone we passed was totally clothed from head to foot. There is a uniform or dress code. Working men were dressed in summer short sleeves and slacks, but the Chasidim looked like they had just stepped out of seventeenth century Poland, wide brimmed black hats, long payes, most of them bearded, a black shiny belted coat, black stockings at least as high as the coat and black shoes. The women for the most part were very young, barely out of their teens, pushing strollers with a little clutch of children following close beside or behind. They were all immaculately dressed in dark pleated skirts, long sleeved blouses buttoned right up to the neck, stockings and shoes. The ensemble was topped with a hat that reminded me of Waldo's hat in Where's Waldo. The colours varied, but the style did not. Children had their own uniforms. The boys' heads under the kipot were almost shaven, but long curly payes hung beside their ears. No shorts, but short sleeves were allowed. The children all came in multiples. Each boy was dressed identically to his brothers. The girls in each family were also identically dressed in long sleeved dresses, tights, and black patent leather shoes. the crowning touch was a big bright bow tied in their hair. As I perspires endlessly, I wondered if these people had built in cooling systems in their clothing.
The park was gated and locked. We tried to get in to sit in the shade to have a bite to eat, but we couldn't find an open gate, although the park was full od children and mothers. Perhaps the proper attire, would have been the open sesame for the gates.
Yiddish was everywhere, in the signs, in the music in shops and on the horsey rides and on the lips of everyone in the street. I suddenly lost my facility in English and began babbling in Yiddish too. The shops were more like bodegas and the entire area looked like Kensington when it was home to the post war Jewish migration.We found a bagel shop. I ordered for both of us, in Yiddish of course, and wandered off to find a bench.
As I said, we couldn't gain entry to the park, but we found a bench and watched the parade stroll by. No one seemed to rush. The dog, quiet and well behaved lay at our feet taking in the sights as well. This dog is anything but intimidating. She does not bark. She does not jump on anyone. She is laid back and calm and yet each child was terrified at the sight of the dog. He or she would give the dog a wide berth clinging to the accompanying adult. More than once I heard a frightened little voice say ' ich hob moireh' (I am afraid) I found that sad.
By now, we hoped that the car had cooled down enough to get to the apartment but that was not to be. We continued to turn off the engine at red lights and pulled over several times as well waiting for the gauge the leave the red zone. After three hours, we finally made it close to the apartment, found a parking spot and with relief walked the few blocks to the apartment. I had missed the check in time for my room by hours and my host was not going to be back for another few hours.
Rather than waiting in the apartment, I was invited to join a 'meditation' class run by a drama coach. It was in the Soho area of Manhattan. I really missed the thread of the session at first because I was so dazzled by the living space. This was a huge open loft, with exposed brick walls and beamed wooden ceilings.The owner was a plastic surgeon/ sculptor. His work was on display everywhere you looked. The furnishings were eclectic, a brass chandelier hanging in the centre of the living room, comfortable overstuffed and cushioned sofas and leather chairs set in a conversational circle, a glass walled room with an old refinished piano, an open kitchen finished with the warmth of brick and oak. Beyond, in a more conventional set up were the bathroom and bedrooms. I would have loved to take pictures, but as a guest, I felt it was inappropriate. I was also more than willing to spend the rest of my visit in that space or better yet spend the rest of my life in that space. It's comforting to have new fantasies.
The session itself was existential and the shortest way to try to explain the direction of the flow is to imagine a dog chasing its tail. Is the thinker the same as the thought?The thought is a wave but when you focus on it, it becomes a particle that you can't see. You get the drift. Why is there a need to be driven, goal oriented? Why not just be? If you put a name to enlightenment it is no longer enlightenment. I thought that I would get impatient with the session, but it really held my interest probably because of the moderator. He was very skillful at making you turn the lens on yourself. There was a very safe warm energy to it all.
When the session ended, I was eager to meet my host and get settled into my room. I am directly across the street from my son. I don't know how big the apartment is but in the morning, one person after another came into the living room where I was sitting to introduce himself. Final count, excluding me was four plus two dogs. Ther is also a concrete backyard the size of a postage stamp. The host is very proud of it as this is a special feature in New York. I found it sad that three square yards of concrete is a special amenity. I know that dinner was being prepared but by that time, I was just too tired to eat and it was too late to get stimulated.
There were so many points at which I could have lost it, the cancelled flight, the heat and humidity, the malfunctioning car, the wait to get to my room, the meditative session that seemed to go in circles. I don't really understand why I stayed so calm (for me), but rather than questioning it, I am hoping that this is a new pattern.
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