The Big Apple. I went there. So many things to share.
The best thing about New York is its maneuverability. Cars are unnecessary. Not like in Los Angeles, where a person has to get on some sort of highway (they call them by the numbers, like “take the 405,” which is completely confusing, because they aren’t in any sort of order to begin with) and fight gridlock for hours in order to go somewhere. In NYC, the streets are numbered (well, most of them, anyway), and they make sense. For instance, if you are going to 34th Street, and the street you come to is 35th, you know you are walking in the wrong direction.
I walked to the Main Library. You know, the one with the lions. Unfortunately, the lions were enclosed by huge wooden boxes, but I knew they were in there. I walked back home. 40 blocks. No sweat.
I walked to meet my friend for dinner. Just followed the numbered streets. Actually, Google maps provides walking directions, so that helped immensely. We ate delicious New York food, and then I walked back to my apartment. Easy peasy.
I saw New York dogs, who all looked slightly neurotic to me, New York brownstones, one of which I stayed in. The one above is a prime example. However, it was not the one I stayed in. The one I was in was a bit more low budget, but you get my drift. Brownstones are the bomb. The New York deli: some are dumps, but if you hit it right, the matzo ball soup is so good it is beyond describing.
There was the 911 museum, which made me very emotional. No one visiting there made a sound. It was eerie–but a beautiful remembrance to the victims and the responders. The Chelsea Market was so much fun; I wished I hadn’t had a cheese sandwich in the apartment before I went there, because the food in all the little restaurants looked delish. Fishs Eddy. My favorite store. I got New York tea towels. One can’t have enough New York tea towels. Even if you don’t like tea that much.
Then, it happened. I like a neat abode, even when it is owned by an anonymous Airbnb host. So I made my bed every day. On Monday, five days before I was due to leave town, I stubbed my toes resoundingly on the leg of the bed, which was obscured by the bedskirt. I heard an actual CRACK as it happened.
I looked down, and sure enough, the swelling had commenced. The pain searing through my foot, up my calf, and turning my stomach confirmed that I had most certainly broken a toe.
I had a writers’ luncheon to attend. Fiona Davis, Wendy Walker, Elyssa Friedland, and other famous authors were going to be there. Damn it, I had to go. So I limped into a cab and went. However, I had forgotten that this was the very day that Greta Thunberg was addressing the UN and shaming Donald Trump. After an hour in the cab, it was evident that I wouldn’t make the luncheon. So I got out and walked the rest of the way. To put it mildly, it was pure agony.
I went straight from the luncheon to an emergency clinic, spent four hours in the waiting room and five actual minutes with a doctor, who determined that I had broken not one, but two toes. The word “acute” was the only one he used that I understood.
I had to leave NYC early, because standing and walking had become nearly impossible, even in the stylish ten pound boot that the doctor’s office provided. The saga of getting through security at the airport is for another blog post. But I am home again in Dayton, where icing and propping are the order of the day.
But, damn it, I got my bite out of the Big Apple.