I once had a terrible encounter with a bicycle delivery boy and a taxi on a vacation in NYC. I opened the passengers side of the yellow cab at the exact moment the 'Mo's Burrito's' man was speeding past me on 6th. The two collided, forcing the cyclist into a maneuver that resembled something off the X-games, only, without the graceful landing.
I remember helping him gather up tamales with road rash as he muttered curse words in Spanish under his breath.
Since, I've experienced all sorts of travel snafus, including missed trains in Italy and stolen wallets in Ireland.
So, as I attempt to board the #308 greyhound bus in Albany I'm less than surprised that my passport is in Utah when I am just hours away from the Canadian border.
November 11, 2010
8am: "Not to be a pain, sir, but I really need to get on this bus!"
"I'm sorry lady, but the new Canadian law requires that all persons entering Canada carry proof of citizenship. You have to have your passport."
I'm looking around at the officers decked out in maple insignia and Paul Bunyan attire. I'm annoyed with the prospect that I am a 22 year old blonde, American terrorist trying to loot Canada's maple syrup supply or blow up all the hockey rinks.
I'm more annoyed with myself for forgetting such a travel necessity.
I have two options. I can either stay in Albany and have my passport shipped over night, or, I can attempt to sneak into the cargo hold. The officers are something straight out of "Rockey and Bullwinkle", and obviously less than intelligent, but I doubt they're dumb enough to mistake me for another over sized duffel.
I opt to check into the Holiday Inn next door.
4pm: I walk down Albany's main drag, which is lined with old cathedrals and unmarked brownstones. I read somewhere that Albany was one of the oldest surviving cities from the 13 colonies. It has a sepia toned, New England feel. I pass several elderly people along the way, who all seem to be wandering, just as I am. I'm sure we both share the commonality of no agenda, but it's the perfect day for it. The sun is bright and inspiring. I'm feeling its energy.I see a handmade sign above one of the brownstones that reads, 'Second Hand'.
"Why not?"
I wander inside and become overwhelmed by knick knacks and books that are strewn across desks and stuffed into crevices around the room. I immediately think of my grandmother.
After my grandpa passed, Gram, as we call her, spent hours combing through the treasures at pawn shops and antique stores. At first we were settled by her new thrill, in which she became lost and had little time to grieve. Things turned frustrating when we realized her definition of Antique meant anything with age.
Eventually treasure hunting turned into treasure hoarding, and family members had to step in to avoid the take over of clutter.
This whole place looked like my grandmother's version of Aladdin's cave of wonder.
All I saw was junk.
I think again about grandmas' habit and contemplate her motivation.
Was it really just an obsessive compulsive ritual, or can we find value in every object?
Something is glistening in an old wooden crate. I look inside to find a broken china set and some terracotta pots. I pick up a teacup that is missing its handle and wonder about its previous life. I also wonder, aside from gram, who would invest in such a thing? Although it's unconventionally beautiful, its intrigue can't compensate for it's dysfunctional nature.
'I know some people like this', I think out loud.
It's too bad gram's not here to rescue it from it's unavoidable fate, which is surely the garbage bin.
I run my fingers along the titles of some dust laden books. Encyclopedias, children's fables, and old diaries line the shelf. I come to the end and find a wicker basket filled with old mittens and scarves. I sift through its contents and stumble upon a pair of unworn black leather gloves.
'$3.00', reads a sticker in red ink.
I put them on and it's as if we were meant for each other. They are real leather, and usually expensive, but I know why they are here. My hands are remarkably small, in an almost freakish kind of way. These gloves are fashioned in an adult style but probably don't fit anyone else over the age of 11.
I take them to the checkout and pay with a dollar bill and two Canadian loonies. I'm close enough to the border that the cashier accepts my odd form of payment without hesitance.
I put them on and walk to the restaurant next door where I order prosecco.
"What's the occasion," asks my server.
"I'm stuck in Albany."
"That doesn't sounds like much to celebrate." She says
"Actually," I smile, "It kind of is."
Later as I'm leaving, she tells me she likes my gloves.
November 12, 2010
7am: I arise from the light that's cascading through the big bay window in my room. This is something I'm not used to in the city. The bed is a king size and the room is without sirens and incessant honking. I could lay here forever.
I finally wander down to the lobby where a group of middle school kids on some sort of church excursion hold hands and pray in a circle.
"Our dear and gracious lord....," says a boy with mousy brown hair and a southern drawl. He's no older than 13.
I cringe a little to be trapped in such an intimate situation. I feel uncomfortable, like any minute the boy might say, "And please bless our dear agnostic friend that just entered the lobby. That she might find God and be granted eternal salvation."
To my relief he doesn't. I tip toe toward the front desk and hear them utter "amen" in unison.
I check out and ask the friendly woman behind the counter what there is to do in Albany. I have 3 hours until my bus leaves to Montreal.
"Not much," she says, "if anything at all."
I know from previous experience that this is a lie. Ask anyone who lives in a place what there is to do, and they'll almost always answer, "nothing.". It's a sad flaw in the human nature not to appreciate what's in front of us.
I pry a little more until she mentions the NY state museum being within walking distance.
9am: The building, to my dismay, is larger than 'The Museum of Science and Natural History' in New York City. Unwilling to miss my bus due to exploration, I make the empire state and September 11th exhibits a priority.
I remember my first visit to ground zero in 2007. I remember being angered that not more had been done to memorialize the place that was a graveyard for so many. I remember being disappointed in the lack of emotion the pit of rubble evoked as I gazed upward at large orange cranes.
But, as I reverently enter the 9/11 portion of the museum, the impact of what September 11th actually was encompasses me.
I'm greeted by a television that is fastened to a part of a collapsed tower. On the screen a fireman is retelling his version of the hopelessness. The man makes me cry.
"And then I saw them," he chokes. His words are clouded by emotion and his face blackened with soot.
"They were just specs in the air. At first, I thought it was debris from the building, but as one by one they hit the ground I realized they were not."
The man begins to sob and can no longer continue with the interview.
I move on to a makeshift memorial that was built in Union Square that day. A long string of parchment is littered with the sentiments of NYU students in marker. Wax from half melted candles make it somewhat hard to read, but I'm able to pick out the phrases:
"Love not ideologies,"
"They died for no reason,"
"Always remember this day," and
"We will come back stronger,"
Teddy bears holding dried flowers sit in between sentences, their faces look ragged with grief.
There is a framed letter on the wall from an elementary student to the New York City Fire Department. The first few lines read:
Dear Hero,
I am an American boy in 3rd grade and I want to say thank you for putting yourself in danger. America is freedom for all people and America is happiness..
I feel overcome by patriotism and sympathy. It seems sad that we always take more action out of hate than love. I wish I could hug someone.
6pm: The time change has made what would normally be a calender-esque view of Montreal, lunar. The bright lights reflect off the water and skyscrapers get lost in a layer of smog, illuminating the night.
Sarah, my Canadian friend is waiting for me at the station and as I hug her I recognize the irrelevance of time. I haven't seen her since I left Dublin in June, but we greet each other like no months have passed.
We drive to a restaurant in old Montreal and get lost in the narrow one way streets..
I am intrigued as she asks two old men for directions in French.
"It-tiz dat vay," he points. He knows she also speaks English.
After dinner we walk through the old port and stop for coffee at a small cafe. The streets and buildings are all gray, and I feel like I am in another era or a black and white movie. Our friend Erica will be arriving from Toronto at midnight but I can barely keep my eyes open.I ask the barman to add baileys to my coffee to up my energy level. After all, I'm amongst friends from Ireland.
"You're American," He says,
"You bet," I say proudly.
I wonder if it's the spiked coffee or my obnoxious accent that gave me away.
"I can hear your accent," says Sara
I guess that answers my question.
"Especially when you say "Mooon-tree-yall"
"Hey, I am here out of love from the united states, to see you. Quit making fun of my annoying American accent."
"Sara, Coffee is pretty good, AAYYY?"
"Hey, now you are making fun of my accent! Hypocrite!" she says.
"You bet", I laugh. "Guess were even."
November 13, 2010
As a new found believer in the zodiac, I would describe Jenna as an overly typical Sagittarius. Jenna is optimistic and fun loving, sometimes to the point of frustration. I once asked Jenna on a very bad day, "Is there anything that upsets you?"
"Sure," She responded.
 |
| The Beautiful Jenna |
...Silence....
Jenna couldn't think of anything.
I suppose we could all be a little bit more like Jenna.
We enter a restaurant that is famous for its smoked meat sandwiches,
"A Canadian delicacy!" Jenna calls them.
The sandwiches are gigantic.
"There is a whole cow in between one of those," I remark.
I watch a petite woman try and take a bite, which fails as half of her sandwiches innards fall onto the plate.
We sit at the bar and order three, which all come with pickles, coleslaw and a heaping mound of fries.
"Dig In," says Jenna.
We do, and are already full to the point of exhaustion when our waiter presents us with a free slice of cheesecake out of flirtation.
"Great, I'm going to gain 10 pounds on this trip," I say while taking a bite.
The cheesecake is heavenly.
"Oh, but I'm going to enjoy every minute of it."
 |
| Sara and I, B Side |
The Bartender speaks no English and I'm finding it difficult to order a drink.
"Do you have any American beers?"
"Huh?"
"A-Mer-I-Can Beeeer,"
I feel like saying it slower might help translation.
"Oui!," says the bartender, seeming excited to have finally caught on,
She hands me a Heineken. I frown, then suppose I like Heineken as well as anything and give her six dollars.
"Merci."
 |
| Me Enjoying Poutine |
Poutine is french fries covered in cheese curds and topped with gravy. Another "Canadian Delecacy".
Fries, gravy and cheese can't hurt my ten pound goal. I take a bite. Not bad.
Were driving home and I see a man with steel cutters snip a bike chain and pedal away.
"That guy just totally stole that bike!" I exclaim
"Really? You're kidding?" Says sara
"No, I'm dead serious. See him there?!"
"Oh wow, he looks like a bike thief doesn't he?", Jenna observes, "After all it's 30 degrees and he's wearing a du-rag and a shorts."
I become infuriated with people's ability to be so selfish, and feel obligated to reprimand him,... plus I just had four American beers, AKA, Heinekens. I feel courageous.
"Roll down my window", I shout to Sara
"Sir, sir, that is not your bike! You stole that bike!" I yell at him in my most upset tone.
The man looks at me, smiles and sticks out his tongue, pedaling away at a speed unknown to Lance Armstrong.
My attempt at law enforcement has failed.
 |
| Erika and I |
"Jesus, Jessica, you really told him off."
November 14th, 2010
4pm:
Our minds are constantly wandering to the past or future. Generally, it's hard for human beings to exist in the present moment. But, every once in a while something comes along that awakens us and brings us to realization. It is then that were unable to be anywhere but where we actually are. We see our life and the world as it is. We become at peace.
It's dusk and I'm looking over the water into the sky. The sunset is like a Thomas Kinkade painting my parents have in their basement. The colors are too vibrant to be real, yet they are staring me in the eye.I take picture after picture, but none capture the scene before me.
I am amongst beautiful people who keep me whole.
A Native American by heritage, my Indian tribe, Choctaw, has a word for this feeling: Aiyukpa.
It means a place of happiness.
I know that I have found this place in friendship and on this earth. I vow to never forget that it exists, and to take it with me on the bus ride home.
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