Number 93
August 26, 2011
Over the last Fourth, we took both kids on their first vacation together. Hello, New York.
Before we met, Margaret had lived in New York City for several years. New York, it seems, gets into your blood and leaves a bug that either poisons you or requires periodic feedings. If you’ve never lived there, you don’t get it and probably never will. I accept this.
However, a vacation with young kids isn’t a vacation. Vacation strategy is all about island hopping between family-friendly environments. Doesn’t sound like New York at all.
But Owen was old enough to maybe remember some of it. The trip was on her frequent flyer miles, we had a nice place to stay, and we’d get a chance to visit my brothers upstate, too. Time to gear up, Dad.
Our first daytrip into Manhattan carried us on the Metro North to Grand Central Station. Fellow riders had kindly given us a set of facing seats, which we blocked with the stroller to make an effective kiddie corral.
From deep in the hot tunnels where the Metro Trains arrive, we climbed the ramp to reach the brilliant tile floors of Grand Central Station. Forward I pushed the family Winnebago loaded with precious freight into the main lobby where the bright, churchly windows welcomed us to Midtown.
We connected to the cross-town shuttle to the station closest to Central Park, and into the hot day we rolled. During our trip, the temperature never dropped below 90 degrees. The heat and the East Coast humidity took a toll, on this California-born daddy in particular. The kids in the stroller were mostly shielded from the sunshine, but they started to twitch and crab under the onslaught. There’s another reason, I thought, that City people raise their kids in New Jersey.
In Central Park, Owen and I managed to play on the big rock, with me scrambling to make sure the little guy didn’t take a jostle and a tumble. While Kiki had a stroller snooze, we ventured over to the carousel and later wandered up into the Seventies for food. After lunch, my back had begun to bite. The children were wailing. It was time to go.
And Margaret was now 20 feet ahead of us. She seemed to be scanning the streets and shops for the old New York, a place lost among her single years. Sorry, honey: you’re married with kids now, and most of your New York grad school pals have moved on. Even your edgy neighborhood has gentrified.
“Next time, can I just go by myself?” she asked.
To myself, I computed the challenge of taking care of the kids by myself at home versus having to struggle along through simmering streets and bustling crowds with an overloaded stroller. Home wins. “If you’re really, really good,” I said.
The following day, coming around the tip of the island, I will never forget our first glimpse of Lady Liberty’s face. Among the crowd gathered on the starboard side of the boat, I was struck by how dark America had become, how much my kinda-brown family had become New York. Reflected in all these faces, America the Beautiful still is.
Nor apparently will our youngest forget, as she continues to find the “Statue of Ruby” wherever she looks.
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