Thursday, March 14, 2013:
Coffee, a bagel and cream cheese...and a little too close for comfort
The heated bridge over the tracks was packed with neighbors this morning. I snuggled in next to three chirpy ladybirds regaling their affairs. "We went to Gibson's. Uhhh! It’s a steakhouse. It was fabulous!"
Eager to get the inside scoop on where to grub in my new hood, I leaned in a little closer. Alas, at that moment the train appeared around the bend and everyone began their ascent to the platform.
I later googled Gibson’s and discovered that it is actually not local. According to The New York Times, “Gibsons Bar & Steakhouse is your best bet for steak in Chicago. The namesake martinis are served in 10-ounce glasses, and the entrees are outlandishly scaled, from the six-piece shrimp cocktail so huge you swore you downed a dozen, to the turtle pie that comes with a steak knife (and could easily serve eight people).”
I think my antennae into others’ lives were stretching this morning, because, personally, I was yearning for some comfort, complacency and routine of my own. When I left the house it was 7:20 and 29 fricken degrees outside. Although my body was fairly warm, my head was cold. Somewhere in those dozens of boxes at home there are half a dozen shore man’s caps and the combs I would like to have used this morning.
Being fresh off the boat up the Hudson from Manhattan, a lot of what I took for granted is stowed away under packing tape and cardboard. Also, we’re keeping our apartment atop Museum Mile and at the north end of Central Park, which is why we left half of our creature comforts behind—almost all the furniture, a lot of appliances and all the dishware, half of my suits and a scattering of toiletries.
And although we have this huge house now, over time you take all the organization and adjustments one makes creating a home over years for granted. At least, until you have to move.
Now, although our bathroom is twice as big, I have nowhere to put my towel. We have six wet towels to hang, but just one rack for them at this moment.
Thus, we are going about hurriedly homemaking again. Although we started looking a couple of months ago, major purchases were on hold until we had our final closing date confirmed because there was really no place to store things. Thus, our search for seven bedroom sets, a dining table and parlor furniture began in earnest just two weekends ago.
We’re primarily relying on Craigslist and have discovered that what may go within the hour of posting in New York City may remain available in Hudson Valley for weeks, if not months. We also found that the sellers of the best buys tend to be newly single (i.e. divorced or divorcing), sad and have pets to keep them company, which means they haven't cleaned in a while and whatever you acquire from them will likely require some Swiffer-cleaning to remove all the dust, dander and cat or dog hair.
In fact, there are many great finds to be had on CLHV. The only problem is getting these goods once you've agreed on the price. If you’re buying nice solid wood furniture, as we have been doing, you’ll need a helping hand, tools for dissembling, a truck to pick up and transport, and that special gene that allows you to confidently drive big trucks across mountain sides.
I don’t have that gene, but I had to drive a 15 foot U-Haul to and fro over Bear Mountain Bridge Road (Route 6 / 202) from Peekskill to the bridge and into Central Valley with two of my sons nonchalantly chatting away in the passenger seats. I did my best to hide my anxiety, hold my breath and tightly grip the steering wheel as we skirted along the cliffs for six miles upon our return, surely adding some grey hair as a result.
I told my wife that I really didn’t want to have to do that anymore and that we’ll have to either have to buy new furniture and have it delivered, or somehow find a way to fit it in our Ford Flex. We are likely going to do the former.
Thus, after a very long week of moving and harrowing treks over the mountaintop I was happy to have a seat on the train into the city this morning. At least until someone decided to take the seat directly in front of me.
When I first got on the train, I not only tried to find a seat with some space, but also chose one facing south. All of the two-seaters in the cabin were facing north, the opposite direction in which the train was headed. Hence, I chose a four-seater, that is, two two-person seats that face each other.
This was my first mistake and subsequent commuting lesson—don't sit in the seats with four seats because inevitably some random guy will want to sit directly in front of you, so that your knees will have to delicately sit between his knees and as the train gently rumbles and sways, your knees will likely bristle against the inside of his thighs. It was an awkward position to be in, to say the least.
Furthermore, you'll also have to inhale the wafts of his coffee and cream cheese bagel, as the crumbs fall to your suit pants. Much like the ride over Bear Mountain, I held my breath, bit my tongue, and tightly pressed my knees together until we arrived at our final destination.
Oddly enough, although my former commute on the city subway was often far more crowded, and at rush hour you were inevitably squeezed against someone if you didn’t have a seat, somehow we made it work and there was little emotional discomfort, apart from the normal angst and frustration stoked by city life.
That all said, there are always exceptions. Earlier this week, on my way home to the apartment I was lucky enough to be entertained by two strangers who decided to publicly express their pent up working-class anger. You could tell that everyone around them was waiting for fists to start flying. Ugh.
One of them was a tall Irishman and the other was short and stout Puerto Rican woman—their ethnicities are just guesses based on twenty years of living in Nuyorican City; certainly the man could have been a Scot or Welsh and the woman Dominican or Mexican or a Latina with family in any one of twenty Spanish-speaking countries, but I doubt it. Either way, they argued, making scathing remarks and subtle threats for about three stops, until it got so silly they were both laughing as Sean Connery disembarked. Someone commented out loud, “It looks like you two are best friends now.”
Oh, how I will miss the rustic entertainment of observing city folk. Alas, I don’t’ anticipate that I will ever encounter such situations during my morning commute to the suburbs now.
For the second day in a row, during the entire hour, all I heard were sniffles. Literally, once the train left the station, not a word was uttered otherwise.
Last night, I was lucky to take a bus ride with my friend Fernando from Port Authority to Bloomfield NJ and he remarked, “It must be nice to ride along the river.” I agreed, but added that this privilege is soon overlooked. In addition to the silence, no one ever looks up or out the window during the commute. For once you've awed at the gorgeous landscape offered by the Hudson, it becomes the same grey river parting purple mountains majesties every morning.
The problem is that these people got mortgages and kids sports schedules and all the work that awaits at the office on their mind. A glimmer of hope lies in the thought that some of these privileged-yet-poor souls will lose their blackberries and iPhones against the camouflage of their dark leather couches for a few hours on Sunday morning, so that they may once again appreciate the view of the river flowing outside their window, while sipping coffee. I know I will.
On the brighter side of things, since I did vow yesterday to keep these postings positive, I’m sharing what I saw upon looking up from 42nd Street in front of Grand Central…The concrete jungle has always inspired its own majesty for me, just as much as the mountains of Hudson Valley will now surely inspire for years to come.
Lorenzo
The Peekskill Commuter
And, p.s., as promised, I also filled my fruit bowl.
The majestic view upon exiting Grand Central
As promised, a fruit bowl fulfilled...
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