Sunday in Manhattan titles my 3rd day on US soil after 9 months out of the country in Peace Corps Guatemala. Monday is my 4th day and on the 4th of July (Tuesday), I leave. When a trip of this emotional and impactful stature is so short, it’s hard to rely on any feeling but what’s happening in the moment. And that’s what I did. I tried to be present and aprovechar whatever called out to me the most. Quick visits are sometimes the best that way, when the stakes are high and the time frame brief, as you don’t have any down time to think, worry or argue.

But Sunday morning sounded like a fledgling marching band in the way of logistics, my family had to rally and coordinate our departure from our no-frills but no complaints (except for one giant complaint which I will definitely get into) Vacation Rental By Owner and cross under the Hudson (is it the Hudson?) to our Groupon hotel in Times’ Square. Each member of the family had a different priority and different warm-up methods, waking from post-wedding slumber, so none of us were going anywhere fast. This nearly eclipsed the chance for a matinee show which were top priorities for my sister and I. Eventually we separated in our clumps and managed to check out of our VRBO that never got internet. We couldn’t find the second key, couldn’t get my sister on the phone in case she had it, I couldn’t use my phone because there was no internet, not to make a call, text, not anything except Notes, Camera and Solitaire. I couldn’t stuff my precious return goods in my bag and I was thinking about Broadway and my mom was thinking about checking-out. The key was in my dumb bag, after all. It was a mini-relajo and, for me, ended in tears.

We had to take the trash out, which is another convenience of a hotel over a VRBO, but anyway we found the trash closet and subjected ourselves to the New Jersey heat. We made it to Manhattan on the subway with two rolling suitcases, one of which must have weighed a baby elephant, a garment bag, and my two bags strapped over my shoulders. Who was the lightest packer? The one who came from another country, not another state. After a very frustrating traslado, we stepped out into the sunshine beaming down on Times’ Square. I begged my dad to consider a cab to take us to the hotel. Probably the best $10 we could have spent.

But, a moment first to reflect on my mini-meltdown in the VRBO: what brought on the layered fray of emotion that led to frustration and tears? Was my emotion inspired by my request list not being executed to the letter which I had requested, forgoing my one shot to get everything from home? Or maybe while my cousins with law degrees and formidable professional futures get married, I’m floating on my parents’ dime before I go back to a pueblo and live without a fridge and dodge cakes of donkey poop on the road? Or maybe it’s the underlying absence of my grandmother Nana and the still new presence of my Brother-In-Law, as much as I enjoy him? Or maybe I’m upset because traveling is frustrating and nobody seems to take into consideration that I jet-setted 50 years into the future and over country borders to attend this wedding and they traveled a non-stop breeze on Southwest? And all of this after 4 full days to go back in time to refried beans and donkey poop, back to so much time left in this process called “Peace Corps.”

And while I was going back to a developing country with fewer things than my mother brought in her suitcase, we made it to the Manhattan Times’ Square Hotel and left our bags with the kind bellman (which I recall is botones in Spanish- buttons- not that I ever have reason to encounter Buttons in my pueblo).

And after our bags were left with the bellman, I hit the gridded, crowded pre-holiday humid streets and stood in line for a show, Dear Evan Hansen, which is the latest and greatest of coveted toast on Broadway. It does not generate Hamilton hype but a ticket is just as inalcanzable. I think I stood in line to feel closer, not just closer to getting to see the coveted show but closer to my own dream of being a Broadway actress, both equally farfetched at the particular moment in time that I stood under the aggressive sunlight behind 11 other hopefuls on the corner of 45th and 8th to see if a ticket-holder would call to cancel. But standing in line for 20 minutes felt like the right thing to do, no matter that it was 20 minutes wasted, it was medicinal to my soul to know that I was choosing vulnerability and proclaiming it in the form of standing in a hopeless line. I was professing my desire for something I wouldn’t get, but at least I was professing it.

A married couple took the spot behind me as we stared up at the Music Box Theatre marquis. They were odd in the sense that they both enjoyed Broadway. It’s hard to find a heteronormative couple that appreciates Broadway equally. It’s hard to find people who are interested in Broadway at all, really. US Football is far more popular I’d bet. My dad tolerates the shows, but it doesn’t set a fire in his soul like it does to me and my sister. It’s a rush, literally, to stand in SRO lines (Standing Room Only) to cancellation lines, to lottery drawings or seek out day-of standby tickets with partial-visibility seating still available behind the glass-encased Box Offices. There are a lot of ways to make Broadway affordable but it calls for a dance with risk, the race against the clock to make the most of the finite time you have in the legendary city. (By the way the body of water between Jersey City and Manhattan is The Hudson River confirmed by Google maps).

And just a feather for your city cap: TKTS is the winding snake line that clogs up Times’ Square like a big ole blob of poop for other ticket-seekers. It is an option for discount Broadway tickets, but TKTS only has contracts with certain shows and they’re usually the ones who aren’t selling much, so in the case of Dear Evan Hansen, my only option was to stand in the cancellation line at Music Box Theatre, feverish yet certain of it’s futility.

And our uncertain circumstance invited conversation, me with this married couple, and it came to light that we were in line for very different reasons. These two 50-somethings were in line because the show is sold-out through September, I was in line because I get paid in the quetzal. In other words, they couldn’t buy the tickets because no tickets were available and I couldn’t buy them because I don’t have that kind of money. My excited nerves toppled from my mouth: “I hope I can get in to see something if this line doesn’t budge.” She asked me a few questions: “Have you seen…?” and led me through a diagnostic to narrow down what other choices I might have. After a few questions, she pulled out her phone, complete with phone service (myself on the other side of that fence) and pulled up the showings and times. “John, we can see Anastasia” she mentioned to her husband, fabricating her plan B. He looked back at her through a wrinkled brow over his glasses: “I don’t want to see that” (confirmation that he is in fact a straight man).

And we stood in suspense she tried to help me settle my own conundrum: “Bandstand?” I shrugged. “Groundhog Day was surprisingly good” she shared to my tepid response, “Cats” a cold chill ran through me… but she soldiered on. I appreciated her, we cancellation-liners gotta stick together. She told me about their annual trip to New York to see 8 shows in 7 days. They’ve probably paid full-price for several of their tickets which is like paying for front-row seats to March Madness. I don’t know, it’s crazy-expensive is my point. If you can afford to see the traveling show of The Lion King in Birmingham, multiply the cost by 4 or 5.

And at this point, I can’t conceal my distress anymore and the wide berth between our circumstances: “Broadway is for rich people” I said with a lugubrious slump of my shoulders. The husband smiled, uncomfortably. “YOU’RE RICH. I’M A PEACE CORPS VOLUNTEER” I shouted without saying anything. Not to mention that my Guatemalan host mom wouldn’t know a Broadway theatre if it plucked her up and plopped her in her front row. No wonder she and my host sister like to sit and watch the repetitive holiday dances in the plaza, complete with men in shiny sequined jackets and boas. I get so bored, massively unstimulated, by this foreign celebration. My host family is happy to sit and watch other people partner dance in the dark for two hours. (We’re talking about rehearsed partner dancing, this is just normal dancing). Maybe I should have added to this Broadway couple: “I eat tortillas and beans for dinner, I haven’t eaten real ice cream in 8 months and I have to BURN MY USED TOILET PAPER for sanitation.”

I snapped out of my self-appointed pity party as my anonymous friend with some prescient ability suggested: “Waitress. That’s what you should go see.” And somehow, I knew she was right. That’s what I should go see. In Guatemala, I walk from my house to work, passing folks and greeting them between the cords playing through my headphones of Sara Bareilles’ soundtrack to Waitress: When He Sees Me and She Used to Be Mine. I sing the words aloud and folks on the street hear me singing and hear only gibberish while all I can feel is the power in the lyric and beauty in the full expression of the song. I put myself on the stage, lights hot and the crowd a sea of faces, resting my arm on a prop as I propel myself into the emotion of the song sending all the expression in my face, my shoulders, my hands, as I give it all I’ve got. And all I feel deep down buried between my ribs and network of cells is the desire to perform, the urge to be known for my acting, for putting myself in someone else’s shoes and playing the role with the weight it calls for.

I can empathize with characters but it’s harder for me to empathize with other people who are heartsick over their dreams, surely everyone has dreams deferred that are just as painful to let go of as mine. I think of a Proverb I learned when I was a ‘tween: “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” Being closer to this dream in the network of New York City streets makes me dizzy with nervous happiness to be so close to that dream and sick because I feel further from them still.

I bid the couple adieu and scurried to the Brooks Atkinson Theatre in full soccer mom stride to put my fate in the hands of those who work the box offices of New York City. They are the gatekeepers to my passion and my desire: a reasonable ticket to Waitress. And even though it’s late in the day, the box office guy looks at his computer and pauses, then says: “Yes.” A rush of joy and relief floods my face. “I have a standby seat for $60.” Sold. It was a rush to seal that ticket, slide my card under the glass partition, hear the ticket print off and grip a slim envelope in my hands holding one ticket with it’s receipt. I slip it in a special spot inside my bag because nothing has been more crucial than the safekeeping of this ticket as I pull the heavy door of the box office and am spit back onto the street feeling like a Broadway boss.

I see the delightful show and, naturally, my eyes tear up at the end even though I wasn’t wowed by Betsy Wolfe’s performance (she’s just, not, Jessie Mueller who originated the role and whose voice I blast through my headphones). But the soundtrack was so sweet, the story so precious and a little kid appears at the end. Kids in Broadway shows kill me every time. And I shuffled out of the small theatre like every other patron, having paid much less then them.

Before I could bat an eyelash, I had a standing-room only ticket for The Book of Mormon starting in 3 hours. It’s the only time I’ve seen two shows in one day. I stood throughout the show, enjoying every minute, even though the comedy style isn’t my sense of humor. I loved watching Brad Sears’ performance and the fact that he gave it his all on a Sunday matinee. Hours after the show, I saw members of the cast leaving a restaurant just across from the Eugene O’Neill. I stared at them… they’re human. The main girl must be wearing a wig in the show because her hair looked totally different.

I called my family and they had just eaten dinner and gotten back to the hotel, but my dad met up with me anyway. We happened upon a gorgeous, classic Italian restaurant we’d never seen before called Carmine’s. As we walked inside I eyed meatballs the size of my fist and went weak at the knees, being passed by floating ceramic plates decorated with delicious carbs ensuring that only New York City can look Mr. Atkins squarely in the face and say: “Yes. And I’m worth every carb.” There was no question in my mind that those meatballs belonged in my mouth, no matter how high the prices or wait time. I ensured my wallet-conscious dad that it was on me as we found seats at the bar.

A young lady named Melissa approached in native Bronx character: “What can I get you tonight?” And my dad’s sincere list of questions started while she withstood them. “So we can’t buy a smaller plate?” “No it’s family style..” “So we can’t just get a side item.” “Everything comes in the large portions and is meant for families to share.” And my dad winces in the way only my dad can to a waiter. She unapologetically gives us more time to look over the menu. I say: “Dad, those meatballs looks so good. Are you sure we can’t split them and bring the rest to the fam?” Eventually I order and he looks around, I sense his reservation: “I just wish we would have known about this place sooner… We would have brought everybody here” which he repeats before, during and after our meal. I excitedly pose next to the meatballs as my dad’s eyes widen to the size of these suckers. I’m going to enjoy this meal, as I emphasize that I haven’t eaten a meatball in 9 months. I must have them.

In retrospect, after a tumultuous day of transit, chance and gratification: I don’t feel bad about my life. Burning my own toilet paper and treading down 5th Avenue in the same week is a privilege on both sides. I can live without a refrigerator, hand-wash heavy blankets hunched over the pila and heave them over the lasso to dry under the Guatemalan sun. I chose this. I feel just as comfortable in a way as I do in my carpeted, air-conditioned home in Atlanta. My parents’ house is complete with microwave(s), fridge(s), 3 complete indoor bathrooms equipped to flush toilet paper and a washing machine that beeps a ditty when the load is complete. Did I mention the ability to control the temperature? I hadn’t realized before that my parents’ house is opulent.

I can choose Peace Corps and not feel sorry for myself (at least, most of the time because there are days believe me), but in that cancellation line I felt different. But I didn’t know how much it affected me until I was in transit to my site. More on that to come.

I went to sleep with two new shows under my belt and meatballs in my belly in Times’ Square staying with my beloved parents, feeling happy, healthy, and full. And tomorrow, to wave goodbye to it all.