On Monday July 3 I woke up in a hotel on the corner of 7th and 51st, Midtown Manhattan.

My sister and brother-in-law had already found a place for breakfast/lunch (we slept in!).

As we rallied, Mom and I, my Dad got antsy but endured my slow pace. I wasn’t in a hurry to leave, to move, to think or breath in any other country in any other city in any other space than the modest square of this hotel room. I just wanted to be a permanent fixture in New York, an explorer. I was about to load myself up with my 2 carry-on bags when I saw the reminder pop up on my phone, check-in for my flight. Seeing as wi-fi was of the essence, I had to stop right then and check-in. I don’t get anxious over traveling, but the stakes felt higher for some reason- more logistics to be rearranged if I miss it and money I didn’t have.

But mostly I was anxious about leaving. I wanted it like I want dengue fever. I tried to put myself in the plane to customs to Carlos’ taxi to the Peace Corps office to the dentist office to Santa Clara to the classroom of teenagers, to soften the blow. But I might as well have imagined myself in a band of gypsies, both worlds away and equally foreign.

We checked our bags with the bellman downstairs and caught up with the newlyweds (My sister and BIL) in some hipster restaurant. TBH I did not like the food because it was far too pretentious, I ordered some overpriced tuna bean sprout salad. Of course I didn’t complain, I wasn’t even paying. I think that it was our last meal together, quick and dirty, logistics on every mind. And shortly after we ate, I palmed my main squeeze (Dunkin’ Donuts Iced Caramel Macchiato) and they left for the airport.

I’ve had this very experience before, kissing my family goodbye and just having a few days to myself with the city, I think it was a trip in 2012. But this time it was more dramatic because I was saying goodbye to them until perhaps Christmas and with only 18 hours left with New York and my country. I texted my friend in Brooklyn, checking in about logistics. I wandered around the streets, navigationless, looking for the bright lights of venues that interested me. Do you have showtimes today? Are there standing room or partial view tickets? Ok, thank you. Patti Lupone and Christine Ebersole in Warpaint, A Bronx Tale (it’s Robert DeNiro!) err… Aladdin, Hello Dolly with Bette? Not really nudged one way or the other.

I wandered a few blocks north of Times’ Square and was reminded how the city drastically changes once you’re out from the nuca of Times’ Square. No bright lights, just tall brownstones, signs for happy hour and rows of rainbow shops that say you’re in Hells Kitchen and me with time to roam and let the quiet city ebb into my vertebrae.

As I wandered the streets of Upper Midtown, north of Times’ Square, I felt a little like I was in a hospital waiting room only with New York City as a moving backdrop. My mind took me to 2011 when I was in this same neighborhood. It makes me sad; I took that trip to escape from my stiflingly un-stimulating desk job, I didn’t have a ton of cash but I sipped streetside coffees, perused bookshops and even listlessly wandered the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was the poor ladies’ take on NYC. I noticed Nizza, the Italian eatery my friend Laura recommended to me, and thought of her shotgun apartment on the 5th floor of a brownstone with no elevator. Her bedroom had just enough room for her bed, the true definition. I remember seeing Peter and the Starcatcher and absolutely loving the ingenuity and the athleticism of the performers. I just remember that they somehow made flying birds out of plastic, yellow scrubbing gloves on the edges of their hands. That’s what I was doing, I didn’t have a big budget but I was making my own birds out of scrubbing gloves too.

I haven’t seen Katrina in three years, not since another visit in New York in 2011, and she was kind enough to let me crash with her. I was relieved because the airport is close to their house, and I planned to use über the next morning. All logistics seemed to iron out, but the looming question remained: what would I do with my night? Kat wasn’t able to join but she encouraged me to catch a show if I could.

For the first time I’m doing very unvacationy things on this vacation to New York. I’m just a lady wandering around the US as if it’s a planet that’s faded from my memory. I snap out of it: I’ve gotta zero in on a Broadway show! I’ve seen three already on this visit, very luckily, but I’ve got one last night in Manhattan. I decide that Kinky Boots is worth seeing and ask: Standing Room options? They say they’ll know in thirty minutes: it’s 1:30pm. I dip into a place with a chalked advertisement of Happy Hour. “Would you order this salad if you had been out of the country for 9 months?” and the waitress assures me. The Asian Chicken salad did not disappoint. I take a photo to remember the feeling of looking at this salad, just as much as the actual salad.

Eventually I wandered into a Duane Read and perused the aisles. Duane Read is a brightly-lit drugstore that I’ve only seen in New York. I doubled-back over the same aisles, looking at all the unnecessary things that capitalism precipitates: magnetic metal caddies, pen-holder desktop organizers and light-up paperweights. I have no room left in my bag, but I also realize I have no cash and no US debit card with me. I buy 2 Lindt chocolate bags as a tip for the bellman and as a small thank you to George and Katrina.

I secure my ticket after an extra husband and his wife and head to Brooklyn, phone on it’s last hair of battery life. The stress of finding her place without phone service at night alone was not enticing. So I did a dry run to Brooklyn, with my stuff, and essentially shared a Spark Notes’ update on my life and hers across two couches and got right back on the subway. I strolled into the Kinky Boots’ theatre at 6:50 and occupied my spot in the standing room only row. I was next to a married couple with kids in the audience. Their teenage daughter wanted to see the lead singer of Panic at the Disco play Charlie Price.

As always, I loved seeing my friend’s life in Katrina. She works at a non-profit in Manhattan, she’s in love and she’s not in a rush to leave the country (right now) but the political times might change that. Katrina and I knew each other when I was young and lost in Seattle, visited when I was still young and deflated from my awful job and the mental threat that this type of ill-fitting work would only continue, and now when I am stable in Peace Corps.

– – – – –

Kinky Boots was good enough but it’s been on Broadway too long.

I decided this when I noticed one of the chorus dancers doing a half-assed job of the choreography and singing the wrong words. Believe me, there is a multitude of men within a city block who can dance circles around you in heels and know every line.
And you know what it felt like? Disrespect. I quickly realized that everyone was there to see buddy boy, the main singer from Panic at the Disco, play the lead role of Charlie Price. While he has some serious pipes, his acting didn’t deem him a triple threat. I think they focused on his British accent and forgot about his expressions. The actor who played Lola was great, he was no Billy Porter but who is?
But the real insult came during half-time for you sports fans out there. Halfway through intermission I decided I should indulge in my last Broadway beverage. The line hadn’t died down by the bat but I had my JAMYCN cup ready, a discount for those who reuse, and I took my spot in line. I felt like people were cutting me and I didn’t want to be late for curtain. The lobby was cramped like a womb with octuplets at 8 months gestation and I wanted to be the first TO BE BIRTHED. A man in a suit who was MOST ASSUREDLY there with his wife or daughter, doing his duty, offered to let me take his space.
I gratefully took the offer with relief and said Thank you and his response? “Well you look like you are going to have a conniption. And I felt like- hey, dude, give me your spot and be nice about it but don’t give me your spot so you can criticize me for caring. I realized that my $30 standby ticket meant a helluva lot more to me than his $130 one. But I made it back to my standing seat next to the couple whose teenage daughter had a seat, her birthday present. So it was a crowd of teeny boppers, dutiful husbands and theatre enthusiasts like me who want their edge of the spotlight but live in pueblos instead. How many of me where there in the audience? Anyone else working in Guatemala? Central America? Anyone else flush their toilet paper down the trash can?

And I wandered back to Brooklyn, texting Katrina from my stoop at Gregory’s Coffee for the free wifi and seeking out the subway to take me to Brooklyn. By the time I got home, I told her I was so sorry but far too wiped out for a drink what with my 7am flight the next morning. We caught up a bit more on the mirrored couches and I lined my things up for my rude madrugada and prostrated myself on the air mattress. I didn’t sleep. I knew I had to catch an über using their wifi and somehow pay a tip without having cash or phone service. This was enough to send me through the non-sleep sector of laying down. It was too hot for a blanket then around 1am it was too cold for a sheet. I emerged sleepless but victorious over my alarm 3:30am.

And that was it for me and my country, the plane taking off on the heels of the sunrise. I was in a state of denial over what was happening, but I was aware enough to know I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to go but my feelings don’t land planes, never have. Goodbye New York, Goodbye Broadway, Goodbye Hotels, Goodbye Iced Caramel Macchiatos, Goodbye Love, Goodbye. Just came to say…