Getting Lost in New York City

Pic by Emiko Iwata Hall

          Typically, I've always had a pretty good sense of direction. When I was five, I watched Mount St. Helens explode before my very eyes in the north. Mount Hood, in all its grandeur, hovers over Portland from the east while to the west, Oregon’s rolling coastal range awaits its weekender community. However, here in New York City, it took three weeks after settling in before I could say with any confidence which subway entrance took me back to my apartment.
          My girlfriend has lived between Manhattan and Brooklyn for almost 10 years now, thus, I’ve been content to let her do all of the navigating. So, when it was time to get the vehicle inspection tags for our new car, like a teenager who’d just got her license, I was so proud of my first attempt to drive on my own. With Google’s directions printed (large, color map included), I cautiously drove through the uneven streets, bouncing around trying to avoid potholes and road hoarding cyclists while looking back and forth between road signs and instructions. After circling the neighborhood, I finally pulled over to catch my breath and regain my bearings after missing the correct turn to the mechanic’s garage that was, literally, one mile from our apartment.
          Venturing out alone again, I nearly missed the beginning of my movie at the AMC Theater. To avoid dawdling tourist crowds and hasty city locals, I leaned up against the foot of a concrete mountain waiting for my phone’s demon-possessed GPS to guide me as the nefarious blue arrow swirled like an Ouija board in the palm of my hand. Outside the 6th Ave subway entrance, I decided to head in one direction and see how it might skip around, hoping it to be toward the theater on 8th Ave. Squinting through the glare of the haze as I got closer to the next block, I could just begin to make out the green, street sign for… 5th Ave. Damnit. 
          I’ve heard I’m not the only one with this dilemma. Without a clear view of the Empire State building or the Freedom Tower, some new transplants carry along compasses in case they’re having problems with their GPS or internal compass. The truth is, beyond losing oneself in the caverns of NYC under the summer’s murky air, there are plenty of roadblocks that may steer the unassuming person into places they really didn’t want to go. A few weeks ago, I found myself reaching over my partner’s arm honking the horn, screaming at the van that was trying to back up over our MINI while the SUV beside us, only inches away, was still trying to creep up! Like a trapped crazed woman in darkness, surrounded by beeping and honking, I rolled down my window cursing, tempted to reach out and punch the giant, white fender arm's length away from my face. In complete honesty, I wanted to pull the lady driver out of her GMC by her up-do.
          Then there are the less conspicuous barriers that guide us like hedges through a doomed maze. Florescent, blinking signs prod us along THIS WAY as the pied piper plays to the tune of “Name Brand” steadfastly by street vendor’s tables. Refraining in my head like a Broadway musical, in and out of Abercrombie, Billabong, Guess, Gap, Converse, Lacoste, even Armani Exchange, “Hip glasses will help orient me in the Big City and help me feel at home!”  
           I kept myself well poised at first, gasping at the $60-200 prices for the flimsy, metal frames or the Made in China plastic with the glued emblem missing, that is until another sign pointed me hopelessly over the cliff... the Sunglass Hut. 
           Instead of a bejeweled side emblem, properly stamped, maybe even etched—Ray Ban... Futile to resist, so, I tried on several pairs, narrowing it down between the original 50’s and the 80’s Wayfarer styles--tortoise and black, or an understated yet funky, flat army green. The young sales girl had me come outside and compare the difference between the normal lens for $125 and the polarizing for $175. The only reason I couldn’t bring myself to do it was because I had already justified spending $85 on a new shirt, shorts, and another pair of flip-flops that would better match my wardrobe than my other 4 pairs. I had spent it consciously, deliberating on whether I could live without any of it considering I was still unemployed.

          Some people could say deciding to come to New York was when I’d truly gone astray. I’m sure, after living in the conservative Christian world surrounded by Christian music and Christian books, having graduated from a Christian college with a theology degree and serving for years in a Christian church most of my life to now a divorced, recently out lesbian living with her girlfriend in Brooklyn. It would, in all senses, appear that I’ve completely lost my way. Of course, I’ve had my doubts, compiled with dealings of guilt and fear in the past. But now in the midst of the harsh heat and oppressive humidity, it would almost have me believe I truly was on the path to Hell.
          
          After making it to my movie at the AMC, a Chinese man in powdered blue pants and a white linen shirt shuffled in front of me like a spiritual guide through the crowded street. A white, plastic bag hung heavy from his hand—his dinner perhaps. He eventually made his way to a little wooden stool beside an easel with a caricature of someone’s face. Flanking his spot, a Persian man was selling falafels on pita and a young Black man sold a rainbow assortment of watches and accessories while Edward Scissor Hands stood in front offering to pose for pictures. I paused while my internal GPS began to reboot...  
          As a newbie to New York, I wasn’t just spinning between tourist and local, wanting the people in front of me to get out of my way while dying to pull over and try the grilled kebabs—I was playing Marco Polo with myself. Where am I really?
          As I passed another Mediterranean food stand wafting its sweet aroma like a burnt offering to the heavens, a different verse began playing like a silent, black and white film that was in desperate need of restoration. It flickered across my forehead, “But to do justly… and to love mercy… and to walk humbly...”
          The verse was still hanging in my mind when I finally made it back to the quiet of my apartment. I plopped down on the couch and hunched in front of my laptop as I began to eat my dinner when I came across a friend’s email request for her non-profit organization. She is ready to furnish their new home in Africa that will help orphans whose parents have died of AIDS, asking for a mere $1,300 which included a coffee table for $85.
          Listening to the faint voice that reminded me I still had “ears to hear”, I laid my foil wrapped kebab down on my coffee table and got out my wallet.