Tourista! (pt 1: 300 words)

I started the week with good intentions. I was going to meet my promise to myself to write 300 words/day even if they were about nothing more consequential than the NYSEG guys replacing the gas lines.

Things happen and in truth I did write more than 300 words on multiple days but they weren't posted here so it's not quite the same thing. So I'm calling it a par 2 and getting on with my writing.

Thursday, my boy and I spent a day in Manhattan, a first for both of us. We planned it as tourists--decided that we'd do all of the obligatory tourist things like wear mom jeans and white sneakers, and not think twice about it.

Well okay, I don't really own mom jeans or white sneakers but we did gawk like a couple of country rubes gone tada city. It's a little hard not to, frankly--stepping off the bus into Times Square was like landing on a whole 'nother planet. I joke about being all country and stuff, but I was born a city kid, and have spent substantial time in more than one--and so far, nothing compares to NYC.

Wardrobe aside, we did things like stare at the jumbotrons in Times Square, spend time on the 86th floor observation deck of the Empire State Building, eat street food, collect tchotchkes, find slices of NY-style pizza, hang out at FAO Schwarz and buy pashminas from a guy with a trunk. And while I didn't manage to have breakfast at Tiffany's, I did nosh on some pineapple chunks scammed from a smoothie guy on the corner.

I will confess that I was torn between terror and excitement at the prospect of this outing. Our local YMCA offered it as a one-day, round-trip bus ride. Seven hours to get there, eight hours to be there, seven hours to get back home. So in truth, we spent more time riding the bus than trudging down 7th Avenue. But 7th Ave. was a whole lot more interesting, especially after I learned how to wield my elbows like a pro. (Which is an entirely different post.)

You might think that after moving, alone, to this strange place I'd never heard of for a job I wasn't positive I could do effectively would make me pretty fearless. You'd be wrong. Which is, of course, why things like dragging my 8-year-old son to NYC for a day are good for me--they require squirming out of my ever-drifting comfort zone and remembering what it means to discover.