My first time: Part 1

I first came to Manhattan at the age of 10 on a loud rollicking bus trip.

My cousin Vinnie (right?) and his lover Gene would rent a bus, pack us in -- along with their ex-wives, children, friends, colleagues, etc. --  and head north from Philly on the New Jersey Turnpike. Cousin Carmella made pepper and egg sandwiches on hoagies rolls for everyone, including the driver.  Many others supplied the booze.  Vinnie would emcee the entire trip from the front of the bus, using the driver's microphone.  He had a giant boom box that blasted show tunes for the two hour plus ride.  It was my job to look for the Statue of Liberty.  That meant we were almost there.  I pushed my face to the glass and waited, songs from shows I had never seen washing over me.

After many mistaken spottings of Lady Liberty, my patient mother finally pointed her out to me and I officially made the announcement.  We had arrived.  Vinnie cued the boom box and the bus erupted in a rendition of 'The Best of Times is Now' from La Cage aux Folles that can never be rivaled.  The third time through, the bus driver got a solo.

As we trundled through the Lincoln Tunnel, the dull dirty tile walls flashing past, the world went silent.  I was filled with anticipation.  I'm certain I held my breath waiting for the revelation of the 'city that never sleeps' as the song playing in the background penetrated into my consciousness.  I wondered how any place could be that exciting.  Finally, grey light began to push its way through a curve in the tunnel.  I moved to the front of the bus and asked my step-grandmother if I could sit on her lap.  She HAD to have the front seat on these trips.  It was the cause of a lot of conflict among the other older ladies who also HAD to have the front seat.  She pulled me up between herself and my grandfather and I put my head against his chest and waited.

The bus rounded the curve and the grey light intensified.  We came out of the tunnel and there, right in front of the bus, was a wall.  We followed the turn of the street and lingered at a red light.  The Port Authority, cold and black, loomed over our heads.  Another bus idled in front of us.  Cars to the left and right.  A dirty man with a bucket and a brush tried to wash the windows of our vehicle and the bus driver turned the wipers on and cursed him.  The light changed and we turned onto a narrow, dark street.  I certainly couldn't see what all the fuss was about but I could feel it.  There was an energy here that was lacking in Philadelphia.  The people walked differently.  The sounds of rushing traffic were more insistent.  The smell should have turned me off; stale, rank, ripe.  But it energized me.  I wanted to walk around this city.  It terrified me.  I wanted to embrace the grey.

I had reached my home, the island at the end of the world.