A Trip (down memory lane): Part 2

I ran out the office door at 6pm like a child running out of class when the final school bell rings at the end of the year. I couldn't get out fast enough. I knew the Loved One would be late but I didn't care. I'd rather wait for him in front of the Port Authority than sit a second longer at my West Elm-purchased, dark brown, faux wood desk.

It was chilly out but the temperature was supposed to go up to the 50s on Saturday and even higher on Sunday.

I stood outside the Port Authority, my hatred for New York City growing with each passing second. I was inhaling more cigarette smoke in twenty minutes than I had in ten years of on-again/off-again smoking. I enjoyed watching the characters come and go. I remembered, as a kid, my dad would park the car here for our day trips. I was terrified. The minute you pulled out of the Lincoln Tunnel you were assaulted by dirty men trying to wash the windows of your car with water dirtier than them. My mother would immediately check to make sure the doors were locked. I would crouch lower in the back seat and raise whatever I was reading to cover my face, my heart pounding. What if they broke into the car? What if they stole me out of the back seat and took me away? What if they made me dirty like them and I had to stand at the base of the Lincoln Tunnel and wash windshields for the rest of my life? Would my parents be able to find me? Save me?

My dad would drive up the long ramp to the dark, shadowed parking lot. He would always park in the space furthest from the elevator and I would clutch my mother's hand as we hastily walked away from the car. The morning rush hour was over by the time we got there so the parking lot was eerily deserted and quiet. Invariably, there was a homeless person slumped in a corner of the waiting area. The smell of piss, shit and dirt hung in the air and I would put my sleeve to my face, my hand rolled into a fist inside hidden away like a turtle and breathe in the scent of the fabric. I hopped up and down, waiting for the elevator to come and hoping that someone would be on it besides us, who wasn't homeless and smelly.

One day we had to take the stairs down and I was on the verge of tears the entire time, certain that someone would jump out and stab my mom and dad, leaving me alone and deserted without a trust fund to live on like Bruce Wayne. I would have to be the one to call my grandparents and tell them what had happened. I'd be an orphan, with a big Italian family. When we got to the bottom of the stairs I made my parents swear that we would never do that again. I was panting from both the exertion and the anxiety of the walk down. I was also anticipating the dreaded walk down 42nd Street with all its porn theatres and sex shops. Scary, ethnic-looking men standing outside calling to us, trying to get us to come in. In many ways, this was the scariest part of the trip that walk down 42nd Street. Because I wanted to know what went on in those stores. I wanted to go into those movie theatre and see what was taking place on the screens. I knew it was dirty and forbidden. And I wanted to be a witness.

This particular Friday in 2009, a New Yorker for some 16 years, I had parked the rental car on the roof of the Port Authority all by myself; waited for the elevator next to a nameless, faceless homeless person, grew tired of waiting for the elevator and took the stairs down. I was a big boy.

The Loved One called at 6:20 to say that he was in a cab and running late. The shady guy next to me left his rolling luggage by my side and went in search of a light for his Newport. He kept walking back and forth in front of me while I was on the phone and I knew he was waiting to ask me if I had one. He looked ghetto thug gay. I kept talking on the phone to no one after the Loved One hung up and waited for him to walk away.

The Loved One arrived and we went to the car. As we were celebrating his birthday, I let him be in charge of music and we happily listened to the new Decemberists cd for the first hour or so of the trip. The Loved One thinks the Decemberists should be the next group of musicians to write a Broadway musical. I'm not as familiar with their stuff as I should be. I tried to listen in the car but I sat in the passenger seat, tightly clutching the Google directions in my hands. I was filled with anxiety. What if we got lost? What if I misread the directions? What if we took a wrong turn? Well...what if, JV? You'd turn around, right? What if the whole weekend was a bust?

Once we were on the road for a little bit and, seemingly, in the right direction, I began to relax. I had been looking forward to this weekend for a long time. I had earned it. I didn't want to think about work or anything related to the city. My only thought about home was, I hope the daffodils in the garden don't bloom while we're away.

The Loved One got a text message when we were about half an hour from the city. It was from his boss. It said something like, 'Have fun. Don't think about work this weekend.' Well, the sentiment is nice but if you don't want him to think about work, boss, don't text him!

We drove and chatted. The Loved One always has so much to say about his job and what's going on with his company and funny little stories about the people he works with. I feel badly because I don't have the same kind of anecdotes to share about my day. I sit at my desk, in relative silence for eight hours. I write here. I work on the play I'm writing. Once in a while, the phone rings. Not for me. Once in a while the Producer and I will share a word or two about some gossip we've heard or a show we've seen. I'll desperately hit the refresh button on Google mail or check Facebook for a message; some sign that someone out there wants to communicate with me. I spend the work day in relative, painful isolation -- counting the hours until 6pm.

We drove into the sunset, the Loved One and I, thrilled that it was after 7 and still light out. We were blessed with open roads and as the scenery began to get more rural, I relaxed into my seat, one foot on the dashboard. Exactly an hour and a half later, we drove into Milford, PA. I breathed a deep sigh out. It was a beautiful town. We passed a lot of Victorian houses, many real estate offices, a great stone building filled with stores and there on our left the beautiful Hotel Fauchere. Grand and white with black shutters, it stood out in its renovated glory; a white beacon in the dark night. We parked our car and hurried in with our bags, hungry and eager to eat something and have a drink at the basement bar, Bar Louis. I could hear the bustle of people in there as we walked by and was relieved that it was busy. The parking lot was full and it seemed like the Delmonico restaurant was also crowded. I had been anxious (again) that we would be the only guests and, while I didn't want to particularly socialize with other guests, I wanted their presence.

We were greeted by a charming Italian woman named Marta. Blonde and robust she asked in that straightforward Italian way, "Which one of you is Mercanti?" That's me, I replied. "Italian?" she asked with the hint of an accent, her blue eyes peering at me questioningly over horn-rimmed glasses. I loved her already. "Yes. Well, Sicilian and Italian." There's a difference, all you non-Italian readers out there. "Hmm. I'm from Venezia. Venice." Ah. I'm Sicial and Abruzzese. "Do you speak Italian?" No. Sorry. This was rewarded with a disapproving glance. I wish I did.

Then with a flourish and a smile she asked, "Did you come from the city?" Yes, New York not Philadelphia. "I would LOVE to live in the city. The past month here was very hard. February. Dark and dreary." It was the same way in the city, I said. "I bet it wasn't," she replied. But it was. Dark and dreary and long. February is always the hardest month of the year.

While we wear having our conversation, the sounds of music and tinkling silverware drifted in from the dining room. The Loved One kept pointing to pieces of furniture in the lobby and mouthing "I want it" to me. I felt my shoulders drop about two inches from my ears. We had made the perfect choice. The Hotel Fauchere was perfect.

"Let me take you to your room," Marta said. We walked past the beautifully restored wooden staircase that led up to the second and third floors. I peered into the Delmonico, tea lights glistening on every table and a fresh cut tulip in a small vase on every table. We stopped at a small elevator that was obviously added when the hotel was renovated. We were whisked quickly up to the third floor. Marta led us to the room. The striped wallpaper, a soft brown and gold, was understated and classy. A beautifully painted landscape hung on the wall over a black lacquered table with a large glass embossed bowl on the bottom shelf. Marta opened the door to our room for the next two nights and wished us well. "Oh, I forgot. You are confirmed for your tour of the llama farm at 2:30 tomorrow. Is that alright?" That's wonderful, I said, my eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Come to the front desk and we will give you directions."

We said goodbye and took it in our surroundings.

The room was small but beautifully appointed. A queen-sized bed with two down comforters folded like sleeping bags lay across the top of the bed. Beautiful, new sconces hung on the wall. A small, antique desk stood in the corner. A large picture window looked down on to the garden. To the left was another window that looked on to the building next door. To the left was a small foyer with a closet, a mirrored wall and the entrance to the bathroom. The bathroom itself is a work of art. Cool, grey-veined marble covers the counter and the walls. The floor is heated from below to keep your feet warm in the cold winter months. The shower is enclosed by a glass door and there are two shower heads pointing down to wash your sins away. The bath towels are hung on heated pipes. This is luxury.

I'm STARVING, I said. Let's go down to Bar Louis.

We locked the door, hopped on the elevator and headed down to the bar. I had read the menu online and was craving the truffle fries I had read so much about. And the minute the elevator doors opened, I could smell them. My stomach grumbled. I needed truffle fries and red wine, as soon as possible.

The Loved One ordered a glass of his favorite, pinot noir. I had a glass of of a red I had never tried before called Mercurey. It was dry and fruity and delicious. For dinner, Loved One had fish and chips and I had a burger, medium rare, and on a whole wheat English muffin. The small piece of bread could barely contain the patty and its juices so I ate most of it with a fork and knife. While we ate, we watched those around us. Some, like us, we obvious guests of the hotel. A couple stood out particularly from being either from Long Island or New Jersey. Her high hair, gold jewelry and their shared apathetic expressions were a dead give away. They sat in front of the brick foundation wall which separated the front bar area from more tables in the back. Two local older guys came in and sat at a high top table, ordering beers. The photograph of Andy Warhol kissing John Lennon loomed over all of us.

Satiated and content, we headed back up to the room. We sank into bed after wrestling with the down comforters and trying to figure out why there were two of them and how to share them. We were both too full to eat the complimentary chocolate from next door's Patisserie Fauchere but it was just one more thing to look forward to in the morning.

I sank into a deep sleep, filled with vivid dreams.