It began as a joke.
We boarded the train and sat down. I was traveling with my 15-year-old daughter, Alice. I looked up at the ceiling, but there was no placard so we were okay.
“It’s not the quiet car,” she said.
“Yeah, that’s why I was checking.”
“I’ll never make that mistake again.”
“Well, you were only 7.”
“Still, eight hours and we had to whisper the whole time.”
“Oh, I remember.”
The train started moving, headed to New York.
“You could have listened to music,” I said, “with earphones.”
“Didn’t have any.”
“You didn’t?”
“I was young. No phone, no iPod, nothing.”
“Huh.”
“All I had was a Sesame Street tape deck with a microphone, to sing along.”
“Couldn’t do that in the quiet car,” I said, “but we’ll be in New York in a few hours.”
“What does that have to do with anything?’
“On the subway, people sing and dance for money. Sometimes, anyway. You could do that.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have the Sesame Street tape deck anymore.”
Alice smiled. She was 15, so that was a collector’s item.
Worse Than the Quiet Car?
I looked out the window. At this point in our journey, we were entering into the wilds of suburban Maryland. It was a safari park outside, but instead of leopards and tigers there were Paneras, cul-de-sacs and well-groomed lawns.
“What’s that smell?” Alice looked up and down the car.
“Not sure, but it’s awful. Like fish heads and garlic with a hint of raw sewage.”
I turned around and noticed the sign. We weren’t in the Quiet Car, but we were seated very close to the bathroom. Not ideal.
“Looks like we made another bad choice.” Alice’s smile deflated. She put in her ear buds and practiced her scowl.
This was a foreshadowing, but I failed to see it. Not for the first time, I wondered if my PhD in English had any real value.
The smell grew worse as the train inched closer to New York and more passengers took advantage of the facilities. I thought about changing cars or investing in a gas mask, but there were no free seats or HAZMAT vending machines.
Summer in the City
A few hours later we checked into the hotel, dropped off our bags and hit the streets. It was sunny and 90 degrees in the shade. Pretty soon, I was covered in sweat. Most of it was my own, but the sidewalks were crowded so you never know.
Alice had, by this time, earned an advanced degree in scowling with a concentration in boredom. Her diploma read MA, Miserabalus Attitudinum.
My attitude wasn’t much better. We ducked into a Midtown Starbucks for iced coffee. The place was a lot like the one back home, only smaller, dirtier and more crowded. Alice asked why you needed a special code to use the bathroom.
The trip got off to a rocky start, but gradually improved. We headed to Koreatown for dinner. I’d lived in New York a decade before and often came here to buy ingredients for bulgogi or japchae. What I didn’t know was that, since then, the neighborhood had become a K-pop marketplace: records, posters, books, t-shirts, sweatshirts, coffee mugs, bedroom sets and automobiles maybe.
The rest of the week was even better because we found things to do that both of us enjoyed. At MoMA we stopped in front of the Magrittes and de Chiricos. Alice was enthralled, staring at them with big manga eyes.
“Magritte is my favorite,” I said.
“He’s so surreal.”
I wasn’t sure if she was joking.
‘Intrepid Explorers’
After that it was a blur. Espresso and pizza in the Village. Hunting for used records on the Lower East Side. Dinner in Little Italy. Arcade games, hot dogs and roller coasters (not necessarily in that order) at Coney Island. An art film that Alice didn’t understand, and neither did I.
I took her to see an indie-pop band at the Bowery Ballroom, but the doorman glanced at Alice with hooded eyes and a corrugated forehead. “18 and over.”
We were disappointed, but Alice thought it was hilarious that I got denied by the bouncer.
“You got denied,” I said.
“Yeah, whatever.”
The next day Alice wanted to go shopping in SoHo because, apparently, the local Adidas, Levi’s and H&M were different than the ones back home. However, there were homemade T-shirts and dubious sunglasses for sale on sidewalk folding tables, so the global franchises were peppered with local color.
We walked through the streets for hours. Alice couldn’t get enough of the city, and neither could I. Even the difficult parts were a blessing. In Brooklyn, an old woman in a housecoat cursed at us from a second-story window; we felt like intrepid explorers bush-whacking through the rainforest, discovering remote tribes and their unique folkways. You didn’t get the same thrill driving through the air-conditioned suburbs.
Sights and Smells
At the corner of Houston and Broadway, heading for the F train, Alice stopped. “What’s that smell?”
“I looked around.” Hundreds of sweaty people. Food-cart gyros and sausages. Overflowing trash cans. Gutters lined with years of unidentifiable muck. “I think it’s the smell of New York.”
It was our last full day in the city.
“What should we do now?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Whatever.”
I’d heard that one a few thousand times. “Thrifting? I know some great spots in the East Village.”
“I don’t know.”
“Get bagels from that place in Park Slope?”
“Eh.”
“Let’s go to Central Park.”
“O-kay…”
I grabbed my wallet and sunglasses.
“Are we walking?”
“Yeah, but it’s only a few blocks from here.”
“Ugh. It’s so hot.”
“You’ll live.”
We took the elevator down to the lobby and into the summer heat, which reminded me of the eight years I’d spent in the Middle East. Sunburns at 5 p.m., in March. Heat exhaustion after walking to the corner and back.
We headed up 6th Avenue and entered the park. Horses were strapped to carriages so people could enjoy romantic drives. They looked forlorn, dubious and sweaty. So did the horses.
Alice couldn’t believe how big the park was. Zoo, lake, skating rink, bandshell, theater, playgrounds, fountains, bridges, statues, monuments, gardens, concrete slabs where people brokedance (?), formed drum circles and roller-discoed.
We walked to the edge of the lake and watched the ducks float past.
“What’s that smell?” Alice covered her nose. “It’s like the train, only worse.”
“I don’t know. Trash? Sewage? Duck poop?”
“Parks aren’t supposed to smell.”
“Nothing’s perfect,” I said. “Not even nature.”
“It should be.”
‘Thanks, Dad’
We left the next day. On the ride home Alice was tired, resting her head against the window. She wanted something to eat around 11 a.m. so we wandered down to the dining car for an early lunch.
Alice was in a good mood. She didn’t argue or complain when I suggested that we eat healthy after a week of pizza, hot dogs and Italian ice. It had been a great trip. Alice wouldn’t admit it, but her thin smile told me so.
We took the food back to our seats and enjoyed Amtrak salads, as much as anyone could. I thought of my wife back home, and our other two kids. I missed them but it had been nice to spend time with Alice, just the two of us.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I glanced at my daughter. She was smiling now, the way she used to when she was little, without self-consciousness or doubt. I’m not sure if she was thanking me for the food, the trip to New York, or something else, but I knew better than to ask.
