Fear and Loathing of New York, NY

Why is New York City so hard for me? There’s just so much to write about. Recognizing that, I'll forgo detailing my every moment, but instead work through why it is that I haven't been back to New York City in nearly a decade. A tragedy – Yes, I know. But I finally figured it out. Not to mention, neurosis makes for better reading, no?

My main issue and the root of all this nonsense has to do with the In’s and Out’s of the city – literally. In hospitality speak, the Arrival and Departure experience is the cause of so much angst and anxiety, that I’ve been avoiding the Big Apple for years. A tragedy – Yes, I know.

Let's start from the very beginning. I moved to NYC in 1996 to start university. My parents and I drove up - don’t remember what bridge or tunnel we took from Georgia but ended up northbound on one of the western avenues. It was the end of summer on an impossibly bright day, and we were sorta lost in Manhattan. My father pulled off to the side of the road to ask a policeman for directions. Imagine it - I’m in the passenger seat. "Excuse me Ossifer," I shouted. Stunned. My high school vernacular totally not appropriate for New York City’s Finest. I tried again. "Excuse me, Ossifer!" I got his attention this time - he turned around. I’m mortified but cary on, "Hi! How do we get to NYU?" Following a lot of nodding and polite smiling, I roll up the window turn to my parents and urge my father to drive. My mother then asks me "What did you call him?"

That was my first arrival into New York City. My last departure was in 2001. I went back to the city with friends Katie and Leeann Chin to assist on a featured segment for NBC's Today Show. The topic was something about Chinese New Year – how to celebrate and what to eat. After the segment, I caught up with friends for dinner and drinks. At some point it was time to head back to LA. This is where it gets fuzzy. I had taken a cab to the airport, but we get stuck in traffic between Manhattan and JFK. And by stuck, I mean parked. As the meter ticked away, so did the seconds to takeoff. Now, I’ve never missed a flight in my then 23 years of my life. So, I’m a bit in crisis mode. I called the airline and gave them the heads up and asked them to schedule me for the next flight out in the morning. That's done, but what am I going to do now? It’s late and dark, I've been fed and had a few to drink.

So, seriously, what am I going to do. I didn’t want to go back into the city seeing as I’ve already paid to come this far. All I needed was a place to crash for the night. “I need a cheap hotel,” I say, “something that’s not going to break the bank.” My cab driver pulls off the main drag, and we’re headed to what I thought would be a cheap airport hotel. Now, I’m at the whim of my driver. And he definitely has a destination in mind.

We coast through some nondescript neighborhood in Queens and suddenly come to a stop. I don’t remember paying or why I even got out of the cab. Money or lack thereof was most likely my problem. I just remember being so tired and needing to make it through the night to catch my morning flight. I dragged my suitcase to the door of this apartment unit where a Chinese fellow is sitting behind a check-in counter with security bars over the window. Bed and bath for $50 a night – cash. Where am I? Hell if I know.

Now, I’m convinced the cabbie had taken me to a super sketchy, shady halfway house for illegal immigrants. This one specializing in, yes you guessed it – fresh off the boat Chinese immigrants that need to stay off the radar. The room was barebones with wall-to-wall grayish linoleum flooring all bathed in nasty fluorescent light. There was a full size bed with clean white sheets that were visibly worn and a small desk with a sad brown lamp. The ensuite bath was clean, and it too had linoleum flooring but no toiletries to speak of. One bath towel and one bathmat was all I got - threadbare. I had a hot shower (decent) and tried to settle in. But as tired as I was, I could not for the life of me fall asleep.

Now, you're probably wondering - Why? And the simple answer is - I was curious. I wanted to see if I could do it. See how this experience would play out. It was interesting... to a point. Then I got all heady. Where the hell was I? Is this safe? What’s that strange noise? Is that screaming down the hall? Screw this and my fifty bucks. I called my friend Paul who lived in Queens at the time, and he came to get my ass outta there. We went for a drink to calm my nerves, and I crashed on his sofa for the night. I don’t remember anything else. That was my last departure from New York City.

Between my first and my last, there were many arrivals and departures in between. All met with an increasing sense of dread as there was no simple way for me and my bags to get from 25 Union Square West to any of the airports – or vice versa. To this day, I don’t know how I did it and haven’t tried to do it since.

Which brings me back to the above posty. I agree wholeheartedly that New York is the “best city in the universe.” I have close friends from uni that I haven't seen in ages, and so many new friends that I would love to visit. But I also recognize that I have a problem and this irrational fear and avoidance of the city's airports is just bad. So, if I play my cards right, I will get a chance to visit next year for work, in which case I’ll tack on a few days of holiday to play! So thanks Lesley, I’m working through my issues, and yes, I got your postcard!

Get there - if you dare!

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