This is not a travelogue

Have I mentioned that I don’t like to leave home? Ah, yes, I see that I have. Just did a search on the words ‘travel’ and ‘hate’ through my posts, and there is a lot of travel hating going on in the mind of this homebody mouse.

I just realized as I sit here in my comfy clothes, typing at my comfy computer, listening to comfy music… When I talk about my life, I don’t talk about the time I spend being comfortable. I talk about the moments of discomfort. The moments spent doing the things I don’t like to do are the most interesting moments of my life.

In fact – I am typing now to tell you about the 24 hours I just lived through in The City. I spent most of those 24 hours annoyed or bored, but I will write about them in a way that will keep you scrolling on down, wanting to know what happened next.

At least, that is my intention. Hmmm.. A little bribery might not go amiss: I promise there will be cake* in the very last sentence, or at least an over used meme-joke.

So – 24 hours in The City. (And, of course, I am talking about New York City. It is the only City in the world that gets the capital T and C. I live in Philadelphia and when I say ‘The City,’ the people here often ask, “do you mean ‘center city?'” meaning Philly’s pathetic downtown area with its half-dozen wannabe skyscrapers. And I have to smack them across the top of the head and say, “Didn’t you hear the capital letters?”)

My boyfriend and I got on a train. (Such a simple sentence. I can’t tell you how tempted I am to expound that sentence into an entire post. Or an entire book, for that matter. How about: I dragged my boyfriend, kicking and screaming, onto a train. Not as simple, and a lot closer to the truth but… well, this is not a ‘analyze my relationship’ post. It is a simple post about a simple trip into New York.)

I promise no more parentheticals!*

As you may or may not be aware, depending on where you live, there was a bit of a blizzard on the northeast coast of north-america this past weekend. I booked the train tickets and the hotel room a long time ago, with the cheapest (read non-refundable) rates possible. But, despite the potential monetary loss, I watched the weather reporting on Friday secretly wishing for the storm to be as bad as the reporters wanted it to be. In the end, my train was canceled, but the nice folks at Amtrak put me on another one, free of charge. Bastards.

I actually enjoy traveling by train. The only time I feel scared on a train is when another train traveling in the opposite direction whooshes by and the calculations of relative velocity start circling in my head. And the answer to the word problem is always the same: instant death.

But it is a comfort to think that if I die in a train wreck, I will never know. It will happen instantly with no warning. Not like plane crashes where the dying have enough time to turn on their cell phones, wait for signal, and text a loved one. (Always text. You never want to call. What if the person you are calling just immediately starts talking about how Aunt Mildred is coming to visit and you never get a chance to say those three words, I don’t care?)

On that happy note, the train ride to New York Penn Station was uneventful. And so was the subway ride to the hotel. And the hotel was nice, and blah, blah, blah… here is where the boredom sets in.

But why were we going into The City at all? And did we really eat the fish with its head still attached? And how is it possible that a 6 foot 4 inch, 250 lb American man of Scottish descent can speak fluent Mandarin and sing Don Giovanni in a sweet falsetto?

Tune in next time to hear part two of this rousing tale! Same Bat Channel! Same Bat Station!

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*a lie.