TRAVELING BEYOND THE TRAIL.
The morning was gray in Manhattan, a city I had lived in for three years and have visited almost annually since leaving New York. Today on another visit, the dreariness of the past few days persisted. A drizzle tapped on the windowpane of my cousin's studio. I thought about staying inside, solve my problems from the bed I slept in.
I tossed and turned. The phone rang. I answered to hear my cousin ask about my plans for the day, if I was going to stay inside. I said, "No. I think I'll go to Central Park, find a cafe and work on my writing." The rain started to come down harder. My cousin and I made plans for dinner. I rose out of bed. I did not come here to sleep.
I dressed and gathered my bag filled with pens, books, and notes on a novel in progress. I stepped outside with an opened umbrella. I lowered my head, bracing my shoulders against the wind and rain. I walked west. Umbrellas bumped and bruised against each other. Elbows rubbed and knocked while trying to get through and to their destinations.
I saw Central Park in the haze and decided to continue walking on Fifth Avenue, unsure of where I was going. My bag grew heavy from the rain soaking into the cloth. The wind began to whip, pushing my arms and umbrella right and forward. Drenched and cold I searched for a cafe, walking up and down and around a few more blocks and back to Fifth Avenue, between 54th and 55th Street. I saw a man carrying a white bag marked The Peninsula, and thought the hotel must be nearby.
The rain was now a downpour, my wet clothes pressed against my skin. The man with the bag was gone. I regretted not asking him which way to The Peninsula. I wondered why I came out, why I walked more than a mile in the rain. Traffic whizzed by. Car horns blared.
I faced the street and a day seemingly lost. My chest tightened. The suppressed problems of yesterday returned, full of angst. Standing stuck I thought about the weeks prior to leaving for New York, seeing again the dead birds on my walk to work and sandwiched between the hours of unwanted emails. I shook my head, unable to erase the finality of the emails reliving in my mind: two promising literary agents passing on my novel, MORNING SUN, and a close friend deciding to end our friendship, each citing problems and finding them too deep and wide to fix.
I crossed the street, my feet scrunched with blisters forming at the toes. An awning came into view. I hurried to get out of the rain, bring my own end to the day. I reached the awning and saw the name of the place I had hoped to find, but had given up on without having realized it. I entered The Peninsula New York hotel.
In the lobby a woman greeting guests smiled at me. She offered to help. Feeling beaten, I asked for a table where I could rest and have something warm to eat. She showed me the way upstairs, where a hostess walked me to my table. I thanked them both.
The hostess said, "Although the restaurant is closed, the chef will make anything you want, even if it's not on the menu. Anything you like." I thanked her and was grateful for her kindness. She bowed, and I was beginning to see her as an angel. She left to give me a moment.
I sat down and ordered from the menu, thinking I had all that I needed, feeling the edges of the day softening.
The rain outside no longer mattered; my wet clothes and hair were small consequences, starting to dry; my problems, heavy as they seemed, would find reprieve.
I dressed and gathered my bag filled with pens, books, and notes on a novel in progress. I stepped outside with an opened umbrella. I lowered my head, bracing my shoulders against the wind and rain. I walked west. Umbrellas bumped and bruised against each other. Elbows rubbed and knocked while trying to get through and to their destinations.
I saw Central Park in the haze and decided to continue walking on Fifth Avenue, unsure of where I was going. My bag grew heavy from the rain soaking into the cloth. The wind began to whip, pushing my arms and umbrella right and forward. Drenched and cold I searched for a cafe, walking up and down and around a few more blocks and back to Fifth Avenue, between 54th and 55th Street. I saw a man carrying a white bag marked The Peninsula, and thought the hotel must be nearby.
The rain was now a downpour, my wet clothes pressed against my skin. The man with the bag was gone. I regretted not asking him which way to The Peninsula. I wondered why I came out, why I walked more than a mile in the rain. Traffic whizzed by. Car horns blared.
I faced the street and a day seemingly lost. My chest tightened. The suppressed problems of yesterday returned, full of angst. Standing stuck I thought about the weeks prior to leaving for New York, seeing again the dead birds on my walk to work and sandwiched between the hours of unwanted emails. I shook my head, unable to erase the finality of the emails reliving in my mind: two promising literary agents passing on my novel, MORNING SUN, and a close friend deciding to end our friendship, each citing problems and finding them too deep and wide to fix.
I crossed the street, my feet scrunched with blisters forming at the toes. An awning came into view. I hurried to get out of the rain, bring my own end to the day. I reached the awning and saw the name of the place I had hoped to find, but had given up on without having realized it. I entered The Peninsula New York hotel.
In the lobby a woman greeting guests smiled at me. She offered to help. Feeling beaten, I asked for a table where I could rest and have something warm to eat. She showed me the way upstairs, where a hostess walked me to my table. I thanked them both.
The hostess said, "Although the restaurant is closed, the chef will make anything you want, even if it's not on the menu. Anything you like." I thanked her and was grateful for her kindness. She bowed, and I was beginning to see her as an angel. She left to give me a moment.
I sat down and ordered from the menu, thinking I had all that I needed, feeling the edges of the day softening.
The rain outside no longer mattered; my wet clothes and hair were small consequences, starting to dry; my problems, heavy as they seemed, would find reprieve.
