Crash! My favorite coffee mug—one I'd bought in Guatemala in 1999—rolled out of a dish towel and broke into a dozen pieces on the concrete floor of my Jersey City garage.
That's going to be your car if you don't go to Yancey's right now. Quit messing around and GO TO SLEEP, I admonished myself. The mug was a warning that I was no longer capable of good judgment. How had I even managed to get this far in my jet-lagged state?
Henry the 1990 Ford Taurus started up with a tiny surprised gurgle, a murmer of annoyance that he'd suffered through yet another cold winter while I'd enjoyed the warmth of Cairo. I gave up on trying to find my Thermarest and sleeping bag, threw the electric blanket Turbo had given me in 2003 and some pillows into Henry's trunk, and headed over to my new home on my old street, 8th Street.
I'd been in transit since 7 a.m. in Barcelona and it was now eighteen hours, two lame plane movies, and one extended subway ride—the long way 'round from JFK to avoid stairs—later. Roberta had fetched me from the Grove Street PATH, where a stranger had carried my bag up the steps.
Yancey's condo was on the fourth story (ugh) of a brownstone on Hamilton Park. It isn't really Yancey's place now. It's my place. Yancey is in San Francisco where his wife has a job. I am renting his late 1800s Victorian apartment from him while I am in my personal limbo, in my extended moment of indecision. Where will I live? What will I do? Who cares? I need a nap.
Yancey's place is nearly identical to my old place, but without the Turbo touch. Without renovations. Also without furniture. I climbed the stairs, chose a spot in the front room for my pillows, plugged in the blanket (it's freezing here), and fell asleep on the ancient pine floor. Maybe the answers would come to me tomorrow. Yeah, right.
6 comments:
For anyone who cares, the long way 'round from JFK means the Airtrain from the terminal to Jamaica Station. There is an elevator transfer to the E train at Jamaica Station. The E train terminates at World Trade Center. The A/C train at WTC (caught at Howard Beach-JFK) involves stairs from the platform, not so with the E train.
With the E, I rolled my evil wheelie bag right off the train and to the elevator to the PATH. Easy-peasy. Pity I didn't think of that before, when I had the even-more-evil wheelie bag.
The other option is to catch the shuttle bus to Newark Airport, and catch a taxi from there. But that takes longer.
So what do people in wheelchairs do? Never take the A/C train when they need to get off at that stop?
I didn't think local governments were allowed to grandfather out of the ADA for public transit access. Maybe there's a hidden elevator somewhere. Or maybe you have to actually be disabled to use it.
I don't know how or what it's all about, but NYC doesn't have elevators at all the subways. But all their buses are wheelchair-accessible. Maybe they substitute buses on routes that don't have elevators?
Check it out, the master list (E only at WTC):
http://www.mta.info/mta/ada/stations.htm
Poor mug. And poor, POOR Marie.
I am coming around to help scuff the flat into sociable state, quick-sharp.
Erm, just as soon as I finish that annoying luxury assignment in Venice and Milan and Rome...
Oh, the torture! You must avoid those luxury assignments and come over here and carry my dusty boxes up four flights instead.
You know, a helpful workout and Cuban sounds a lot better than posh schmoozing...
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