September 11 - Day 5: Long Day’s Journey Into Humidity
A longish day that began with the by-now-familiar sounds of construction from next door. I have no idea what they’re building over there; I just wish they’d finish—or start later in the day.
Not having any theatre plans tonight opened up the day. After my just-as-familiar-as-the-construction-noises all-over-the-apartment morning ablutions, my plan was to have breakfast, head out to College Point in Flushing (“What’s harder than Wheeling West Virginia? Flushing New York!”), take as much of a look as I could of my grandparents’ house (there’s an ENORMOUS tree in the front yard that utterly blocks any view of it on Google Maps—and most of the view in real life), then head to the Mets/Marlins game at Citi Field and knock another baseball stadium off my list. (I’m an amateur in this regard, having been to only 12 [three of them defunct]—though Sunday will make it a baker’s dozen).
The day was reasonably nice, temperature moderate, though with hellish humidity (currently 98%) that makes me feel like I’m walking underwater. There was still a chance of rain, though, so I had to load my umbrella and jacket into my backpack in case I needed them during the day (it was mostly too warm to wear the jacket). Passing through the park (no dogs relieving themselves today!), I walked up to 7-Eleven, bought a paper, and hit the ATM (no fees!), then went over to get a bagel, which I assumed I’d eat on my walk to the subway. (The trip to Queens was supposed to take about an hour.)
To shake things up, I ordered a sesame bagel with peanut butter. Now, at home, my accustomed breakfast is a piece of toast with peanut butter (that I grind myself at the supermarket; no Skippy for me). I’ve long since learned, though, to toast the bread and let it sit and cool, otherwise it makes a gawdawful sloppy melted mess. Unfortunately this time, I got the bagel, unwrapped it—and saw a gawdawful sloppy melted mess. I realized that eating this calamity while walking would be courting disaster, so I pulled up to my usual sidewalk-view counter seat and got through it the best I could. In the event, probably as much peanut butter ended up on the wrapping as was in the sandwich. I scraped up as much as I could, but it was a challenge. I really need to go shopping and buy some stuff to make my own breakfast here. Both Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods are only a few blocks away, as are a regular supermarket and a million bodegas.
My surprise of a breakfast put me behind schedule, so I was forced to take a different route to the subway than the one I’d planned, and kept wondering if I was going to have enough time for everything. (As it turned out, I had plenty of time …)
Over on the L to Union Square, up on the 6 to Grand Central, down into the bowels of the Earth for the 7 (a train I hadn’t been in in more than 30 years), and I ended up in Flushing. The first thing that surprised me was how Asian it's become. As I say, I haven’t been there since the early 80s, and found it vibrant and bustling, not the sleepy suburb I’d remembered. There are signs in Chinese everywhere, and it felt even more like a Chinatown than the one back home.
I was supposed to take the 65 bus the last few miles, so coming out of the subway, I found the bus stop, waited, and hopped on the first 66 bus that came along. Just before it took off, I realized I was on the wrong bus and tried the rear exit, but it was locked. We almost immediately stopped at a red light, and I went up to the driver and asked if I could get off since I was on the wrong bus. He told me “no,” but informed me I should get off at the first stop and wait for the 25.
This trip was off to a fine start.
I got off, waited, and the 25 came along relatively quickly. I hopped on (very friendly bus driver this time; not that the other one wasn’t), and settled in for the drive. Unfortunately, I planted myself on the wrong side of the bus, so I couldn’t see out front, so I was treated to a long series of anonymous brick and wood buildings that we were passing by. Since the driver didn’t stop at any stop where no one was waiting or that no one had requested, the trip was relatively short. We arrived in College Point, and I hopped out into a neighborhood that was simultaneously slightly familiar and utterly alien.
When I was a kid, we would get into our red-and-white Ford station wagon every other Sunday and drive the thirty or so miles from West Islip to College Point. My father’s whole family would gather (meaning him, my mother, my sister, my grandparents, and the other ten siblings, their husbands and wives, and all their kids; my cousins. There were about, what? 50 of us?). I wasn’t quite six when we moved to California, so the memories I have are muddled—though I do remember a candy store on the corner that had an excellent selection of comic books, a Sinclair gas station on the other corner, and a bakery down the block (which seemed about a mile away) that sold very good hard rolls.
The bus stop was only a block or so from 126th Street, so I walked down the hill, passed the candy store (which is now a convenience store; I can’t call it a bodega) and the Sinclair station (which is now a Gulf station) and walked down the block to see this enormous fucking tree which blocked everything. (Seriously, I can only imagine what that tree has done to the plumbing.)
Now, the house is small to begin with: in memory, there was an entrance hall, a dining room, a front parlor/living room, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a maid’s room on the first floor, and a sitting room, three (?) bedrooms and a bathroom on the second floor, and that’s it. The house is next to a giant brick building that was a factory that manufactured ladies’ clothes, but is now the New York Indoor Sports Club. Regardless, this building chokes off most of the light the house could get. There’s only one window on that side of the house—about halfway up the stairs—and on the sill was an old clock that scared the beejeezus out of the kids in the family. We used to dare each other to go up the stairs in the dark and pass the clock. (Few of us dared.) How twelve people lived in such a tiny space during the Depression, I have no idea. But this tree! It’s enormous!
I had planned on taking
pictures, but felt I should at least go up and tell the people who own it I was
taking them, just so they wouldn’t think I was some kind of private eye or tree
fetishist. I went up on the porch (where I hadn’t been since 1965), and rang
the bell. I waited close to a minute and was about to give up when I heard a
yappy dog barking from inside, and someone approaching.
The door was opened by a
woman who was probably in her 70s (she could be anywhere from 70 to 90). I
explained that my grandparents had lived there from the 20s to the 60s, that I
hoped to take some pictures, and that I didn’t have any ulterior motives. She said
it was fine, and that was that. She closed the door, and I did the best I could
working around that tree.
After a couple of minutes,
she came out again and called me over, and we discussed a little about my
family. She said, “You must have a brother. From Missouri.” (Well, I don’t have
a brother, but my Uncle Jake lived in Independence and was probably thirty
years older than I and died 30 years ago, but other than that …)
She mentioned that he’d come
to visit the house some time back (she made it sound like it was recent) and
told them how everything had been, and that she would have invited me in, but
couldn’t because of the dog. I said that was fine. (I’ve been told by my sister
that she had gone inside years ago and that the high ceilings had been covered
up by a drop ceiling.) An old man (even older than the woman) came out and sat
on the porch furniture, giving me a semi-stinkeye. (I don’t think he trusted
me.) I wondered why the hell they had porch furniture, given that that tree
covers any view or any chance of sunlight. (Some mysteries are meant to be
unsolved, I guess.) Regardless, I have a feeling that when the current tenants
leave, someone will cut down that tree and do a nice renovation on the place. I
was curious as to its value and looked it up on Zillow. It’s valued at
$732,000, which surprises me to know it’s worth that much, but it’s actually
cheap for the neighborhood; a 1600-sq ft house a block over sold for more than a
million.
I left the house to catch the
bus back to the subway and found myself passing St. Fidelis Catholic Church
(where my aunt had been a nun forever) before coming to downtown College Point,
which is what I had been expecting Flushing to look like; kinda beat-up and
run-down, but trying to make a comeback with a lot of mom-and-pop stores and
restaurants.
One thing I do remember about
the town is, when we would drive there, there would be a point where there
would be this awful smell of petroleum?, sewage?, low tide?, and my sister and
I would turn to each other and say “College Point.” Either the smell is finally
gone, or I had the right weather. Regardless, the bus came along, I got on, and
watched the town pass. I also watched how the driver took the stop signs more as
vague suggestions than requirements, but that’s mass transit, I guess.
We got back to Flushing, and
to make the trip complete, since I’d gotten on the wrong bus to begin with, I
got off the bus a stop too early. It wasn’t too far to the subway station,
though, so I went down below for my trip to the ballpark.
This trip didn’t seem long at
all, and even though my app had told me that the ballpark was a 12-minute walk
from the subway station, it was seemingly less than a thousand yards. I took
some photos, had my bag inspected and my body wanded, and went into the
entrance rotunda, which is huge and dedicated to Jackie Robinson.
Step right up and beat the Mets"
Unfortunately, about the only thing to do in the rotunda is to use it as a transit place before going into the Mets Hall of Fame or the team store. I opted for the former, and found it moderately interesting (I’m not a huge Mets fan), before passing into the store.
I usually buy a cap from the home team when I visit a new ballpark (there is, of course, one major exception to that rule), so I went to that section and saw probably two dozen variations on the basic blue cap with the orange “NY.” I’ve got a big head, so it’s not always easy to find a cap that fits, especially when I refuse to buy an adjustable one; give me one that’s sized, please. I tried on a couple, and was unsatisfied, then saw a pile of size 8s that seemed to fill the bill. I tried one on one of them, and it was too big (a novelty!), so I discarded it. I tried a couple of other smaller ones, but since they were as much as $42, and the too-big one was only $15, guess which one I bought? (That’s it in the photo at the top; Pidge insisted I go for a “Charlie Brown’s All-Stars” look: "People will love it!" I am ... dubious ...)
I left the shop with my hat, then it was up the escalator to the main level. Between the weather and the general lousiness of both the Mets and the Marlins, I didn’t expect a large crowd, and there wasn’t. Combine that with a very, very large concourse (unlike some highly overrated parks that sit next to bays that I could mention), it was a real pleasure to do a circuit and see all the views. I passed by a number of concession stands that were just plain closed (why open them if there was no one to patronize them?) and others that were uninteresting.
I’d researched the food at the park, and it seemed the best food was the fried chicken sandwich at Chef David Chang’s stand, so I headed there. There was the usual assortment of hot dogs, hamburgers, and some tempting barbecue, but I had my mind made up. There was no line, so I went right up, ordered the sandwich and fries, and was mightily disappointed. It was okay, but I’ve had much better chicken sandwiches at McDonald’s, for pete’s sake.
I continued my circuit, passing two (!) stands hosted by Jim Beam bourbon, and a number of beer places that sell not small glasses of overpriced draft beer, but tallboy cans of overpriced beers. (During the game, the guys to my left ordered three jumbo cans of Bud Light for $13.25 each—for Bud Light!) Coming to the end of my lap, I was tempted by a Mister Softee stand, but decided against it, and went to my seat.
Because the teams are so bad, tickets were dirt cheap. I had a seat five rows in back of the Marlins dugout, probably less than 100 feet from the plate, that cost me about $40. That’s nothing as these things go.
When I was thinking about going to a Mets game, I wondered if I should go on September 11. I thought it might get maudlin, but, as it turned out, it was anything but, and I was really glad I went. Game time was 7:10, and at about 6:50, I looked up and saw a line of firefighters in dress uniform being led down the right field line toward home plate. I turned to my left, and saw a bunch of cops similarly coming down the left field line. They stopped at the plate and lined up along their respective baselines. A huge line of cops, firefighter, paramedics, and other first responders then started coming out of the bullpens, lining up on the warning track. They eventually took up about 2/3rd of the track, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, so that’s a lot.
As the crowd started to realize what was happening, everyone rose and gave them a huge ovation, and the teams came out of the dugouts and were spaced in-between the cops and firefighters as hands were shaken and hugs exchanged. There was a tribute to them all, highlighted by a video clip from the first game back after 9/11, when Mike Piazza hit a dramatic home run to give the Mets a win. Daniel Nigro, who became the Commissions of the fire department on that day (when his boss was killed) threw out the first pitch, a firefighter sang a great version of the National Anthem (and later, “God Bless America;” if you want something done right, get an African-American woman to do it), and the whole thing was handled with great taste and respect. It really ended up being quite moving, and I was glad that I’d been there.
As for the game itself, it was about what you’d expect for a game between one team that is 15 games out of first and another that is 23 out. Jacob deGrom (who’s probably going to win the Cy Young Award) started for the Mets, and had nine strikeouts in seven innings, but the Mets never really got on track. There was a triple, some homers (JT Riddle of the Marlins hit a mammoth shot into the upper deck in right field), some sloppy play, and the whole thing was entertaining enough, if relatively uninspired. The people I was sitting with were nice; fun and chatty. Because the crowd was thin (announced at 20.849; I suspect it was closer to 10,000), concession lines were quick. I never get up during a game, but when others did, they were back within minutes, not a couple of innings later. The couple in front of us got their own Mister Softee treats in record time. If nothing else, it was fast, taking only two hours and thirty-nine minutes. (It went so fast, in fact, that at the end of the game, the concessions people were still heavily involved in their cleanup, which would normally have been long over.)
Because the crowd was small
and the park spacious, getting out and back to the train was easy. (I mean,
seriously, it was like a mall a week after Christmas.) Once in the station, I
saw two signs: one for the trains to Manhattan, the other for “Special Events”
trains. I opted for the former, but probably should have chosen the latter,
which seemed to refer to “Super Express” trains that get to Grand Central
faster than the usual locals. I did a little research while we were moving,
though, and saw which stations the super expresses stop at, got off my train
and on another. I don’t know if it was the right one, but we got back to Grand
Central pretty fast.
Because of all the Mister
Softee around me, though, I wanted ice cream. Last year, I’d discovered the Van
Leeuwen chain of ice cream shops that offers a very good product. There was
going to be one on my way from Astor Place to the apartment, so I decided to
stop there, making my way down 7th Street.
On my way, I passed McSorley’s
Old Ale House, a bar that’s been there since 1854 and that I’ve always meant to
go to. I stopped in, expecting to have some whiskey. When I stepped to the bar,
though, the barkeep asked me what I’d have. Not seeing any bottles behind the
bar, I said I was making up my mind. He replied definitively (in an Irish
brogue that may or may not have been authentic), “We have light ale and we have
dark ale.” I said I’d have dark ale, and he brought me two small mugs. As I was
paying, a guy came in and ordered ten mugs, and got them. I picked up the first
and pretty much drained it at once. I don’t know if it was because I was so
thirsty or the ale was so good, but I was through both mugs in, literally,
about three minutes. Despite drinking that amount so quickly, I felt no sense
of inebriation. I think I could easily polish off ten myself with no ill effects.
(Famous last words.)
I left seemingly as soon as I’d
gotten there, made my way to the ice cream shop, found myself mired behind a
trio of Europeans who were seemingly determined to sample every flavor on offer.
The woman behind the counter gave me a sheepish “what are you gonna do?” look,
then asked me if I knew what I wanted. Since I did (coffee and cookies and
cream), she kind of shooed the Europeans (Italians, maybe?) aside, and got me
my cone. I sat and ate happily, then walked the final two blocks back here.
Once again, I’ve run into
5:00 am from a standing start, so I’ll end here. My plans for Wednesday include
another museum and an early bedtime (since I have an 11:30 train to catch on
Thursday for a trip to Hartford, CT), but you’ll read about them next time.
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