Metaphors for America: a road trip
When prompted, we tell the U.S. Customs agents we’re heading to New Jersey. “On purpose?” he asks. We’ll be staying in New Jersey but day-tripping into Manhattan, later going to the Jersey Shore for a few days, but the agent doesn’t need to know that, only that we don’t have any citrus.
Traffic is heavy, and somewhere in Connecticut it’s slow but moving steady when a motorcycle pulls alongside. The driver shifts his body, then pops up on his rear wheel, revs the engine and weaves through traffic, monocycle style.
“You got to admit, that’s impressive,” I say to Deb.
“Seriously? He crashes and we all go,” she says.
“Yeah, sure, he’s an idiot, but still…” Metaphor for America.
We visit the Statue of Liberty because it’s a thing to do. The statue is impressive up close, but there is this compulsion to get even closer, inside if you can. We, along with other tourists, pay to climb the pedestal, which is 196 stairs up to a narrow walkway below Liberty’s feet. It is jammed with people taking selfies in front of the Manhattan skyline, which are just like selfies at ground level, only slightly higher. It’s too much for me, too claustrophobic, so I bail, walking back down the 196 steps.
The meaning of the statue has evolved over the years, from a symbol of French resistance to an American emblem of freedom, to a welcome to immigrants from all lands, to a highly secure tourist trap. Will it continue to evolve, maybe into a symbol of American protectionism?
Unfortunately, I am in too much discomfort to think about these things because, due to circumstances I’d rather not get into, the nearly 400 steps up and down have resulted in severe chafing of certain nether regions.
Multiple metaphors for America.
We go to Times Square at night because it’s a thing to do. The lights and crowds are overwhelming. Interspersed among the superheroes posing for photos (for pay) are several women, essentially naked, their bodies and breasts painted to represent the Stars and Stripes or Lady Liberty. They charge at people asking if they want their photo taken with them. An 11-year-old boy takes up the offer. So many questions. Where are his parents? Do they approve? Do you need a licence for this? Or do you just one day decide to be naked in Times Square? It feels like desperation, and I can’t get away from them quickly enough.
Metaphor for America as well as my sexual hangups.
We meet up with Mark, a blogger friend. It’s always uncertain meeting the modern equivalent of a pen pal, but Mark turns out to be exactly like he writes: clever, generous and affable. We have a great day together on a personalized tour of Manhattan, ending the day at Mark’s Midtown office, 50 floors up with a 360-degree view of the city. It’s marvellous watching the lights in the early evening, and I think about the engineering, the human know-how, the sheer infrastructure to make all this run.
I look out to a street stretching in front of me far below, all the way to the edge of the island. If I stand directly in front of that street, I think, if I align myself with it, I will become a part of that continuity, part of that infrastructure. I edge to my left, then a bit more, a couple more steps.
Bam! I slam into a glass partition. The impact of my glasses opens a gash below my eyebrow. Mark has to find a first-aid kit for me, and that’s it for the tour.
Possible metaphor for America but mostly a metaphor for my dorkiness.
Continental breakfast-wise, people sure do like their waffles.
Metaphor for America.
At Ocean City, New Jersey, I’m intrigued by a young woman in glasses, one of the few non-caucasians at the beach (metaphor!). She scampers to the shore, wades into the waves, skips out, then back in. She turns and waves, claps her hands, kicks at the water, then hurries back to her beach chair on shore. She does all this with a huge grin on her face, and she does it over and over throughout the day. She never goes all the way into the water. But it is such joy. She’s just so happy to be in this amazing place.
Metaphor for America.