Getting lost to find yourself
Back in college, I landed an internship at a magazine in New York. My parents let me go, but not before my father handed me a newspaper clipping about a murder somewhere in the city.
“Don’t go out after sunset,” he warned. “Not after 7 p.m.”
“I'll be fine, Dad.” I didn’t want him to worry, but I also didn’t want to stay in every night, either. A friend was also going to be in New York that summer to work in the fashion industry, two Bay Area girls in the big city.
I came up with a plan. If we were going out on the weekend, I’d call my parents on Saturday afternoon, Pacific time. That way, they wouldn’t call later and fret if I didn’t pick up (it was 1996, before the widespread adoption of cell phones and cheap long distance). Even now, I feel a wee bit guilty for this deception, but I wanted my independence. Besides, my friend and I weren’t going wild. Our idea of a good time was checking out a free concert in Central Park or swing dancing in the plaza at Lincoln Center.
At the beginning of the summer, we harbored suburbanite suspicions of public transportation — fine during the day, but dangerous at night? We walked home instead, block after block. Eventually, sheepishly, we figured out the subways were safe, but more often than not, we still preferred to walk, to take in the bustle and boldness of New York. I came to know my way around Manhattan and grew to have confidence navigating new places, a confidence that I carried with me every time I reported from abroad years later. I had no qualms slipping into a jimjilbang bathhouse in Seoul by myself, catching a trans-isthmus train in Panama, strolling along the beach in Abu Dhabi or wandering the narrow lanes in Hong Kong.
Over the weekend, my confidence faltered when I was in New York for the Brooklyn Book Festival. I haven’t been to that borough in probably more than a decade and a half, even though I knew many writers and journalists who lived there. We’d always met in Manhattan instead. But I’d just hop on the subway and find my way as usual, right?
The subway station was unmanned, with turnstiles that extended to the ceiling. I had to run the MetroCard a few times through the reader, and when the machine finally accepted it, I bungled getting through, saddled down with my backpack, purse and a roller bag. Feeling like a bumpkin, I added money to my card. Due to earlier delays, the express train I was supposed to catch wasn’t coming, and might never, friends had warned me. I grabbed the next train, which I realized — after an anxious few minutes of searching on my phone — would get me to another stop close to my hotel.
How could I get lost here? Shouldn’t it be easier for travelers these days, with GPS, maps and public transportation schedules at our fingertips? I hated feeling like my skills had atrophied, like I’d become a washed-up college athlete who hurt myself by attempting moves that used to come easily to me. When we moved away from San Francisco, I’d vowed to myself that I wouldn’t lose my ability to get around in cities, but as a mom — juggling work and parenting at the start of the school year — I couldn’t prepare thoroughly before my trip. In New York, I’d remained distracted, still worrying about matters related to the twins, whereas in the past, I only had to be concerned about myself.
Upon arrival in Brooklyn, I discovered that Prospect Park — where I was headed next for a friend’s toddler birthday party — was located a couple of miles away, and not around the corner from the hotel. In a Country Mouse moment, I’d naively equated the borough to the size of the Mission District, when in fact Brooklyn is about 70 square miles, San Francisco is 47 square miles, and Oakland 78 square miles. Now I understand why perhaps New Yorkers are sometimes patronizing about San Francisco — how charming, how cute we are!
At the park, a singer-guitarist filming a guerrilla music video, picnicking hipsters and young families made me feel right at home. Just like Dolores Park, I told my friend, except for the lack of slacklines in the vicinity. My friend gave me a puzzled look.
Lines strung between trees, a few feet off the ground, for folks to walk and balance upon, I explained. I could tell he found it silly, bizarre and amusing, and we both laughed.
On the rest of the mini book tour, I finessed multiple modes of transportation: walking, subway, Metro North to New Haven, Amtrak to Newark, rideshares in between, and then the hotel shuttle, the plane and BART to get home — where I couldn’t wait to return, and where, it turns out, I still know how to leave.
In a Country Mouse moment, I’d naively equated Brooklyn to the size of the Mission District.