I don't have an actual bucket list. Yes, there are some cool things I have done that I am glad I was able to do and one is celebrating New Year's Eve in Times Square. This is something that I feel kinda proud to tell people I have experienced but I would never, not in a million years, ever do it again.
The day started out pretty well. It was a warmer December evening - coat, hat, gloves required but not so cold you needed layers. My college boyfriend had family in New Jersey so we were able to take the train into the city and would not need to park in Manhattan. We went early in the afternoon and were able to enjoy a tasty corned beef on rye sandwich at a deli in Times Square and then join the excitement outside.
New York City is a buzz on a normal day but it was electric on this holiday eve. As we sat in the deli with the sounds of Abba's Greatest Hits pumping through the establishment I did not believe I could be any happier. Looking around at all the people from all corners of the world joined together I felt like the main character in the off the wall 90's film Muriel's Wedding. When things were going right in her life she would say, "My life is as good as an Abba song."
After we left the deli and were walking around I noticed store owners were boarding up their windows. I wondered why this was necessary. Were these precautions for the festivities or were they expecting a hurricane, I thought to myself, but with the bars of Fernando still fresh in my mind, I did not give it a second thought. Besides I was about to see Dick Clark.
When we got to Times Square, there were barricades all along the perimeter. Once we passed through we were supposed to stay put. As the area continued to fill up with people you were not guaranteed a spot if you left and wanted to come back. There was a heavy police presence in 1995, but probably only a fraction of what is needed today. The officers were pretty strict and seemed to be focused on keeping order.
It was very cool to see the stage where Dick Clark was set up to broadcast. It would be hours before the show would begin, but by 9 p.m. we were in our place. Unfortunately, we were behind the stage and would not be able to see him or his guests. "Who cares," I thought, still in my own Waterloo. "We have the big Times Square screen and will be able to see and hear everything anyway."
About an hour into the standing, listening to the countdown of hits from 1995, I felt like an animal caged in the zoo. My boyfriend and I realized we would not be able to go to the bathroom for a long time. Others around us, who had probably been on a bar crawl prior to getting into the pen, did not let their surroundings stop them. Many young men were relieving themselves where they stood - in the street! This was the first time the melody to my Abba soundtrack started to hit some sour notes. I was disgusted and made sure their celebratory stream wasn't running my way.
As the clock got closer to 11 I kept waiting to hear Dick's voice. We were still watching videos for the year end music countdown and our conversation had died out. I am not sure where this countdown came from but there were not many songs I recognized. At the time I was a DJ at my college radio station and had my finger on the pulse of popular music. These songs weren't striking any chords with me and I was starting to get tired.
I was starting to think nostalgically of the years I spent ringing in the New Year with my family. I was longing to be by our fireplace breathing in smoke and getting ready to beat pots and pans. I tried to force those thoughts out of my head because spending New Year's Eve in New York was cool and I was cool, damn it. I wasn't a baby who needed her family.
It was almost 11:30 and still no audio from the big ABC show. I thought for sure it would be Dick's voice I would hear counting us down to the new year. Now the only thing getting me through was the big finish- the ball drop and the kiss in Times Square. I somehow expected Rhett Butler to deliver my lips the smooch of a lifetime - the most romantic experience of my young life.
The ball seems really close on TV with cameras zoomed in. In person it was far away, like another galaxy. And the kiss, as soon as our lips touched and the confetti fell we were on the move. I was surprised at how quickly people departed. I guess the people near the Dick Clark stage stay put for a while in the hopes of getting on TV but in the port a potty I was standing in, people were ready to vaminos.
Once on the sidewalk, my feet did not touch the ground. The crowd of people leaving was so jam packed we got caught up in it. I was barely able to hold onto my boyfriend's jacket but knew if I let go I would get trampled or lost. Getting lost would be quite the predicament since we did not yet have cell phones and I did not know his family's number in New Jersey. The movement of bodies almost took my breath away and I could not wait to reach the train station. I finally understood the boarded up windows.
Even without Dick Clark, I continue to watch his countdown show each year. I know if I had not had this experience years ago I would wonder what it would be like to be in Times Square on New Year's Eve. I would think it must be a romantic experience, one that I would like to share with my husband for that magical midnight kiss.
Luckily, I checked that experience off my list at a time when I was young and naïve enough to endure it. These days I keep it local, with a smaller crowd, and a clean bathroom with easy access. With three kids who stay up past their bedtime, the 12:00 a.m. kiss lasts as long as the one in Times Square decades ago, but when it's over the longest walk I have is to my bedroom and there's only one other person fighting to get to the same spot.
Happy New Year!
Friday, December 30, 2016
Friday, December 16, 2016
Stuck In The Middle With You
It is weird how you become instant friends with people when you are in a crisis. Ok. It wasn't actually a crisis - it was me thinking I could get where I needed to go during a Parkway East closure by using the exits that were still open. You can stop laughing now.
I left the North Shore on Saturday at 12:10 p.m. I proceeded to the Parkway East in an attempt to take the Oakland Exit and arrive at Carnegie Mellon for my son's orchestra performance. My GPS said it would take 6 minutes. Much like the lyrics in the Gilligan's Island theme song - where a three hour tour became years, my six minute jaunt across town took one hour and forty minutes.
I am not familiar with the ins and outs of driving in Pittsburgh. Since I never worked in the city, it never became a place I was intimate with. When I first got my driver's license I was not allowed to drive into Pittsburgh. That was off limits. To get around that, my boyfriend and I would take the Parkway East, exit at Stanwix, turn around and come home - all because we just wanted to catch a glimpse of our picturesque skyline.
12:15 p.m. There was nothing picturesque about where I was stuck on Saturday. As soon as I merged onto the Parkway I knew I was in trouble. The Forbes Exit lane was backed up to Grant Street and that was my destination. I texted my son and told him I might be late. I had 50 minutes. But as I looked around all three lanes filled up quickly. There was no where to go. And nothing to look at. The city was behind me and the view of the river was - Pittsburgh winter. Brown and blah.
12:20 p.m. My first thought was food and my second was that I was pretty much on E, but food first. I had bought my youngest a value pack of raisins the night before. Within seconds I devoured that box and only wished there was a street vendor with coffee and chocolate walking through traffic like the t-shirt guy I saw when the Grateful Dead was in town in June of '95. Today no such luck.
12:30 p.m. It was interesting to watch people in cars near by straining their necks to see what was going on up ahead. We could only guess that an accident out of view had caused the major back up we were stranded in. People were rolling down their windows talking to each other like buddies who they had not seen in a while. When a police officer could not get through the bumper to bumper traffic, he left his car and departed on foot. Yes, this was going to take some time.
12:40 p.m. Because I am a person who is always doing something I was out of my element. Forced to sit somewhere and do nothing is not how I roll. I had Christmas cards to write out, lists to make, online shopping to do, but without the cards and my laptop - the North Pole grinded to a halt. There I was left to sit and observe.
12:50 p.m. In forty minutes, I had not moved. I texted my son and told him I would not be there for his performance. People in front of me started to do the unthinkable. Within this confined space, they were turning around to head in the opposite direction. This prospect seemed like my best bet, since I would soon run out of gas, but it would involve me backing up my van, possibly a 15 point turn, in order to escape the Parkway.
12:55 More and more cars were doing this - the lady next to me rolled down her window and asked if I would be attempting an exodus. (In order for her to leave, I had to leave.) I told her I didn't think so. I said, "I am not so good at going backward."
She was facing the good side of the van - the one with the side-view mirror in tact and without a huge dent in the front. Had she seen those she might not have asked but she said she would guide me through. And she did - letting me know how much room I had. "Keep going", "You're doing good",
"You got this."
At one point I was lined up next to another car waiting his turn to get out. Both our windows were down on this cold, cold day and I asked him if he saw what happened up ahead. He didn't see anything either but assured me it must be an accident.
1:10 p.m. I was in line to make an exit onto Grant Street. The traffic light at the top of the ramp allowed commuters to inch ever so slowly to freedom. When I finally reached CMU it was 1:40. I missed the performance, but I was able to catch a glimpse of humanity. In a bad situation, the people around me were able to keep their cool and even assist others who they had never met. Times like these make me realize -we are all in this together and a little kindness from a stranger can be a positive keepsake during an inconvenient afternoon.
I left the North Shore on Saturday at 12:10 p.m. I proceeded to the Parkway East in an attempt to take the Oakland Exit and arrive at Carnegie Mellon for my son's orchestra performance. My GPS said it would take 6 minutes. Much like the lyrics in the Gilligan's Island theme song - where a three hour tour became years, my six minute jaunt across town took one hour and forty minutes.
I am not familiar with the ins and outs of driving in Pittsburgh. Since I never worked in the city, it never became a place I was intimate with. When I first got my driver's license I was not allowed to drive into Pittsburgh. That was off limits. To get around that, my boyfriend and I would take the Parkway East, exit at Stanwix, turn around and come home - all because we just wanted to catch a glimpse of our picturesque skyline.
12:15 p.m. There was nothing picturesque about where I was stuck on Saturday. As soon as I merged onto the Parkway I knew I was in trouble. The Forbes Exit lane was backed up to Grant Street and that was my destination. I texted my son and told him I might be late. I had 50 minutes. But as I looked around all three lanes filled up quickly. There was no where to go. And nothing to look at. The city was behind me and the view of the river was - Pittsburgh winter. Brown and blah.
12:20 p.m. My first thought was food and my second was that I was pretty much on E, but food first. I had bought my youngest a value pack of raisins the night before. Within seconds I devoured that box and only wished there was a street vendor with coffee and chocolate walking through traffic like the t-shirt guy I saw when the Grateful Dead was in town in June of '95. Today no such luck.
12:30 p.m. It was interesting to watch people in cars near by straining their necks to see what was going on up ahead. We could only guess that an accident out of view had caused the major back up we were stranded in. People were rolling down their windows talking to each other like buddies who they had not seen in a while. When a police officer could not get through the bumper to bumper traffic, he left his car and departed on foot. Yes, this was going to take some time.
12:40 p.m. Because I am a person who is always doing something I was out of my element. Forced to sit somewhere and do nothing is not how I roll. I had Christmas cards to write out, lists to make, online shopping to do, but without the cards and my laptop - the North Pole grinded to a halt. There I was left to sit and observe.
12:50 p.m. In forty minutes, I had not moved. I texted my son and told him I would not be there for his performance. People in front of me started to do the unthinkable. Within this confined space, they were turning around to head in the opposite direction. This prospect seemed like my best bet, since I would soon run out of gas, but it would involve me backing up my van, possibly a 15 point turn, in order to escape the Parkway.
12:55 More and more cars were doing this - the lady next to me rolled down her window and asked if I would be attempting an exodus. (In order for her to leave, I had to leave.) I told her I didn't think so. I said, "I am not so good at going backward."
She was facing the good side of the van - the one with the side-view mirror in tact and without a huge dent in the front. Had she seen those she might not have asked but she said she would guide me through. And she did - letting me know how much room I had. "Keep going", "You're doing good",
"You got this."
At one point I was lined up next to another car waiting his turn to get out. Both our windows were down on this cold, cold day and I asked him if he saw what happened up ahead. He didn't see anything either but assured me it must be an accident.
1:10 p.m. I was in line to make an exit onto Grant Street. The traffic light at the top of the ramp allowed commuters to inch ever so slowly to freedom. When I finally reached CMU it was 1:40. I missed the performance, but I was able to catch a glimpse of humanity. In a bad situation, the people around me were able to keep their cool and even assist others who they had never met. Times like these make me realize -we are all in this together and a little kindness from a stranger can be a positive keepsake during an inconvenient afternoon.
Thursday, December 1, 2016
Saints Are Among Us...Really
Now that we have jumped head first into the Christmas season, there is a lot of talk about Santa Claus' alias - St. Nick. Growing up Byzantine Catholic, looking at ornate icons of the saints during liturgy each Sunday, I could never quite understand how the man we know as Santa originated from St. Nick but as long as there were presents involved, who was I to question it.
St. Nicholas Day (December 6) was celebrated each year when I was little by putting our shoes by the door the night before in hopes of receiving small treats and money. There was nothing extravagant about St. Nick Day but I remember fondly the chocolates, coins and sometimes dollar bills that would be waiting in the morning. (Tradition has it that St. Nicholas once secretly threw bags of dowry money into the window of a poor family to save the daughters from being sold into slavery which morphed into the shoe custom of today.)
As a young girl I attended a Catholic school in McKeesport which was named for St. Nicholas. December 6 was celebrated first by going to liturgy, then special lunch in the cafeteria with a visit by the saint himself. I am not sure who had the honor of dressing up in the bishop's vestments (appropriate for Nicholas who during his lifetime served as a bishop in a small Turkish town) but once he arrived we would stand and sing the Hymn to St. Nicholas in both English and Church Slavonic.
I was a painfully shy child and I did not like it very much when I was called to "perform" in front of people. Once I started taking piano lessons, I became the reluctant Liberace whenever someone came to visit. "Kris, play that new one you just learned. You know that one I like with the da-da-da and bab-bab-baaa." Yes, my parents were proud just to hear me play but I was so nervous I could hardly read the notes. I tried to get through a piece as quickly as possible so I could be done.
One day when I was six, we went to visit my grandpap Nick in the nursing home and I was once again called to perform. This time I was asked to sing the Church Slavonic version of the St. Nick hymn. Obviously, I did not want to do this. I could muster my way ok enough through the English but seriously, another language? Plus, my grandfather was suffering with Alzheimer's disease and did not recognize anyone in the room that day. Not my mom, not his wife and certainly not me. 'So why did I have to sing,' I thought?
I did not want to disappoint my mom even though I was troubled by selfish thoughts. It did not occur to me at the time how painful it must have been for her to be there with her father who was not present - or so I thought.
I began singing and within the first few words, I had accompaniment. My grandfather joined me without missing a beat. He did not remember his family but he remembered the words to a song he probably sang countless times on his name saint's feast day. As you can imagine the tears flowed freely from the eyes of my mother and her mother, once again catching a glimpse of the man they knew. At the tender age of six, I was not able to fully comprehend what was happening at that moment and could only wonder why these ladies, who had asked me to sing in the first place, were now obviously upset. Six-year-olds do not know how to recognize tears of joy.
Now decades after that beautiful memory, I have my own Nicholas, named after his great-grandfather. He has a special meal each year on his feast day and even though he is a teenager, he did get excited this week when I asked him what he would like me to prepare. And yes, he and his siblings will put out their shoes the night before.
At church on Sunday my dad will play the part of St. Nicholas for our Sunday School students. Once again I will hear the words that gave my grandfather a voice in the silence of his disease. Centuries ago, St. Nicholas may have secretly brought gifts of money to the poor but in the 80's he gave my family the sweetest gift when two unlikely voices joined in his name, bringing joy to our world that Christmas season.
St. Nicholas Day (December 6) was celebrated each year when I was little by putting our shoes by the door the night before in hopes of receiving small treats and money. There was nothing extravagant about St. Nick Day but I remember fondly the chocolates, coins and sometimes dollar bills that would be waiting in the morning. (Tradition has it that St. Nicholas once secretly threw bags of dowry money into the window of a poor family to save the daughters from being sold into slavery which morphed into the shoe custom of today.)
As a young girl I attended a Catholic school in McKeesport which was named for St. Nicholas. December 6 was celebrated first by going to liturgy, then special lunch in the cafeteria with a visit by the saint himself. I am not sure who had the honor of dressing up in the bishop's vestments (appropriate for Nicholas who during his lifetime served as a bishop in a small Turkish town) but once he arrived we would stand and sing the Hymn to St. Nicholas in both English and Church Slavonic.
I was a painfully shy child and I did not like it very much when I was called to "perform" in front of people. Once I started taking piano lessons, I became the reluctant Liberace whenever someone came to visit. "Kris, play that new one you just learned. You know that one I like with the da-da-da and bab-bab-baaa." Yes, my parents were proud just to hear me play but I was so nervous I could hardly read the notes. I tried to get through a piece as quickly as possible so I could be done.
One day when I was six, we went to visit my grandpap Nick in the nursing home and I was once again called to perform. This time I was asked to sing the Church Slavonic version of the St. Nick hymn. Obviously, I did not want to do this. I could muster my way ok enough through the English but seriously, another language? Plus, my grandfather was suffering with Alzheimer's disease and did not recognize anyone in the room that day. Not my mom, not his wife and certainly not me. 'So why did I have to sing,' I thought?
I did not want to disappoint my mom even though I was troubled by selfish thoughts. It did not occur to me at the time how painful it must have been for her to be there with her father who was not present - or so I thought.
I began singing and within the first few words, I had accompaniment. My grandfather joined me without missing a beat. He did not remember his family but he remembered the words to a song he probably sang countless times on his name saint's feast day. As you can imagine the tears flowed freely from the eyes of my mother and her mother, once again catching a glimpse of the man they knew. At the tender age of six, I was not able to fully comprehend what was happening at that moment and could only wonder why these ladies, who had asked me to sing in the first place, were now obviously upset. Six-year-olds do not know how to recognize tears of joy.
Now decades after that beautiful memory, I have my own Nicholas, named after his great-grandfather. He has a special meal each year on his feast day and even though he is a teenager, he did get excited this week when I asked him what he would like me to prepare. And yes, he and his siblings will put out their shoes the night before.
At church on Sunday my dad will play the part of St. Nicholas for our Sunday School students. Once again I will hear the words that gave my grandfather a voice in the silence of his disease. Centuries ago, St. Nicholas may have secretly brought gifts of money to the poor but in the 80's he gave my family the sweetest gift when two unlikely voices joined in his name, bringing joy to our world that Christmas season.
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