No Place Like Home

Back in the midst of a busy, adventure-filled summer, the college at which I'm employed announced an opportunity for students, faculty, and staff to take a one-day whirlwind trip to Manhattan (New York City, of course) to visit the 9/11 Memorial Museum, followed by a brief tour of the city. 

Although I'm not the spontaneous type, it took me approximately 60 seconds (enough time to clear the day off with my boss) before I pounced on the opportunity like a cat on a mouse. Unfortunately, that hastily-organized (and hastily-advertised) venture didn't attract a sufficient amount of participants, so it was postponed and eventually rescheduled for last weekend.

So, on Saturday morning I hurried out of bed at the painful, rarely-seen (by me) hour of 2 am as a blessed wave of adrenaline propelled me onto the bus leaving for NYC at 4:30 am.  Approximately eight hours and a few stops later, the scenery changed from landmark-less highway to massive buildings as we drove through Jersey City into the Holland Tunnel and, at long last, Manhattan. 

My cellphone camera couldn't really capture the sheer height of Manhattan's buildings, nor the hustle bustle below.

I feared whiplash as my overloaded senses swung my head from side to side in an effort to take in all of the foreign sights and sounds. Prior to our scheduled tour of the museum, we had just enough time for a food-cart lunch and entertainment by street performers, neither of which I've ever experienced at home. I clearly wasn't in Kansas (or rural WNY, in my case) anymore.

The museum visit began with an airport-like security checkpoint (complete with plastic bins for personal items and full-body scanning booths) at its entrance. Our tour guide, who met us just prior to lunch, announced that the museum was designed as a self-guided tour, so the whole concept of staying together as a group went out the window as group members splintered off into groups of twos and threes and scattered. One moment I was with the group, the next I was surrounded by people, but unfamiliar people. After at least 30 minutes of steadily-increasing panic, I pulled out my phone, thankfully found our tour director's number, and asked where she was. Shortly afterward, she and a few group members came to find me. 

The "Last Column" at the 9/11 Memorial Museum

The "Survivors' Stairs," implanted next to the escalator

For the rest of the solemn, emotionally-charged museum tour, I was unfortunately distracted by a concerted effort to keep at least two group members in my line of sight at all times. In hindsight, maybe that was beneficial since it blunted the impact of the shocking photos, videos, and Ground Zero remnants, all of which had hit me full force when watching 9/11 documentaries during the two weeks prior to our visit.

After the museum visit, we slowly rounded up all of the scattered group members and walked outside to take in the stunning memorial waterfall, which contains the carved names of nearly 3,000 individuals lost to the 9/11 attacks and the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. 

 
Then we were herded back onto the bus for the remainder of the tour, stopping first in Battery Park for a quick photo op of the Statue of Liberty, which was just visible across the Hudson River, and then on to Chinatown, where the tour ground to a halt, literally and figuratively. 

The Statue of Liberty...between my hair strands.

Although it seemed like a terrible idea to me, some of the group members wanted to spend an hour shopping and exploring. Despite my misgivings, I got off the bus (I desperately needed to stretch my legs) and stuck like glue to one of my coworkers, who once lived in Manhattan and knew his way around the city. The tour guide assured us it was safe, but I had my doubts. The street vendors, selling everything from touristy tchotchkes, T-shirts, bongs, jewelry, scarves, food, and knock-off designer handbags and "Rolexes," are aggressive, getting right in your face (literally) to promote their wares. After wandering into Little Italy's packed-beyond-belief San Gennaro festival and getting out alive, with my valuables intact, I was ready to get back on the bus and stay there. 

Unfortunately, one of the students apparently wasn't. The appointed departure time came and went, but the missing student didn't return. After an hour and a half of panic, as the tour director frantically searched for his phone number, the student, realizing his plight, borrowed a cellphone from a stranger and sent the director an email (he didn't have her number either) telling her where he was. So the missing student was rounded up and shepherded back to the bus. 

By then it was dark and past our scheduled departure for home, so we scrapped the rest of the tour and embarked on a makeshift skyline tour through Brooklyn and back into Manhattan, passing through the incredible Times Square (lit up like Las Vegas) on our way to the Lincoln Tunnel and back home.

The Brooklyn skyline

So I came home, exhausted at 4:30 am, with unforgettable memories, broadened horizons, and a deeper appreciation for my own normal, quiet, simple, every day small-town life. In fact, I felt very much like post-Oz Dorothy as each mile separated me from the overstimulating sounds, sights, smells, and endless traffic jams with accompanying honking and hand gestures. 

My lesson was the same as Dorothy's: that bigger (and louder and more colorful) isn't always better. Sometimes exactly what you need is waiting for you at home.

Have Passport, Will Travel

My first-ever passport arrived in the mail last month. (Nearly a month later, my excitement and disbelief have yet to dampen.) 

I could hardly believe it when I opened the envelope and held it in my hand. But sure enough, when I opened the book, there was my mugshot-like photo, name, and date of birth. For the next 10 years I'm permitted by my government to travel internationally. I can go to Canada; Paris, France; or embark on a tropical cruise. There's nothing, aside from work, fear, and frugality, holding me back now.

This passport is more than a stapled book of blank pages to me. 

It represents victory over anxiety, depression, fear, financial struggles, and multiple-job constraints. 

It signifies putting my longtime dream of travel writing (a part-time hobby, of course) into action. 

It's a step of faith that the right international travel opportunities will present themselves and that I'll respond affirmatively when (not if) they do. (I'm currently browsing Carribbean cruises for next summer!) 

It's a license to change my life by changing my scenery and exploring life beyond my native country. 

It's a display of hope that my future will be broader and more exciting than my past. 

Holding this passport, I know that I haven't given up on life despite my struggles. I've allowed anxiety to cripple me in the past, for too many years, but I won't allow that anymore.

I'm hopeful for the future, for the first time in years. I, who have always wanted to know right now where I'll go and what I'll do tomorrow, am becoming increasingly comfortable with the discomfort of not knowing what's ahead of me. 

I can trust that it will be good.