East Coast Nostalgia

Saturday night, I went with the boys to see Captain America. The old-timey New York backdrop tricked me into thinking that I was about to step out into modern-day Times Square, about to make the no-win choice between the depressing 7^th-to-8^th-Ave. tunnel (aka “The Tunnel of Doom”) or pushing through throngs of tourists/darting in and out of the bus lane to make it to the 7 train. I really thought for a minute that I’d be impatiently standing on the platform late at night, smelling that peculiar Times Square subway smell of stale popcorn and axle grease. I thought I’d be coming home through the dingy front hallway of our Queens apartment, pouring myself a glass of water in our kitchen with the sunny yellow paint, throwing Roger treats to scrabble for along the hardwood floor. It was a little freaky when I realized I was still in California.

You see, we just returned from our first trip “back East,” and I’m having some strange flashes of East Coast nostalgia. I’ve been steadily downing the California Kool-Aid for a few months now, but this trip reminded me of my lazy, leisurely summers growing up. I thought I’d hate the humidity, but I realized that it’s a mixed bag. I actually quite liked it at night, when I sat outside in Portland, Maine, in the exact same linen top and summery shorts I’d worn during the day. At night, humidity makes everything feel sort of tropical and romantic. (During the day, it wreaks havoc on my hair.) It reminded me of sitting out on the back patio at Bull McCabe's in NYC, or of listening to friends play the guitar on the shore in Bristol, RI. Even the heat (though we left before the extreme heat!) reminded me of days spent reading in the backyard; attempting to make it through the small classics shelf at the Pontiac Free Library.

On our way back from the East Coast, we had to switch planes in New York. Catching our shuttle from JFK to LaGuardia, I really felt like I should be explaining to a cab driver how to get to Woodside instead, following his movements despite his insistence that he knows where he is going. (Otherwise, the exit inevitably comes and goes, and we go on a nauseating and unnecessary tour of Queens Boulevard.) We had a very New York interaction with the shuttle ticket seller, that special kind of exchange in which you, as a customer, ask a service provider a simple question (“Is this where the LaGuardia shuttle stops?”) and s/he acts entirely offended that you have dared asked her/him to perform the job s/he is paid to do. The city felt harsh, but still felt like home.

When we came back to our current home, our apartment building didn’t really feel like “home” yet. Only when we picked Roger up from Sam’s did it start to feel “homey” again. (I think I’ll put that on a cross-stitch sampler: Home is where your cat is.) I’m still very happy here, and I think it will feel like “home” before long….but Northeastern summers will always hold a special place in my heart.