I trust that this Bakra Eid/Independence Day double-act afforded you enough days off that you are now itching to get away from your family. I was not with my family for Eid, and to make up for that I had a friend come and stay with me for the weekend.
It is a truism that you are never a tourist in your own town. I know dozens of Lahoris who have lived in the city their entire lives but never been into the walls of old Lahore, or seen Jehangir’s tomb, or visited Nur Jehan’s maqbara. Most people’s entire experience of the old Lahore is limited to little more than a rooftop dinner or a sloppy tryst in a darkened haveli. That’s tragic, if only because there is so much fun to be had outside of constipated conversation under an uplit minaret.
Knowing this, I planned a whole itinerary of things to do that are both free and tick off a bucket list of my own un-visited sites in New York.
Her first choice was the Statue of Liberty, that (now sadly redundant) meet’n’greeter for immigrants coming to the Land of the Free. Ever since 9/11 the statue itself had been closed off to the general public, which is a shame because you used to be able to climb the stairs all the way to her torch and look out and think of the Titanic movie. Fear of being trapped in a stairwell behind an obese kid from Ohio means I never did that, of course, but it’s a nice idea.
Instead we waited in line to get on the Staten Island Ferry.
Staten Island is the fifth and least of the five Burroughs of New York. If the city were Destiny’s Child, Staten Island would be its Michelle – counted and dismissed in one stroke. The island has no subway access, so the only way to get there is the wonderfully quaint ferry ship you catch from the tip of Wall Street, which crosses the river and drops you off on the other side. It was a beautiful sunny day, and we spent the twenty-five-minute trip leaning over the railings to look at the passing views of expansive water against a forest of skyscrapers. At one point, the ship veers close enough to the Statue that you can see the bolts in her metal drapery. Seeing the view, it finally made sense why we had been stopped no less than 16 times on our way to the Ferry by sweaty hawkers trying to sell the same view but for a steep price on a different boat.
'Comfort Zone' - Paulo Zerbato - Mixed media
You alight into a soaring but greying terminal dock. The 300-or-so-strong crowd moved like a shoal of fish, making straight for the boat on the other side that was going back to Manhattan, but we decided to stay for a spot of lunch. The dock leads to an expansive, expensive looking promenade with ice cream shops and discount outlets nestled in concrete vaults of air conditioning. This is the current extent of investment in the the place, because nothing else exists within walking distance of it. Believe me when I say we spent the next two hours trying to find a sandwich and the closest we eventually got was a vending machine in an off-track betting saloon (which, research has since confirmed, is a pretty Staten Island place to eat.)
The ferry ride back is shorter, or maybe it just seemed that way because there were fewer tourists. Either way, the joy at being able to feel and see water does something magical to the mind. It was to recreate this sense of magic that I woke us up at 9 am the next morning, this time to go Kayaking in the Hudson River, the body of sludgy water that run down Manhattan west side. This, too, is free, if you can believe it. All you have to do is arrive at a boathouse, fill in a waiver that says that if you die no body can sue, and then strap on a life vest. The whole process took less than two minutes, and even I was mildly shocked to find myself paddling like Pocahontas on the slimy river as soaring building rose up like mountains all around us.
“Isn’t this lovely!” I shouted across to Marina. She maneuvered through a patch of discarded McDonald’s wrappers and lifted her paddle as if to say “sure!”
Looking at the water is one thing, I mused as I, too, avoided a patch of cigarette butts stuck to a floating wooden spoon, but this might leave a rash. Being close enough to see the discarded plastic bottles pooling in the corner of the dock was not a part of my adventurous summer fantasy, and the longer we stayed inside there, the more water spilled into the kayak. I eventually got out feeling refreshed, moist and slimy all at once. We spent the rest of the afternoon in a park, praying that sunlight has antibacterial qualities.
The weekend proved transformative despite the occasional vending machine or trash river, and a needed distraction from homesickness and terror of mass shootings. My unsolicited advice to you is: Getting out of your comfort zone is the quickest way to get you out of your head and back into the world. So go grab life by the horns!
Unless you’re a goat, in which case R.I.P and see your children next year.
