This column is part two of the series which began with Taking Manhattan: It's a long way from Arizona to the Big Apple.
As Times Square went into high alert security mode and was virtually shut down to all incoming traffic which did not want to succumb to a full body (or trunk) search, we headed out of Dodge and into the wilds of New Jersey. But not before I had been asked a full three times where I was from, never an easy question or a short answer. Instead it seems to require full disclosure of where I was born, where I went, and why I’m back.
The first inquiry on the elevator came from a Texas cowboy, minutes after we’d checked into the glorious Presidential Suite. It was his first time in New York and, frankly, he appeared a little shell-shocked. Something in the way he asked, “Are you from here?” seemed to imply, “How can anyone survive out there with all those people?!”
The second time was when a young Asian couple approached me as I sat on the steps of St. Patrick’s. They actually didn’t even bother to ask if I was from out-of-town and just launched right into a litany of questions. First they wanted to know where the Wells Fargo Bank was. I shrugged and said I thought I saw a Chase Bank down the block, but that’s about it. Then they asked where “Little Korea” was. There’s a Little Korea? They walked away shaking their heads.
And the third time was our friendly subway font of information. Why he asked if I was from out of town when I was asking him for directions, I don’t know. But I didn’t feel like retelling the whole transplant tale again so my answer came out as a tri-syllabic yeeeahhhh…
At any rate, we were on our way to the real homeland, our nephew James and his girlfriend Christine in tow. Unfortunately, the state of New Jersey is still recovering from Hurricane Irene, which meant some major roads were closed and the remaining roads had even more traffic than usual. What should have been a one hour car ride took close to two and a half hours as we wound our way through multiple towns and detours.
Also, unfortunately for James and Christine, this meant they were subject to what our daughters usually have to endure on trips home: a recitation approximately every 1.8 miles of something that happened there. We cannot resist regaling the back seat with a history of every job, every party, every restaurant, every house, every accident, every park, store or sidewalk upon which any event in our lives of any consequence, big or small, ever occurred. It was the first time we had met Christine, and I know two things: 1) she thinks I’ve had about 18 different jobs, and 2) if she harbors suspicions that a certain segment of James’ family is nuts, I will understand.
After a lovely family dinner, which the rest of the family graciously waited for us to enjoy (another advantage traveling west to east, 8:30 eastern time is only 5:30 Arizona time, perfect for dinner. For us anyway.), we retired to get ready for Saturday’s festivities, the main reason we were there: celebrating our good friends’ George and Carmen’s 30th wedding anniversary.
Back in Arizona, when we were making travel arrangements and trying to find a hotel where we could stay Saturday night near the party, we ran into other special challenges. Unlike Arizona, where cities are fairly large, geographically anyway, and often contain several zip codes within the same municipality, New Jersey towns are tiny. And for some reason, they often go by more than one name. Sometimes those who live and work in the towns themselves don’t even know what they’re called.
I give you Exhibit A. The town we wanted to stay in or near goes by, no exaggeration, at least six different names. On any given day, it might be called Allemuchy, Mount Olive, Hackettstown, Stanhope, Flanders, or Budd Lake. Seriously.
Do you realize how much confusion this causes when one is calling hotels.com? They didn’t know what the hell we were talking about.
So I decided to directly call the country club where the party was going to take place and ask them where was the nearest hotel (because at this point we’d already determined there was no hotel onsite, again unlike Arizona where there seems to be a hotel on every corner). And do you know what they said when I asked them what town they were in, Hackettstown or Allemuchy? They said, “Well it’s really both, but we prefer to say Allemuchy.”
Well of course they do. Who wouldn’t? After all, it’s so easy to pronounce.
To add insult to injury, they kept telling me that they thought there was a hotel right near the Shop-Rite. It didn’t seem to be penetrating that I was calling from Arizona and had no idea where the Shop-Rite in Allemuchy/Mount Olive/Hackettstown/Stanhope/Flanders/Budd Lake was!
Before I end the ranting portion of our story, let me just mention the two other issues I have whenever driving again in New Jersey:
a) Somehow the existence of street lights still seems to have escaped the notice of street planners there, even on major highways.
and
b) Many addresses have done the same as far as GPS goes. And when you cannot GPS an address and ask a New Jersey native for directions, nine times out of ten they will not use street names but landmarks when telling you where to turn. This works fine in one direction, but on the return trip? You’re gonna need bigger landmarks.
And these are the reasons we spent 85% of our time there lost.
But you know what? Getting lost, floods, detours, thousands of mosquito bites, threat of bears, lack of hotels, and traffic notwithstanding, it’s always a good thing to be back with your oldest and dearest friends and family.
Our friends' anniversary party was beyond compare, and the sort of memory we wouldn’t want to miss for the world.
Having your cousin bring you your favorite bagels in the whole world for breakfast (from Sam's Bagels in Wayne) is the best meal you can imagine.
Watching old home movies of yourself in your younger days, with those you remember you from those younger days, is a special kind of poignant. It’s good now and then to see yourself through the eyes of those who know your history. And love you anyway.
And the gods were with us because on both legs of our journey, our three bags were marked ‘priority’ and were the first ones off the plane (even if we did watch one of them go around four times before realizing it was ours). Or maybe it wasn’t so much the gods as Jimmie, who later asked me, “Do you think it had anything to do with the twenty dollar tip I gave them each way?”
Ummm, yeah, I think it may have had something to do with that.
And for that tip I could have bought a massage parlor purse!
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