It must have been close to five in the morning when we crossed the George Washington Bridge into New York. I wasn't driving, Carlo was, it was his car. I had never been to New York before, and neither had he. Of the four people in the car, only Amber in the back seat had ever been to New York: she used to date a guy who lived on West 113th between Broadway and Amsterdam.

I had never even been to any of the states we passed through on the way to New York. Also in the back seat was Julie, who told me later that she hadn't read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance because the book's first page featured a quote from the Phaedrus, and she didn't want to deal with it. The four of us had been lounging in Julie's apartment in DC. It was nearly one in the morning, and we were wondering how to spend the remainder of Friday night. I suggested we go somewhere new. I didn't intend New York, that seemed too far, and I had to catch a train at 11:30 the next morning; I suggested Philadelphia. It was close and could be exciting.

Julie, however, wanted to see New York, so we went there. States like Delaware and Jersey don't really serve any purpose, and they know it. They toll the hell out of you, knowing that you don't have any other route to New York. They don't have toll highways in the West. When I first came East, everyone chided me for calling all limited access multi-lane roads "freeways." That's what we call them in the West, but they aren't at all free in the East, and people call them highways instead. Maybe it's because everything is so spread out in the West; maybe the reason is that attitudes are different.

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In any event, the only tolls out West are over bridges.About a year ago, I was traveling with some friends from Tucson to Fort Davis, Texas. The only place we were ever forced stop was at an INS checkpoint near El Paso. We had an Australian with us who had left his papers in Tucson. The INS agent gave him a tongue-lashing, but let us go because he just wanted some Mexicans to bust. Sure, the INS agent is a bad example of why the West is better, but the point remains: You have to stop the car much more frequently in the East.

Carlo is from the West too, and Delaware and Jersey just reinforced our opinions of the East. Somewhere in the middle of Jersey, we stopped at a rest stop. They call them "service stops" in the East, and they are very different from the rest stops of the West. Out West, a rest stop might be some picnic tables and bathrooms off the side of the freeway, maybe with vending machines. The fancy ones have a map on
display. The really fancy ones have a gas station. Out East, they're closer to mini-malls than to rest stops.

This stop in New Jersey had a Starbucks Coffee, a huge display showing the whole Eastern seaboard, gas, and a 24-hour mini-mart. Carlo bought cigarettes, and I bought some corn chips and sodas. We also bought a little map of New York. As we walked out the door, the clerk turned, gave us a grave look, and said with great seriousness "Take care.""We will," was Carlo's reply. He felt compelled to respond with the same severity with which she asked. She must see many travelers on their way to New York. Every night, she probably encounters numerous people heading to the City to start new lives, visit friends, escape.

Maybe there was something about the four of us, or the loneliness of the hour that incited concern in the clerk. Maybe she's like that with all travelers. The New Jersey Turnpike has very little in the way of scenery, especially not at four in the morning, and when New York's majestic skyline broke into view, we knew that something better was waiting. Our first glimpse of New York consisted of two thoroughly bombed out cars pushed to the side of the exit ramp. We entertained visions of entering a sinister ghetto, and of being shot by crack dealers waiting on the corner for tourist kids to take the wrong off-ramp.

The map confirmed our fears: we were entering the island just a few blocks north of Spanish Harlem. However, at five in the morning, there was nearly no one out, and we proceed unmolested and much relieved. We headed south on Amsterdam, in search of Columbia University, where Julie and Amber had some friends. We knew it was in the neighborhood of Broadway and West 110th, and we located the school in about twenty minutes.Columbia is quite a school. The main body of the campus is walled in, occupying several city blocks.

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At five thirty in the morning, we could hardly tell we were right in the heart of New York City. The stairs to Columbia's library lead to a large semicircular platform before the door, which is topped by a semidome that looks like the top to most states' capital buildings. The dome is supported by Greek-style pillars. The whole
bit looks like it is made out of white marble.

As we walked passed this building, Carlo and I had the first of several discussions regarding the prevalence of this architectural style. My theory (at least in this educational context) is that since Western education has both feet firmly planted in Greek literature and thought, the designers of these buildings hope to provide some extra justification for the activities that take place inside by making the building look Greek.

Carlo's feeling is that the style was just popular when America was being built, and most buildings like that are just copies of some other building. The guards at Columbia were very cordial, and helped Julie and Amber find their friends, and even let them use the desk phone. Julie located her friend first, and went up to chat while Amber and Carlo and I headed off to locate Amber's friend Maxwell.

Maxwell struck me as unique. Although there was little in this brief encounter to justify such an impression, he none the less struck me as such. I think this impression came from the way he was always thinking, but not about the conversation at hand. He was leaning against the wall in his shorts, tee shirt, and bathrobe, and he always seemed to be slightly elsewhere. Not that he ignored the conversation, he was always right with that, but he appeared to have a mental acuity that allowed him to concentrate simultaneously on two probably unrelated issues.

He was justifiable annoyed that his sleep had been rather abruptly interrupted, but amused none the less at the context of the situation. He didn't know Amber and Carlo were together, and I think that he thought that Carlo and I were romantically involved. He asked where we were from, and although he was also from California, we didn't think he would be familiar with the suburbs from which we hail, so we answered "San Francisco."

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"You look like San Franciscans," he replied.

A strange comment, to be sure, but not entirely unreasonable. We really did dress like people from San Francisco, the cold careless clothing of Westerners who have not been defeated by a need to impress others with name brands, but judging from later comments, I think Maxwell meant "You look like homosexuals."

After several more minutes of conversation, Maxwell asked, "Do you guys live on the Embarcadero?"

The only people who live in San Francisco's Embarcadero Office Plaza are the homeless and the investment bankers who are chained to their desks. On the drive backSouth, Carlo and I realized that he may have meant "Do you live in the Castro?" We assumed that being from Sacramento, Maxwell simply had the areas
confused.

What is strange about this was our reaction to it. We weren't offended, even if Maxwell's meaning was what we thought it might be. However, if he had come out and asked "Do you live in the Castro?" or "Are you two together?" we would have been offended. But, as it was, his intent may have been the same, but it was his faulty understanding of the city that preserved us from offence.

We had to leave New York by six to get back to DC in time for me to catch my train. We said our fare-thee-wells to Maxwell, gathered up Julie, and went back to the car.Amber was visibly disturbed by her visit with Maxwell. They had known each other in high school (which still confuses me because Amber is from Florida and Maxwell from California). Neither she nor he had any protocol for unexpected early morning visits by old friends from far away who could only stay for ten minutes. Their conversation consisted mainly of small talk and anecdotes, and they were both clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

The drive back was difficult, our expectations had ruined it for us. We had left DC with the expectation "we will drive four hours to New York, and look up friends when we get there." If our expectation had been "we will drive four hours to New York, look up friends when we get there, and then drive four hours home," we would have been serving ourselves better maybe, but it's possible that our limited expectations allowed us to enjoy the trip up more than we would have otherwise.

Our expectation of New York was that it was big city, whichwe did not know how to navigate, did not know where anything was, and we really didn't know what to do when we got there. These expectations allowed us to have an adventure. If we had known that we would get off the bridge in a sketchy neighborhood, turn right down Amsterdam, park on Broadway in front of Columbia, and then know where to go to get Amber and Julie's friends' numbers, the sense of discovery would have been greatly lessened.

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We had no idea of what to expect, and our expectation of adventure was well met, and probably self-fulfilling. It was our failure to properly expect the drive home that made it so long. Julie and Amber fell asleep in the back seat somewhere in Jersey. Carlo was still driving. I felt bad not offering to drive, but I was tired The mood in the car was relaxed, like the final moments of a late night jazz performance in a restaurant, after most of the patrons have departed for home, the performers savoring one last slow ballad, the wait-staff relishing this unhurried time before the last of the diners leave.

We stopped for gas in Delaware, and made it back DC around 10:30 in the morning, and despite having lost my ticket, I made the train to Boston on time. Disillusion with the East grew, and I was glad that Carlo and I spent Christmas back home near San Francisco. It had been dark for a long time when my plane touched down by the Bay, and I spent the first night at Carlo's with Alex and Alan.

We stayed up all night drinking rum. Alex and Carlo argued passionately about Derrida (before whom Carlo was later fated to embarrass himself) while Alan watched amusedly and I played pinball We parted company in the mid-morning when I left to walk home. The bright warm colors of juniper bushes and Japanese cherry blossoms told me that I was in California. In the East in winter, everything is gray.

The sky is gray, the ground is covered in snow, and the only color is the orange that you hold in your hand in front of you in a concerted effort to color the world. It was Jody that showed me how to use an orange to make color of an Eastern winter. In the West, it may be cold, but the sky is clear, and the sun illuminates pink cherry blossoms with a translucent glow that I am glad I no longer take for
granted. The cherry blossoms stand proudly, with an acceptable degree of
self-righteousness.

It is much better out West.

Boston, MA
January 1999
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