Start Spreading the News . . . and All of the Other Clichés Surrounding the Big Apple

"I can't write a blog about my trip to New York! I'm not trendy enough. What am I thinking?" I wailed from my television-viewing perch in our midtown Manhattan hotel room.

I was watching a show on NYC nightlife, one of those cable access-type shows that are broadcast in hotels to entice tourists into businesses and shops and restaurants and nightclubs in the hopes that we tourists will spend lots of money, drink lots of alcohol, and thereby stimulate the local economy.

Obviously, I knew nothing about participating in nightlife since it was 9:30 p.m. on day two of my excursion, and I was sprawled out on the bed (despite the onslaught of bedbugs in New York hotel rooms as reported on the Today Show that morning), living vicariously through the twenty-somethings on the T.V. screen who were getting their groove on at some hip hot spot in some random area of the city.

In fact, I got the impression that I did not know the first thing about how to truly experience the city. Dan and I opted to cram our days full of sightseeing activities that centered around "educational" experiences - cultural tours, museum visits, hop-on/hop-off bus rides, etc. Quite often, we were the only North American tourists on these ventures.

"Americans must just come to New York to party," Dan observed.

By the time we came back to the hotel from our pack-as-many-activities-into-24-hours-as-we-possibly-can missions (which has always been Dan's and my modus operandi when traveling), the last thing I wanted to do was go back out on the town and party. And I couldn't use old age as an excuse. Those women on Sex and the City are all older than I am. (Later that week, we saw four Broadway shows which made me feel a little more connected to the city's nightlife.)

Our New York vacation had gone smoothly so far, and NYC was definitely a unique city, crowded and fun, never lacking in entertainment, each day full of incessant energy. I am assuming most people feel the same way about the city, hence the nickname "The City that Never Sleeps." But prior to our visit, we encountered some leery skepticism that overshadowed the widely publicized positive aspects of the city and planted a few preconceived notions in our minds.

When people found out Dan and I were planning a trip to New York, I received all sorts of warnings from fellow travelers about avoiding pick-pockets and muggers and how to figure out where not to go. Never had I heard so many cautious travel tips when preparing to visit St. Louis, Chicago, Washington D. C., San Francisco, Philadelphia, Seattle, or any other large U. S. city.

"Always carry your purse in front of you."

"Get a money belt . . . with a padlock"

"Walk like you know where you're going, and don't ask for directions."

"Don't make eye contact with anyone."

"Don't expect people to be friendly."

"Don't take pictures. They will know you are tourists."

"Don't carry around a map (which was going to be excruciating for my husband who reads maps for fun on a daily basis). They will know you are tourists."

When traveling, my mantra has always been, "Be smart . . . and don't get ushered into any unmarked cars like in the government espionage movies."

Was NYC really going to be that different from any other metropolitan area? Was I going to have to revamp my whole way of thinking when it came to travel? Was I not going to be able to document any of my experience by snapping the occasional picture or picking up a touristy brochure here and there?

As it turned out, Manhattan was not any different from any other city as far as its safety or friendliness. In fact, it felt safer and seemed cleaner than most places I had traveled. And half of its population is made up of tourists anyway, so we weren't the only ones snapping pictures on the street or asking questions.

What I did find is that people are just people. Some people are friendly; some people are mean. Some people are honest; some people are deceitful. Some people are vegetarian and eat at local organic delis; some people still buy fur at Sax Fifth Avenue (you can decide which is the more humane option). Some people like to party at Manhattan hot spots; some people like to take walking tours in Greenwich Village (that would be me).

During my first couple of days in the city, I ran across a political group handing out fliers about voting Republican in the next election. I saw a man wearing a t-shirt that read "Welcome to America. Now speak English." I heard a tour guide say "I just love the working class! They are so friendly."

"I feel like I'm in Idaho," I grumbled.

I guess people are the same everywhere.

Only one of my preconceived notions was proven to be true - the notion that New York drivers are erratic. This cliché became part of my New York paradigm after watching the movie Elf. "The yellow ones don't stop," Will Ferrell says, referring to the taxi cabs. Earlier in the movie he had been hit by one. (Pathetically, Dan and I spent much of our Manhattan trip quoting dialogue and looking for landmarks from Elf.)

The yellow ones really don't stop. Neither do the sedans or the buses or the vans or the shuttles or the pedestrians for that matter. Who needs traffic lights or crosswalks? Just dart across the street between cars when there is a slight break in traffic. Did the light just barely turn green? Honk your horn just to make sure the person in front of you saw it. Do you need to talk to one of your passengers, Mr./Ms. Shuttle Driver? Go ahead and turn around, and don't worry about keeping your eyes on the road. Those brake lights shining on the cars in front of you are overrated anyway. And you have terrific reflexes.

During one of our tour bus rides, a taxi passed us on the left side of a narrow street, boldly driving into oncoming traffic.

"They think they own the streets. But if they hit us, they are goners, and we just keep right on going," our guide smirked.

Dan and I just laughed, finally desensitized to the insane traffic in New York and accepting that, yes indeed, the bus probably would keep right on going.

Rather than regurgitate a daily activity log which would probably be the length of a novel (as I said, when traveling, Dan and I try to accomplish as many activities in every 24-hour period as possible), I'll just highlight some of my most interesting Big Apple observations. Some of my encounters left me saying, "Only in New York . . . " Others just reinforced my belief that sometimes people are just people.

CBGB is now a John Varvatos boutique that sells pants somewhere in the neighborhood of $800. You may not appreciate the tragic incongruity of this, especially if you are not familiar with CBGB. Don't feel bad. Dan and I were the only two people on the New York Night Tour who knew what our guide was talking about. Look it up on Wikipedia. Then you too can shake your head at the materialism in our capitalist society.

Also in the Bowery (if I remember the location correctly), there was a Halloween store displaying the face of a devil right next to a church.

We ate lunch in a deli, and our table was next to three gorgeous, model-type twenty-somethings. They chatted throughout their meal, but when they finished eating, they pulled out their phones and spent the next fifteen minutes texting in silence.

I broke down crying at the World Trade Center Memorial Museum. A woman walked over to me with a Kleenex. "The tissues are free, honey," she said. Her son had died in the 9/11 attacks.

We got stuck in a downpour while visiting the Statue of Liberty. While waiting in line for the Ellis Island ferry, the wind started blowing pretty fiercely. From behind us, we heard children squealing and someone yelled, "Hurricane!" A father was attempting to protect his baby by putting a plastic sack over her head (hmmm. . .). When the ferry pulled up to the dock, there was a stampede toward the boat. One lady shoved her way in front of us, slamming her open umbrella into my face. "I'd hate to see these people in a real emergency," I muttered to Dan.

When touring Lincoln Center, our guide asked everybody where they were from. "Australia," "Milan," "Brazil." "Idaho," we said a little sheepishly. "Idaho?" the other tourists said, almost in awe, probably supposing it so obscure that it must be exotic. "They are from America," the guide explained. "Idaho is a beautiful state. It gives us the most wonderful potatoes."

There was a chain link fence, an impromptu 9/11 memorial, in Greenwich Village that was covered in tiles decorated with artwork from all over. "It was such an act of hatred, yet all of the artwork on these tiles is about love and peace," our guide said as we perused the memorial. It was true. Not one tile pointed a finger of blame or even hinted at anything negative. The tiles were illustrations of hope and rebirth and peace and community. Then she turned to Dan and me and pointed to a tile in the center of the fence, "Where did you guys say you were from? Here's one from Iowa."

At the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), Dan, upon viewing one of Jackson Pollack's masterpieces, said, "I could splatter a bunch of paint all over a canvas." To which I replied, "And you wonder why American tourists have such a bad reputation."

So I guess I could write a blog about my trip to New York after all because my experience didn't have to be about clubbing all night. It didn't have to be about designer handbags or $800 pants. It didn't have to be high end or trendy. As I heard one local say, "Go ahead. Get out there and make your own New York."