It is time to go.

When New York starts to feel like an industrial-size bag of cement tied to your back as you walk around each day, it is time to go.  I remember when I first arrived here and I would criss-cross the streets, miles a day, eyes wide, taking it all in, and I’d get back to my apartment feeling more invigorated, more full of life than when I left it that morning.

Now I’m just tired.

We woke up on Sunday morning to the news that some asshole left a car bomb in Times Square.  Because of quick thinkers, the necessary byproduct of a city on perpetual alert, the bomb and situation were defused.  Maybe that ominous occurrence should have been our red flag for the day.  Maybe we should have extended our bagel-and-The Hanogver couch session to a movie marathon.  But we had a plan, and we left the apartment mid-afternoon with bucket list in hand (i.e., on his iPhone).

As a New Yorker who is perpetually on high alert regarding footwear and its effects on quality of life, I should have thought better than to strap new sandals on for an afternoon full of walking.  But this New Yorker forgot what 85 degrees and 75% humidity do to bare skin.  Within minutes of walking out the front door, a few reactions occurred: sweat covered every inch of my body, blisters were rubbing on every inch of my feet, and I was in the foulest mood I’ve been in…well, since this time and weather last year.  I know I am from Alabama and I should be used to heat and humidity (and if one more person points this out I will scream), but in Alabama, when we are faced with these conditions, we either jump into a pool or an air-conditioned car.  We do not wander the black-topped streets with millions of other sweaty people.  In New York, we have no other choice.

So the BF and I descended into the subway and hopped on the uptown 6 train.  Destination: the Conservatory Gardens of Central Park, my ill-fated pick.  We ascended the steps at 103rd Street and were met with a harsh reality.  Let me put it this way: my time on the grand jury for the New York City Office of Special Narcotics taught me that there are certain areas of the city, most notably in the 100 blocks, to avoid.  Since we were in the low 100’s, the BF and I both thought we were easily in gentrified territory.  We were wrong.  Oh so wrong.  After we walked a couple of blocks, the safety of the subway becoming a distant memory and the stares of people on the street burning worse than my blisters, the BF caught sight of a cab with its light on and with catlike reflexes jumped out to claim it.

My hero.  Until the next minute, when he decided that, for the first time since I’ve known him, he really wanted a Jamba Juice. Like, really.  Enough to amend our route to the driver and have us dropped off at 61st and 3rd, where the iPhone told him we could find those franchised smoothies.  My mood was growing as angry as the blisters because this meant we would have to walk over a half-mile to get to our (my) next bucket list destination, the Frick museum on 70th and 5th.  That mood hit a fever pitch when we got out of the cab and realized that the iPhone had not updated its information to include the fact that the 61st and 3rd location of Jamba Juice had shut down.  I considered crying like a child, but bent down and changed out my Band-Aids instead.  Then we walked to the Frick.

After ten minutes of looking at old stuff that, on a normal day might have interested me but today just pissed me off, we took stock of the situation.  We had two hours to kill before going to church, which was two blocks away.  We decided it was time for alcohol.  So we ventured blindly east, no longer trusting the iPhone for recommendations.  We stopped at the first bar/restaurant we found, a place on 3rd and 73rd called Le Magnifique.  We pulled our seats up to the bar and ordered the only things, besides God, that can save a disastrous day: drinks and fries.  Then we looked around at the French film silently projected onto one of the walls, the DJ setting up in the corner, and the people speaking only French, and we realized that we were out of our element for the second time in a couple of hours.  But we were safe.  And, foiled plans and irritations aside, still on the same team.  We clinked glasses.  “Two weeks,” I said.  “Atlanta,” he returned.