Lost in NY
He looked everything like a New Yorker: gray trench coat over jeans, scarf on his neck, towering white figure, and, walking— except that like me, he too seemed lost in what seemed to be Central Park.
I was going to the Museum of Modern Art which the Metro map said was across from the American Museum of Natural History with the Central Park sprawled in between. Caught again in a perfect square whose any side could be a perfect left or right, I had to stop, as I have always done in many a great past. And ask for directions lest I be swept away by my unknowing feet.
Then I saw a tall figure walking towards me. I hesitated for a while whether he was the right person I should ask direction from. After all, big cities have the highest crime rates in the US. My dosage of American Gangster, CSI New York and NYPD Blues could not warn me more. Besides, I was not really very trusting in strangers even in the tropical country where I came from.
As he was approaching the unusual unhurried New York road I stopped by on, his face became clearer. He was wearing glasses which I never had associated with deficient vision but with a stroke of genius hyphenated by voracious reading and all else deep. The winter fog failed to hide his face which reminded me of roses on a spring morning. It must be the olives, home-made pasta or tomatoes, I would later surmise. Neither did his hair need the summer sun to reflect a shine of courageous black and shy brown. It must be the cheeses, pesto or lettuce this time. His chin and jaw were clean shaven although some unwelcome growth would always betray him the next morning. This last one I could not attribute to food but to a personal preference, passed-on tradition or a compulsive ritual.
This character reconnaissance would have gone on and on until it was distracted by a blue paper bag he was carrying. It would later reveal a map, a Lonely Planet guidebook, two bottles of water—one was emptied by a long day, and a folding umbrella. Now I had enough reasons to convince myself that if he were a mobster, he would be the smooth, well-prepared sophisticated one; or one who was raised by his mom with all gentleness and love; or one who would assure a grandmother every night that he would never be caught in a New York rain.
Excuse me, would you know the way to the Museum of Modern Art? To which he answered, if I could quite remember, let me see, thus, getting a treasured document from his blue paper bag. He drew out a map which could barely hold itself. Its folds and creases depicted numerous consultations, openings and closings, flipping and flapping by its grateful owner who just wouldn’t let go.
The map spoke of a three-day journey into the circled landmarks which replicated mine. I kept this last thought to myself. Instead, I just brought out my own Metro map and pretended that I also wanted and willed to immediately find my way. In truth, I was relieved that by his learned look and preparedness, he could tell me the direction in an instant. So I was not really looking at my map, but on his, and like an accused defendant, I was just waiting for his prophetic verdict.
And he told me like an objective judge and a wise prophet the direction to the museum. I couldn’t remember now if I said thank you, bade goodbye, headed to the museum alone or just plainly asked him where he was going. Maybe I asked him the latter, because he answered he was going to AMNH. To which I replied I just came from there and it was right behind the leafless trees behind him.
Tags: Travel
gulliver