Exploring Lower Manhattan

After spending the morning in the 9/11 memorial, Forrest and I set off to explore the rest of lower Manhattan. We started by going to Trinity Church, which was completed (for the third time) in 1846, and served as New York City’s tallest building until 1890.

I most wanted to see it because of the role it played in National Treasure, but, due to a church service being held at the time, I did not get to explore the catacombs and find a lot of riches. Dang it. We stood at the back of the church for a while before heading back outside to explore its graveyard. The graveyard proved to be very interesting. It holds the remains of many revolutionary war soldiers and several signers of the Declaration of Independence. The oldest grave in New York City also resides in the graveyard – that of Richard Churcher, who died in 1681 at the age of five. We poked around the graveyard for a while, but I eventually spotted a vendor selling bubble-tea near the fence, and that was it.

Bubble-tea in hand, we walked across the island to Battery Park for our first glimpse of New Jersey. Jersey city, which also features an impressive skyline, is always in the shadows of the much larger, much more famous New York. We took a lot of photos, anyway. We walked along the pathway until we reached the edge of the Manhattan, found the pier for ferries to the Statue of Liberty, bought our tickets in the remains of an old fort, demolished a few soft pretzels, and waited in line for the next ferry to arrive.  Finally on board, we found the best views of the ship, the bow, and snickered to ourselves that nobody else had broken free from the packed interior and joined us up front. The ferry transported us to the Statue of Liberty in 15 minutes, where we piled off again to explore Liberty Island. We gawked up at the statue as we walked its perimeter, listening to our electronic tour-guides who were more than happy to quench our thirst of knowledge about the statue.

Facts:

*While the Statue of Liberty is claimed and maintained by New York, Liberty Island is actually located within New Jersey’s borders.

*While it was being constructed, pieces of the statue were displayed around France. In one location, her flame-arm was put on exhibition. In another, her head.

*The statue is built on the star-shaped remains of a New York fort. America funded the pedestal, deciding it would upset the French if their gift did not have a proper home. After funds ran out, Joseph Pulitzer raised enough money to build the pedestal after promising to print the name of every contributor in his newspapers, no matter how small of an amount was. given.

*The exterior copper covering of the statue is less than the thickness of two pennies and was originally copper in color. The current light green color is the result of natural weathering of the copper.

Once we satisfied our Statue of Liberty needs, we took the ferry back towards Manhattan and disembarked. We watched a few street performers and stopped to wander around the Vietnam Memorial before heading towards South Street Seaport via Wall Street. I was on the lookout for the Titanic Memorial: a lighthouse which was built in 1913 at the request of Molly Brown. We walked up the seaport, never seeing a lighthouse, and stopped to relax at a grassy park above the city. Relaxing in the chairs of the park, we watched as planes flew in over the city and admired Brooklyn from a distance. Once we had given our feet enough time to recover from the day’s walking, we journeyed inland to 15th street on our way to the Brooklyn Bridge.

As we were walking, I noticed a lighthouse sitting to the side of traffic, thought to myself “that’s a stupid place to have a lighthouse,” and entered a small store. Hopefully realizing that the lighthouse might be the Titanic Memorial I had been searching for, I wandered over. My curiosity was well rewarded.

The lighthouse originally sat by the harbor but was moved inland in 1976.

When I approached the lighthouse, there was nobody around it. I was glad to have found a historical monument which was not on the average tourist’s ‘must see list.’ As soon as I took out my camera to document the moment, however, I was swarmed by a group of Asians who were excitedly chattering and flipping through guidebooks to figure out what they were looking at. Eventually, the crowd wore off and I was able to view the lighthouse in peace.

We continued on to the Brooklyn Bridge and began to cross its mile-long length. There is a walkway above the constant stream of traffic for pedestrians (tourists) to access, making the journey across much less dangerous. We crossed, then came back.

Once we arrived back in Manhattan, we admired the government buildings, bought dinner from a really wonderful street vendor, and returned home after sunset. I stripped off my shoes, groaned at my newest blisters, and sank into bed.

Pleased with the success of our day, I ginned into my pillow and started counting the number of honks outside. I reached 204 before sleep finally overtook me.

Memóriam

The price of a memory, is the memory of the sorrow it brings. Pittacus Lore

It is difficult to describe the emotions which flooded through me when, breathless and reminiscent, I entered the 9/11 memorial. One can read about it. One can look at the pictures of people who have been there. One cannot, however, come close to imagining the ways in which such a place will affect them.

I was 13 years old on September 11th, 2001. I watched, with the rest of the nation, as sadness turned into horror with the realization that Flight 11’s collision with the North tower was not an accident. The images of flight 175’s final moments have been etched into my memory, as are the thousands of seconds which followed. Flight 77. Flight 93. The Falling Man. The chaos on the streets as the towers fell, and the inspiring photos of the aftermath, when three firemen raised the American flag in the midst of the rubble.

These are images which still stop me in my tracks, 12 years later, and will continue to do so for the rest of my life.

Immediately after I booked our flights to New York, I reserved our places at the memorial. Paying my respects to the 2,977 individuals who lost their lives was my top priority… so much closer to my heart than the miles of concrete, historical statues, and famous skyline of which the twin towers are no longer a part.

When Forrest and I arrived at the memorial ahead of our scheduled time, we decided to familiarize ourselves with the surrounding area and entered St. Paul’s Chapel. Now more famously known as the church near ground zero, St. Paul’s used to sit in the shadows of the World Trade Center. Today, it is bathed in sunlight. On the days and months following September 11th, the church was transformed into a sanctuary for rescue workers and volunteers, and was the location where family members and friends of the victims posted flyers for information on their loved ones. The church has continued to display these desperate pleas in memóriam.

We spent a very quiet half hour inside the church before returning to the memorial. Gazing up at WTC 1, or the Freedom Tower, we followed a line of people to the entrance. While the memorial is complete, the streets around it are wrapped in fences and tarp, as the rebuilding of the World Trade Center is still underway. The Freedom Tower, climbing to a height of 1,776 feet, stands to the side of the memorial pools, where WTC 6 used to stand. It acts both as a reminder of the tragedy, and as a guardian of the names the memorial pays tribute to.

Entering the memorial, we passed the Survivor Tree, a callery pear tree which was recovered from the wreckage a month after the attacks. When it was found, the tree was reduced to a burned and blackened stump with a single living branch. The tree was uprooted and nursed back to health before being replanted at the memorial.

The memorial contains two cascading pools in the original foundations of the North and South towers. The pools are lined with bronze tablets, upon which the names of every 9/11 victim have been inscribed, along with the names of the individuals who were killed in the 1993 basement bombings of the North tower. My fingers lightly touched the names as I slowly walked the perimeter, eventually stopping to weep at the edge of the South pool with one hand over the name of Constantine Economos, who was 41 years old at the time of the attack, and the other dipped in the cool waters of the pool.

Further along the tablets, an individual dressed in black stopped to place an American flag and a note to their loved one: Michelle Goldstein. The top of the note simply read, “My Dearest Michelle…” She had been married for seven months when she was killed, at 31 years old.

Words cannot describe the haunting beauty of the memorial. I cannot imagine a more touching or peaceful tribute to the 2,977 individuals who lost their lives to the hands of terrorism.

I was 13 years old on September 11th, 2001.

I remember. I always will.

Bright Lights, Big City

And New York is the most beautiful city in the world? It is not far from it. Here is our poetry, for we have pulled down the stars to our will. Ezra Pound

New York City dazzled me. From the moment I stepped out of the metro into the aftermath of a bomb threat, to the moment I flew out of JFK and glanced at the skyline one last time, I was captivated. How could I not be entranced by the magic of America’s largest city?

Once we successfully navigated the myriad of the NY metro system, we surfaced on Manhattan, welcomed by a frenzy of police offers and wailing sirens. It didn’t take long before we realized, with the help of the officers, that a bomb threat had occurred and was being taken very seriously. We were ushered across the street (conveniently in the right direction of our hotel) and went on our way. After checking in to the Vanderbilt, we set off for our first destination: the Empire State Building.

My plan was to grasp a grander notion of New York’s size by viewing the city from above, and the Empire State Building was the only skyscraper to do the trick. We joined a mass of tourists on an elevator ride to the 86th floor and stepped out on the observatory just before sunset. We raced around the four corners, cameras in hand, snapping away at the stunning views of Jersey City, Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, Central Park, and downtown Manhattan. On a clear day, you can see 80 miles in any direction. As the sun set over the city, Forrest accidentally licked the handrail and I, much more romantically, drank in the glittering diamond skyline. We stayed on top of the Empire State Building well after dark, not wanting to leave our perch above the city that never sleeps.

Forrest said it all when he turned to me and murmured “I’ll never be impressed by a skyscraper again. Not after this.”

We eventually stepped aside to allow a frantic hoard of tourists their chance to take their version of a photographic masterpiece (most of them with iPads), descended to street level, and took off for Times Square, not wanting to waste a minute. We stopped to buy the occasional postcard and a few watercolor paintings from street artists before walking back towards our hotel, dodging taxis as we crossed the streets, surrounded by huge groups of people.

Back in our hotel, we collapsed into bed and fell asleep to New York’s unwritten symphony: an everlasting opus of honking cars and screeching tires.

Next Up: New York!

I go to Paris, I go to London, I go to Rome, and I always say, ‘There’s no place like New York.’   Robert De Niro

I’ve been feeling a touch of cabin fever in Montana (it doesn’t help that I work in an office where the average co-worker goes on at least one out-of-country adventure a year), ironic due to the fact that Montana has more space than I can imagine. A few months ago, after much consideration, multiple guidebooks, and small amounts of arm twisting, Forrest and I booked tickets to New York City.

My exploration of the United States has so far been limited to those west of Tennessee, and I am greatly looking forward to broadening my horizons. I intend to get lost, get overwhelmed, get stressed, and get postcards. I intend to visit the sights… Forrest intends to visit a camera store. As it doesn’t happen very often that the man is the one who wants to go shopping, I also intend to tease him.

It’s hard to imagine myself running around a city the size of New York. Coming from a city where the tallest caps out at 11 floors, standing in the shadow of a building with 104 stories is going to be a bit unnerving and unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

Watch for us on Humans of New York. I’m sure we’ll be standing on the street, gazing in awe at absolutely everything.

Good luck, self. You’ll need it.

Silvercoast

Roller-coasters are not my strong suit.

Something about plummeting from great heights at speeds of over 60 miles per hour really terrifies me. I’m not an adrenaline junkie. I enjoy being in places where I do not feel the need to lean over and tell my husband that I love him repeatedly, in case my harness breaks and I do not live to tell him again. My irrational mind, combined with claustrophobia and a tendency towards mild panic attacks makes me relatively boring at amusement parks.

My fear of roller-coasters began at Silverwood 13 years ago, when I stupidly strapped myself into Tremors, a roller-coaster which is known today as being one of the top rated wooden coasters in the country. Some thrill-seekers hold their arms in the air as they fly over the tracks. Some scream. Some laugh. Some pose for perfectly planned photographs as the cameras flash before the first underground tunnel. Others go into shock, cry hysterically, and, at the tender age of 12, decide to never ride a roller-coaster again.

Guess which group I belong to?

I have spent over half of my life despising roller-coasters. Tremors was such a horrifying experience that my mother hung back and drove the antique cars with me for the rest of the day while my father accompanied my sisters around the rest of the park. The memory has haunted me for years. It came as no surprise when I decided against bungee-jumping in New Zealand and declined a day of skydiving. I am just not a very exciting person.

This past Labour Day weekend, I came up with the brilliant idea of going to Silverwood with Forrest and our friends, Mark and Paisley. We left Missoula bright and early Saturday morning. Once we got to the park, we excitedly ate our sandwiches and crossed under the tunnel to the gates. Our first ride was a ‘warm-up,’ new to the park since I had last visited, and titled ‘Panic Plunge’ for what I considered to be a very good reason.

Forrest heard that I loved him several times. I survived.

Our next ride, another new attraction, is the first of its kind in the world. Spincycle is a 104 foot tall thrill ride with a cylindrical-shaped vehicle that seats 24 people facing outward, with legs dangling and wearing only a harness. The vehicle rotates 360 degrees at 13 revolutions per minute, while, at the same time, swings like a giant pendulum all the way upside down 104 feet above the ground. The ride brings riders all the way around over and over again at three and a half times the normal gravitational pull. Surprisingly enough, I loved it. Screams of fear turned into laughter and laughter turned into pure joy.

Unfortunately, Spincycle took us into the realm of Roller-Coaster Alley and Tremors, my childhood nemesis. I was talked into getting in line by my persuasive and thrill-seeking friends and eventually coaxed into a car by an encouraging Forrest. I tried to tell myself that this time would be different… that 13 years had passed… that surely I was capable of enjoying myself.

Wrong. I have sworn to never ride it again for the second time in my life.

The day went on. I revisited some old favourites (Corkscrew and Log Jam),  experienced Spincycle again, bravely fastened myself into After Shock (so scary, so much fun), joined in on some some less thrilling rides, and even rode another roller-coaster: Timber Terror.

Bravery is not something I’m very good at, but as we pulled back into Missoula at midnight, I felt very accomplished. I wouldn’t say I conquered my fear, as it might be more alive now than ever before, but I faced the fear.

I survived.

Cops and Folk Dancers

It doesn’t happen very often, but occasionally life gives us a taste of something we’ve never tried before. In some cases, the first dip is enough to make us realize why we have stayed away. In others, we develop new traditions. usually, there are stories to go along with both.

Last weekend (two weekends ago, now, since I haven’t been online since), was a weekend of firsts. It began with packing my bags, picking up my sister, and heading for Kalispell, where Forrest was shooting a wedding. Armed with several books and looking forward to a journey which is normally less than exciting, my first experience with a flat tire was certainly something to be excited about.

Blowout. While Forrest attempted to take off the tire with a wrench which was too small, my sister and I hung out on the bike path and took pictures of his progress. Unsuccessful, he eventually flagged a passing sheriff who stopped to help us out. Still under strict instructions to “stay out of the way,” my sister and I shot a video of us folk dancing on the edge of the highway. When the sheriff was also unsuccessful, we hitched a ride with him into town.

First time riding in the back of a cop car? Check.

We piled out of the car at the gas station in Arlee and a very tall man pulled me aside to ask “Psst! You know you just got out of a cop car, right?” Forrest and the sheriff left us at the station to drive back and fix the tire.  Eventually the tire was finally removed and replaced, and we drove back to Missoula on the doughnut. We swapped cars, started off again, and finally arrived in Kalispell around midnight.

On Saturday, Forrest went photoshooting while my mother, sisters, and I drove around the valley in search for wooden spindles and toilet paper rods. Upon our return, I lent my sister a small hand in making authentic Ukrainian borscht for dinner. Stewed with beets, potatoes, meat, onions, and other mysterious ingredients, I quietly sipped the purple soup long enough to say I tried it.

First time eating borscht? Check.

On Sunday, Forrest and I celebrated year one. Nothing marvelous or blog-worthy at all happened, but cards were exchanged and a pearl bracelet was given.

First anniversary? Check.

In the future, I think I’ll refrain from viewing the road from the back of a sheriff’s vehicle, and I’ll probably leave the borscht to Russian-speaking individuals. As for anniversaries, I’m sure there are many more to come.

Scorched

Smashmouth said it best: you might as well be walkin’ on the sun.

Missoula is hot. The weather channel describes our 100 F (37.7 C) heat wave as ‘blistering.’ I am well aware that I am not suffering through this scorcher alone… Normally active Missoulians have retreated into air-conditioned spaces and watched garbage cans melt in the sunshine.

To survive the heat, my sister and I have started filling a bathtub to our ankles, downing several icy pops, and watching Pixar Shorts. Our new favourite, while not exactly Pixar, is ‘Oktapodi,’ an octopus love story.

When not ankle-bathing, we have taken to standing waist-deep in the river, devouring ice cream in the grass, or draping our limbs in water-soaked handkerchiefs. Forrest is still going on twenty-mile bike rides. He’s crazy.

With the heat wave expected to continue through the week, Missoula is anxiously waiting for the river to return to a normal, safer level upon which to float. Come the 4th of July, I expect to don a high SPF, grab an inner-tube and a Snapple, and drift away. Until then, expect a shortage of icy-pops.

We bought them all.

Raindrop Revelation

Imagine my surprise when disappointment was the emotion I felt after this evening’s soccer game was cancelled on account of the rain.

Is it possible that I might actually be enjoying myself?

Tales of an Almost Pushover

I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m a pushover, but lately I have found myself doing several  things I never would have done on my own.

Do you remember my brief encounter with soccer? No? It only lasted for one season, approximately 14 years ago. There was a reason why I quit the sport and never thought about playing it again: I was terrible.

I was the unfortunate player who kicked nothing but air. I was the player who could not keep up with the opposing team. I was the player who was repeatedly shoved into the goalie’s box in hopes that maybe I could stop a few balls since I did little good anywhere else on the field. We lost a lot.

I was recently talked into joining a women’s soccer league by several of my co-workers. I found myself lacing up my sister’s old soccer cleats, signing a roster, and stepping onto a field.

The tradition continues. We have yet to win a game, but I almost scored a goal on our most recent match, which was remarkable in itself.

Do you remember my pathetic attempts to play kickball in high school gym class? No? I can’t say I was always the last person to get picked for a team, but I was close.

I was also recently talked into playing kickball with Adventure Life. We challenged another adventure company, Adventure Cycling, to a match. I had originally volunteered to be the official Adventure Life photographer, but one thing led to another and, against my better judgement, I sported knee high socks, stepped up to the plate, and kicked… hard.

After an exhilarating run around the bases, I struck out. My legs quit cooperating and my body started to spasm not long after. I hobbled to the sidelines and sat on the bench for the remainder of the game. I took to soothing my calves with ice stolen from the beer bucket.

Adventure Life ended up winning, and I really don’t think it’s a coincidence that I wasn’t playing.

I really don’t know why the ladies I work with can talk me into anything, but they have remarkable talent. I suppose it makes up for the fact that I don’t have any.

Joseph and the Amazing Technological Dreamphone

I was that girl in my Communication and Technology class: the one who raised her hand to dispute the professor when he doubted that the students knew someone who lacked a cell phone. I boastfully told him about five such individuals: myself, and the four members of my immediate family. My class stared at me blankly for several seconds before one of them broke the silence with a simple question: “How do you LIVE?”

I was the girl who raised my hand to dispute that a touch-screen world is a bad idea… that the more advanced our technological genius becomes, the smaller our brains get.

I was the girl who told my professor off for texting during class and reminding him of our syllabus, which clearly stated that while our class was about technology; cell phones would not be tolerated. He apologized and announced to the class that I didn’t have to do that night’s homework. I did it anyway.

Regretfully, I currently own a Tracphone, which I use for work purposes and for telling my husband which groceries to buy. In a world filled with Smartphones, I consider myself an anomaly. We are a society which is never content: we are constantly looking for smaller, flashier, more complex gadgets to obsess over. We are a society which cares more about our digital relationships than those sitting three feet away from us.

I can’t tell you how many times I have encountered groups of people who ignore one another in favour of their phones. Have our friends become so boring that we no longer care to talk to them when we’re together?

Yesterday, I saw a mother pushing her two very fat children (I estimated their ages to be two and five years old) in a shopping cart. She was on her phone, and they were playing Angry Birds on theirs. Each child had her own phone. Why is this necessary? What use could a two year old possibly have for a cell phone? As a child, I was content with a Koosh Ball, a bike, and the neighbourhood gang.

I have never been so sure that my own children will not be allowed cell phones until they turn 16. Once this age is reached, they will pay for their phones, themselves.

As that girl in my Communication and Technology class, put down your phone for 24 hours. Let it die. Don’t charge it again. Experience your life unleashed from one of the world’s most common vices.

Without a phone, my life is more adventurous… more personal and less displayed. I play board games with my friends. I talk to them in person. Rather than using phrases like ‘LOL,’ I actually laugh.

THAT is how I live. Could you?