I detour far out of my way because of the parade, only to be confronted by another, larger parade headed in the opposite direction. I am determined to get across town. I decide to take side streets until I am caught up in a sprawling demonstration protesting the amount of parades. Escaping that obstacle, I foolishly believe I’m home free until I turn a corner and am swallowed by a street festival.
Somehow I burst through the strollers to freedom, carefully avoiding a Tourist Zone, where people walk even slower than at festivals. I am getting up a head of steam, dodging people sitting in lounge chairs in the middle of closed-off streets, large dogs on long leashes, busking folk singers with out-of-tune guitars, skyscraper fashion models rushing to a shoot and screaming traffic cops who force me to cross against the light.
I feel hungry, seek out one of the 9,000 panini places in this city, but protesters block its entrance, angry at having no health coverage. I leap away from a speeding bicycle messenger right into a woman carrying packages who curses me in an Eastern European accent.
I careen into one of the hundreds of sidewalk artists sketching tourists who’ve wandered from the official Times Square Tourist Zone into the alternate touring areas below 34th Street. I am still determined to get to the UN building, although the sun is going down. Just when it looks like I’m making progress, I hear the thundering sound of footsteps. Before I can head for cover I am swept up in a horde of runners raising money for the Cold Sore 5K. I reach out to grab a mailbox before I am trampled. I cry out in vain, explaining I am not actually participating in this event, although cold sores run in my family. I am ripped away from my mailbox by race organizers and find myself moving uptown with the mob.
I have given up seeing the UN building and just pray the race will end at Van Cortland Park, where at least I can watch some rugby at twilight. I hope I have enough money for a token until I realize tokens are extinct and I’ll have to dig out my sweaty, bent MetroCard before I can ride the sociopath subway back downtown to the equally dangerous Port Authority terminal where I can get a bus back to increasingly more attractive New Jersey.
Next Sunday I’m cleaning out my garage. –
Joe Del Priore is a frequent Midweek Reporter contributor. Want to be like Joe? Send your essays to editorial@Hudsonreporter.com.