Today, I began a reunion trip to the "promised land" otherwise known as New York and New Jersey. I have been back east in the past 21 years since leaving for the left coast but this trip is different. As we blow out more candles on our annual icing-laden cakes, our pasts become increasingly significant. We reminisce, catch up with friends of our youth, and look back astonishingly at the rapid passage of time.
Following a three hour flight delay, missed connecting flight, and varied modes of transportation, schlepping two monogrammed duffle bags from JFK to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, I remembered the bus route and gate number as if on autopilot. Bus 197 to Wayne; Gate 233. Past the retro bowling alley which appears temporarily closed for remodeling. I spent many bus trips planning a Prom style party at this venue, an event which sadly never happened. I even envisioned a seafoam green chiffon dress with matching peau de soie pumps and my hair in a updo. Oh, well.
As I boarded the bus, I flashed back on countless evenings commuting home from fashion school, summer jobs, post college positions, and shopping trips with friends. It was as if time stood still. I took my seat, gazing out the window as we approached Lincoln Tunnel. As a child, I remember a game my brother and I used to play in the tunnel; first one to spot the New York/New Jersey line was the winner. I also recalled getting stuck in the tunnel in 90 degree plus humidity one summer day after a soujourn to Columbus Avenue in the early 80s with my aunt Isabel. I know I haven't paid attention to shoes in a while so I will mention that I was wearing really cute pewter ballet flats with large antique gold polka dots at the time. I bought them at Canadienne's in Willowbrook Mall.
Leaving the tunnel, the breathtaking New York skyline was displayed before me like a stock photo. I thought about the Broadway and off Broadway shows, museum trips, and the Young People's Series at Lincoln Center which played a huge role in my childhood memories. Class trips to Radio City Music Hall, the promise of a hot pretzel or roasted chestnuts shared with my mom as we walked up Fifth Avenue to the Plaza Hotel in our annual Christmas Eve celebration of our parents' anniversary. The Librarie Francaise in Rockefeller Center where I purchased many a French book. The checkered floor at Bloomie's on 59th and Lex. The Swiss Townhome for Girls on West 67th Street where I lived briefly when I attended FIT. I used to pretend I was living in a pension in Paris. No men or boys were allowed upstairs and they served us pitchers of steamed milk for our morning cafe au laits. Dancing to the wee hours at Limelight, Palladium, Area, followed by a scrumptious apple and walnut omelet at 2 am at the Empire Diner. I could go on and on.
Route 46 and the Meadowlands brought back memories of a summer spent waitressing at Devon's Seafood Grill. I still wear the dark green apron, the pockets I would stuff with tips. It is quite a thrill to leave a day's or evening's work with a pile of cash.
I passed East Rutherford, home to my all-time favorite organic restaurant, Park and Orchard. To this day, I crave the Mongolian Style Tofu. Yum! I pass Clifton, home to my best childhood friend Susie and the site which once housed Rowe Manse Emporium, a delightful mini Harrod's filled with interesting clothing, gifts, and chocolates. In the same center was once Bond's Ice Cream Shop, home of the Awful Awful, a giant milkshake. I don't know the origin of its name.
Further up Route 46 lies the exit to Passaic, hometown to both of my parents. I remembered Passover seders, sleepovers, holidays at my grandparents. My grandma Fran was the consumate entertainer, always hosting pretty glamourous dinner parties which I would attend when I slept over. She was an amazing cook and set a beautiful table with her dark green bubble goblets. Everyone was always laughing. Down the stairs to her basement rested a portrait of my stunning grandmother as a young woman. My brother and I were convinced the eyes would move. The basement always smelled like whiskey. My aunt Isabel who was more of an older sister and I used to toast marshmallows on the stove and discuss meditation and women's lib. This predated my even having a bra to burn. My uncle Alan had an interesting attic room and a camera which would take double pictures so you would have a twin.
Nanny and Papa Ralph lived in a high rise with a lobby, a balcony, and an incinerator, exciting features for kids in the 70s. I remember my aunt Alice's day bed with fuschia and olive striped pillows hanging from the wall along with her oil paintings. Nanny kept Viennese finger cookies in a strawberry cookie jar. She always served me cucumbers and green peppers along with ginger ale in my "special" cordial glass. At Nanny and Papa Ralph's, I cooked my very first meal on a chilly January evening when Roots was televised for the first time. Beef stew, favorite muffins, and Jello One Two Three which was served in parfait glasses tilted on the refrigerator shelves, sort of a pousse cafe of gelatin desserts.
Memories.
Turning onto Riverview Drive as we passed the municipal golf course and a small park, I remember my decision to toss a patent Mary Jane out the car window at the age of 2 1/2. The secret thrill of doing something I was pretty sure was naughty. Luckily, my aunt Carol and Uncle Mat following in their car retrieved my shoe. Aware of my love for shoes, you are probably surprised I would risk losing footwear. But there can be such an illicit thrill to doing something "bad." I do not remember getting reprimanded.
My trip down memory lane would not be complete without acknowledging the now defunct Anthony Wayne Junior High and my high school, Wayne Valley. I have fond recollections of my high school days, including the student body chanting "Burn, Baby, Burn, Disco Inferno" during an fire evacuation circa 1977. Across the street was the A & P Shopping Center. In the 70s and early 80s, my mom sold real estate at House Hunters. You may remember the hot pink business cards and key chains. I would walk to her office after school and do my homework while her colleagues and friends would chat. I was like an honorary realtor.
I had a happy childhood. Times were simpler then. We didn't have 100 television channels, the internet, or daily scheduled activities. We played outside and used our imagination. We didn't have Sims or Webkinz. Looking back, though, is also sad. Those days live on only in our memories and in our photo albums. We have lost people we loved.
Reconnecting with friends. Spending some time in the crucial spots of our childhood. Listening to popular music from our era. These activities minimize our sadness about the passage of time. We become increasingly comforted by that which is familiar. Are we becoming our parents?
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