New York Minute #2.1: I Get More Lost by Seven A.M. Than Most People Do All Day
29 April, 2009

[Note: After 8 months in Manhattan and perhaps 75-100 trips to Central Park I can’t say I fully understand its nuances (much less ‘conquered’ them all), but at least I get less lost. I spend less time blundering about in a state of panic, more time enjoying the sights, relatively confident I know where I’m going and can return from whence I came. Just last week, in fact, I ran from my front door through the entire park, north-south, all the way to 110th Street and Central Park West without getting lost even once. (I did, however, have to climb two fences and run the ‘wrong’ way around the Reservoir. Thankfully, like pretty much everything else in New York—No Honking, No Standing Anytime, Please Curb Your Dog, No Skateboards, Leash and Pick-up, etc.—‘One Way,’ in this case, is basically a ‘suggestion,’ not exactly a ‘rule.’) So, how did I do it? How did I finally learn the twisting turns of the meandering paths? Very simple: Winter. My increased navigational skill was directly but inversely proportional to the amount of foliage on the trees. I could see where I wanted to go! Every falling leaf was a godsend, every naked shrub an ally, forcing the park to reveal itself in a way I could finally comprehend. Now, and for the last few weeks, Spring is in the air. Everything is in bloom. The maze of foliage is rebuilding itself, rapidly obscuring that which seemed so clear just a few short months ago and I fear I’ll be back where I started. Ah, but I won’t be, of course. I’ll be wandering through the park trying to find where I started.]

[Originally published 13 September, 2008]

Both of my parents are blessed with the “gift of gab.” My mother can talk to anyone about anything anywhere anytime. In fact, I’ve often thought that if we sat Carol Schaidler down with the Arabs and Israelis, not only would they work things out, they’d never shut up about it. My father, on the other hand, is a card carrying member of the grammar police. He despises incorrect usage, mispronunciation and “mumbling” (though my siblings and I agree a simple hearing aid would more than correct that little problem). He is also, short of Donald Rumsfeld and his “unknown unknowns,” the undisputed master of—shall we say—poetic terms and phrases.

Ask him if you can have twenty bucks and the knee-jerk response is: “The chances are Slim and None, and Slim is out of town.”

In response to the Milwaukee Brewers dropping 8 of 10 games in the thick of a pennant race: “They collapsed like a rubber boot.”

And numerous more “colorful” constructions that are clearly unfit for a PG-13 “family blog.”

Anyone who knows me knows that I, too, inherited this gift of language. One thing I most certainly did not inherit, however, is a clear sense of direction (in virtually all senses of the word). Jennifer loves to tell stories about how often I miss my own exit, go right when I should have gone left, get lost in my own neighborhood, or still haven’t found magnetic north on Whitefish Lake after almost four years.

It doesn’t help that I am erratically and occasionally dyslexic about north and south or east and west, no matter how many times I’ve been to a place or taken a certain route. It helps even less that on the island of Manhattan there is no north and south. Everything is either ‘uptown’ or ‘downtown’ of your exact location at that particular point in time.
Consequently, if you’re ‘downtown’ on Eighth Avenue and 23rd Street and you need to get to 53rd and Lexington, you have to go ‘uptown,’ which in this case makes relative sense since you will travel north-northeast. If, on the other hand, you find yourself at Queens Plaza (believe me, I have no idea why either, just play along) and you’re bound for the same 53rd and Lex destination, you have to go ‘downtown’ even though you will travel almost exactly due west.

New York, New York, it's a wonderful town!
The Bronx is up and the Battery's down
The people ride in a hole in the ground,
New York, New York, it's a wonderful town!

When the all of the streets are numbered and the avenues laid out in a common sensical way I generally do okay––not coincidentally why we ended up in SW Minneapolis––but when the streets bear obtuse names and intersect the avenues at even more obtuse angles, I am completely hopeless. For me, “off the grid” doesn’t mean living on a houseboat in Sausalito or a yurt in Idaho, it simply means I’ve left my neighborhood and don’t know when I’m coming back.

The streets and avenues of Manhattan north of Houston––with the exception of Broadway and a small piece of Fourth––are all laid out in a beautifully comprehensible grid. During the daylight hours I can easily get anywhere I want to go. It’s all rectangles and straight lines. It’s gorgeous. I love it. It all makes such perfect sense.

Until you enter Central Park.

Between Central Park West and Fifth Avenue, 59th Street and 110th everything falls apart. Tear up your maps and eat them. Logic has disappeared. The “transverses” and “drives” of Central Park are laid out in long, gentle curves or triangles and loops. The footpaths are even worse. They are, as my father might say, all “kitty wampuss.” To me, they’re just screwed up.
Now, as many of you know, I’ve been on a 2+ year odyssey to lose weight and reclaim the athletic prowess of my youth (well, some of it, anyway) and generally I’ve been pretty successful. I’m definitely in way better shape than I was 3 years ago and I’ve lost over 20 lbs. The main way I’ve done it is running. It’s one of the highlights of my day.

In fact, after living in Manhattan just 13 days I’ve run through Central Park seven times (exactly one more than half!) It’s beautiful and peaceful (relatively speaking) and a great way to start the day. Or, as often happens, fill it up entirely.

See, every time I run through The Park I get hopelessly lost.

I am way off the grid.

I study the maps. I plan a route. I memorize cross streets. I look in all the guidebooks and burn the images of various icons into my mind—and still I’m completely befuddled. “No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy,” as either Donald Rumsfeld or my father would say. No route of mine through Central Park survives the first 5 minutes.

Less than half a mile into the run, winding my way through the trees and giant boulders, I find myself looking up at a distant building thinking: “Is that the Plaza Hotel or just one of the many apartment buildings that vaguely looks like the Plaza Hotel? Is the street coming up West Park Drive or East Park Drive? Is that vast expanse of grass The Sheep Meadow, East Green, Great Lawn or North Meadow? Where in God’s name am I?”

Time to head for the grid. Make a beeline for that building. I don’t care if it’s The Plaza Hotel or it’s evil twin. I’ve got to get out of this park. “Please let it be Central Park South. Please let it be Central Park South. Please let it be Central Park South.”

Yes!

It is The Plaza Hotel. I am on Central Park South! I see the line of Hamsome cabs that incessantly line the park.

I’m back!

I fall to my knees and kiss the manure stained pavement––(not really, but I want to)––Praise The Lord! I’m back.

I know: I could just make it easy on myself and just run ‘uptown’ and ‘downtown’ along Fifth Avenue, the unwavering north-south line that defines the east side of the park, but I refuse to give in. I will make it happen. I will learn the twisting turning paths and all their nuances. I will beat the system. I will conquer them all!

Despite the constant feeling of being more confused than a blind homosexual at an all male weenie roast.

A phrase I didn’t learn from Donald Rumsfeld.