Day 180 - End of the line?

Here we are. Day 180.

This will surprise, and likely chagrin, the more nerdy among you, but just today I rode the last of the subway system that I had not been on: the Franklin Avenue Shuttle. It seemed an appropriate way to celebrate Day 180, the putative end of this line I’ve been traveling for six months.

I've been taking stock of my gerund-rich time. Traipsing, tramping, rambling, writing, interviewing, broadcasting, cooking, cadging, googling, surveying, burnishing, divining, dallying, contemplating, resting, and becoming restless. I’ve spent time in every borough, in dozens of parks, in a score of library branches and in more cafes than I care to count. I have learned to roast coffee beans in East New York; treadled a letterpress in Gowanus; muffled my ears against the deafening chatter of a half-ton of Jordon almonds tumbling around the insides of a dozen century-old copper drums spun by pulleys and leather belts in Hunts Point; watched biscuits of vinyl pressed into records in Sunset Park; wandered a vineyard in Floral Park; and am preparing to leave Staten Island to spend a night in New York Harbor, on a pilot boat, as my grandfather did all of his adult life half a century ago.

I’ve wandered around sugar farms in Cajun Louisiana shucking cane stalks with a pocket knife to suck their juice right in the field; camped in Death Valley; and spent days lazing on a patio along the Santa Fe railroad in Arizona watching train after train after train lumber by over the high desert. Each seemed a little more like heaven than the last.

I’ve been generally unrushed. So, for instance, in waiting for the subway I have been able to let one train pass by in favor of the possibility that the next might be made up of older cars. Why is this important? Because on the newfangled trains it isn’t as easy to look out the front window and enjoy the tracks whizzing by beneath me; or to espy switches or branches off of the main line that I hadn't noticed before; or just to reminisce about high school days when I'd fight my way into the first car, no matter how crowded, and shoehorn myself in front of the window. What makes for a more comfortable, capacious cab for the train operator is depriving a new generation of nascent subway buffs this important experience to appreciate the infrastructure many of their ancestors may have helped to create. I have wanted to indulge in it at every opportunity I can before they all go away.

I have discovered that the so-called creative class really is an important part of our economy, at least if I’m typical. I am convinced that, alone, I am contributing at least 0.5% of the Gross City Product in terms of cafe expenditures. By my accounting, I've plunked down $350 in the past few months just on things that paid for my reading and writing time in cafes.

I have rediscovered public libraries, and in a big way. I hadn't checked a book out of the public library since I borrowed The Lord of the Rings from the Huguenot Park branch during the summer between 8th & 9th grades. But in the interest of economy, I now routinely reserve items from the NYPL that are delivered to my local branch when they're available. It's brilliant and I've turned others onto it. And when I’m out and about—and when I’m tired of stopping in at cafes—I have used libraries throughout the city as satellite workspaces. I've spent time in a library in every borough in the past six months. NYPL is the paragon, of course. But Queens is still my favorite system: so unprepossessing and utterly useful to its mostly immigrant clientele. It is so, well, Queens. No bells. No whistles. Strictly utilitarian. Filled with patrons as varied as the borough it serves—every one that I’ve been to. I love it.

I've been surprised at how important parks have factored into my wanderings, without my intending them to. I hesitate to say that I discovered how essential they are; I was, after all, a Parkie for a year, and I support the relevant parks advocacy groups and causes. But I think back now in wonder at how many hours I meandered through Pelham Bay Park, Soundview Park, Flushing Meadows-Corona Park; along the boardwalk and on the beach at Coney Island and the Richmond Terrace Esplanade; in J. Hood Wright Park near the GW Bridge; in Alley Pond Park way out east; in Highland Park around the old Ridgewood Reservoir; at LaGuardia Landing Lights Park so close to the undersides of landing 737s that one can make out the rivets in the fuselage; and around Bethesda Fountain where I just paced back and forth for much of one glorious and ponderous afternoon. Sunset Park was a particular treat. I made my first visit to it on one of my summer bike trips and couldn't believe I hadn't been there before. By any measure, it was thronged, but especially for a weekday afternoon: soccer playing adults, scooter-skipping kids, skewer-selling vendors, and languid, chatty old men and women with wizened faces sitting shoulder to shoulder on every bench lining every walkway up and down the ridge from the flagpole to the bottom of the hill.

And, of course, I got published as a journalist. Technically. I had many goals and intentions for my time off—most of which have not been realized. I intended to become proficient at Spanish, to finally start harmonica lessons, to systematically make my way through Harold McGee's classic "On Food and Cooking," to cook at least 4 nights a week, and to try my hand journalism. I've dabbled in all, but the one thing I can say I really succeeded in was getting published. It was a gallant attempt with a modest result, but it was one of the most gratifying things I've done outside of pubic service.

After spending the first 60 or so days casting about rather aimlessly (though, in retrospect, appreciating the salubrious effects of catatonia), and finally getting up enough guts to pitch stories and interview strangers, and to overcome my biggest challenge—procrastination—I have finally hit a stride. I am working through story ideas, getting things down on paper, and making connections. In short, I feel like I'm finally getting warmed up. I have more to say and more I want to do in this regard, and I’m not quite ready to give it up. Not just yet.

Which brings me to Day 181 and beyond. I wish I had more concrete ideas about what the next chunk of time will bring. I need to begin making a living again. This has been a decadence that I have relished but which is not sustainable. I have begun exploring options, including consulting gigs that let me use my knowledge of government and my skills at navigating bureaucracy while allowing me to maintain some flexibility to pitch and pursue stories. I’m grateful to friends and colleagues who have made connections for me in this regard lately, and I look forward to hearing more.

In the meantime, check back when you can. The name of the blog won’t change; the sentiment is still the same. And I’m as tickled now as I was in August. Probably more so.