Tag: retirement lifestyle blog

The Great Chasm

I hardly know how to act. A week or so ago, I looked at my calendar and realized that my life has become underscheduled. This is a cataclysmic shift in my Universe.

 I knew this phenomenon was coming. I wanted it. I planned for it. For a long time, I have been trying to capture a season of stillness. I have been telling myself to concentrate on the people most important to me. I have been telling myself that I should only take on commitments that speak specifically to my soul. I have been telling myself, as far as ministry goes, I should only do what only I can do.

The talking-tos I’ve given myself don’t usually land. More often, they crash. There is always someone who needs a little extra love and attention. There is always some activity that sounds interesting. There is always some need that cries out for me to meet it. I get caught in a weird dichotomy. I never think that I am the person who is best qualified to do anything, yet I always think that disaster will ensue if I do not volunteer.

Now that I’ve finally found some breathing space, I was not prepared for how it would feel.

As usual, Lent was a busy time. I had my array of Lenten activities to fulfill. I have also been leaning into a quiet ministry that I feel is my calling right now- providing support one-on-one to people who need love. I know a lot of people going through difficult circumstances right now. I try to be intentional about providing support and tender loving care in a way that speaks a language that the recipient best understands. Also, a very close friend in Florida picked this time to move back to Delaware. I was trying to spend as much time as I could with her and I wanted to participate in all the farewell events leading up to her departure.

As Lent wound down and I finished the planned activities, I realized that I was no longer having to look three weeks forward in my calendar to find a time slot when I wanted to arrange a date for something. I have plans on the schedule, but there ae no longer days when I have the calendar booked with back-to-back activities. I won’t have to break basic laws of physics to meet my scheduled commitments. My first reaction was a feeling of elation. For a few days, it felt so good to know that the wind of life was going to still to a gentle breeze.

Then, I got uncomfortable and flustered. I felt empty. I struggled with some decrepit demons about appearance and worthlessness that refuse to die. Finally, I realized that this reaction is rooted in a wave of insecurity. Some people fly into a flurry of activity because they feel their value comes from doing. The act of completing tasks and achieving and “being important” helps give their lives meaning. I’m not exactly one of those people. In fact, I dislike “being important” and the attention it brings. What I love and crave is connection. Attaching to people and becoming interdependent with them feeds my soul. Relationships are my coin of the realm. More scheduled on my calendar suggests more connections. When my calendar doesn’t feel overfull, I worry that my relationships will disappear. I feel I must force an intentional opportunity to keep me at the forefront of people’s radar screens, or they will detach from me.

If I am being rational, I know that more activity does not necessarily translate to more connection. I also know that the people with whom I am in relationship love me and will still love me even if they go more than a few days… or even a few weeks… without the awesomeness of my presence. I know that I have value and worth to a relationship that does not depend on busyness.

But…

What I know rationally has very little value in a conversation about insecurity. Neither does anyone else’s assurances. The fact remains that I am having an internal experience that is not congruent with reality. I can’t change it. Certainly, no amount of thinking is going to change it. Believe me, I have tried. It does not work. My stubborn heart does what it does. This time, I am not even going to waste the emotional effort of trying to force myself to feel the way my brain insists I should.

So, I go along for the ride. I pray. I meditate. I inventory my blessings. I move my body. I try to get enough sleep. I eat things that are going to make me feel holistically better instead of worse. I am gentle with myself. I surf the wave until it crashes to the shore. It will pass and I trust that I will be okay. I know I will recall the truth of my rational self. I know that God equips me in mysterious ways to be the person He created me to be.

This Lent, I realized I was standing on one side a rickety bridge. Beneath the bridge is a huge chasm of nothingness. The bridge looks shaky and difficult to maneuver. Truth be told, however, the ground on which I am standing- the ground of insecurity- is much more shaky than the bridge. On the other side of the bridge, there is steadier ground- an internal land in which I have a secure foothold on my sense of self and my worth. The other side of the bridge is the land where God’s perspective of me resides.

I would like to say that, during Lent, I courageously crossed the bridge and am happily on the other side. That isn’t quite true. This Holy Week, though, I did take enough steps to truly see the other side and begin to appreciate what living on that side feels like. This Easter, the work of my Lent culminated and the fruit ripened.

At the same time, Easter invited me to continue. Ripe fruit is delicious and I want more.

Dear Blog Readers:

In my last post, I discussed some of my Lenten journey this year. Today, I wanted to mention another Lenten discipline I have been embracing.

Every few years, I use Lent as a time to reflect on my blessings. I like to think of the people that God has put in my life who have positively impacted my spiritual growth. I send a thank you letter each day in Lent to someone who has inspired me, helped me, or just loved me through something.

Today, I want to thank you all. Thank you for reading my blog. Thank you for encouraging me. Thank you for making it safe for me to experiment and consider the big issues of life- big issues that are sometimes displayed in the smallest of silliness. It has been such a blessing to have this creative outlet. Sometimes, it has been a veritable lifeline of mental health. At other times, it has been a pure escape to the lighter places in my befuddled brain. The act of writing, in itself, is an excellent emotional processing vehicle. Knowing there are people reading and caring makes it even more effective. Hoping that maybe I am inspiring someone or helping someone feel less alone or even just making someone laugh- these are all dreams of mine.

In short, thank you all for being part of my dream. All my life I have wanted to write, but I never had the confidence to do so. It takes a certain amount of arrogance for me to believe that anything I write could be of the slightest interest to anyone else. That may be why I started using the name Terri LaBonte. Terri LaBonte might have the confidence that Dorry Curran lacks.

Blessings,

Dorry/Terri

The Lightening Lent

A Lightening Lent

Although I have been an Episcopalian for nearly ten years, I grew up in an observant Roman Catholic family. I wouldn’t say we were especially devout or even consistent, but there were certain traditions that my family followed. One of those traditions was that my parents expected my brother and I to “give up something” for Lent. As I have evolved in my own spiritual maturity, I think about Lenten disciplines differently. However, I continued to make an intentional Lenten commitment before Ash Wednesday each year.

In recent years, I’ve struggled a little to settle into a special observance every Lent. It seems that I have not always found something to do for Lent, but I have to say Lent has ALWAYS found something for me to do for Lent. I have learned that, for me at least, this tends to be the most powerful Lenten discipline- trusting in the Holy Spirit to find me where my open heart is and giving me the curriculum for what I most need to learn.

This year has been a little different. I was more than a week into Lent, and I had not felt the Holy Spirit tapping on my shoulder. I was starting to get antsy. There were a few things I had decided to do- listening to a series of lessons comparing the parable of the Prodigal Son to the novel The Brothers Karamazov, helping to coordinate and teach a Sunday School series, finishing a Young Adult Spiritual Formation Course. These all felt like appropriate Lenten observances, but not THE THING that was going to grow my soul this year.

For several days it seemed like I encountered the concept of fasting in different readings, sermons, devotionals, prayers. I decided I might be getting the nudge I needed after all. Better late than never, I suppose. But fast from what, exactly?

Typically, people think of food. That is problematic for me because of my diabetes. Also, I have never found food deprivation makes me holier- just grumpier. I have nearly 60 years as an observant Roman Catholic. I have experience with the food fasting thing. I tried to be holy. I really did. I understood that fasting is supposed to feel uncomfortable and sacrificial. However, the uncomfortable and sacrificial feeling was supposed to be a vehicle to get closer to God. It never worked for me. I doubt it will now.

Last year, I did commit to a fast- no Facebook for 40 days. It was challenging and uncomfortable… and I did find it to be spiritually refreshing. So was the additional sleep that resulted from the Facebook fast. Coming back to Facebook after Easter did show me that I engage with social media differently now. I am much more discriminating about what I view. I do not simply scroll and kill time. I read and watch only content providers that I specifically find entertaining, informative, and/or truly uplifting. I post when I want to do so but no longer feel compelled to document everything good that happens. It is a pleasant shift.

This brings us to Lent 2026. I bumbled around in prayer for awhile and then an idea came to me. As part of my own journey of self-discovery and mental health, I am coming face-to-face with a scary, painful tendency of mine. I believe a lot of really cruel and negative things about myself- things I want to believe are lies, but I can’t quite get there. I think I’ve always known about this tendency of mine but never believed I could do anything about it. I didn’t believe I could do anything about it because I couldn’t quite shake the certainty that the negative assertions are true.

In my first draft of this post, I recounted a partial list of the fundamental truths or lies I believe about myself. However, I decided I would be breaking my fast by even mentioning them. You see, this year I am fasting from engaging in views of myself that differ from God’s view of me. I have this mantra that I produced a few years ago that I tell myself when I am feeling especially wobbly…. I am a precious child of God, and I bring joy to the world. He has created me elegantly and equips me perfectly to walk the path He sets before me. I suppose this mantra is the gist of my fast this year- reprogramming my brain to believe it and honor God in it.

I don’t know where these negative perceptions of myself originate. Maybe they are things that other people tell me because, of course, everyone else’s perception is clearly much more valid than my own. Maybe they are things I tell myself because they are true. Maybe they are things that people told me so long ago they are my own. Maybe they are things Satan is telling me. I say that only half-facetiously.

I can’t make myself stop thinking or feeling the negative things- I cannot control my natural reactions. I can control my responses, however. I can choose to recognize the truth-lies when they appear and banish them.

This is the work of Lent for me this year. The rest of my observances- the classes and the studies- are not wrong or unhelpful. It is just that they feel more like busyness. My fast from engaging with the lies is the heavy lifting that nurtures growth. I hope that heavy lifting creates a shift that survives long past Easter.

Please pray for me!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Living On The Edge

I have never been much of a thrill seeker, but I’ve been thinking it is about time I shook things up a bit.

I recently began teaching a spiritual formation course for a group of young adults. The participants are between the ages of 17 and 30. I am a 66-year-old woman who has never had children. Additionally, some of the participants are also students at a nearby college for students with learning differences. The wide range of ages, life experiences, backgrounds, learning styles, and personalities would be a challenge for anyone, but it is especially difficult for someone like me. I do so love a plan, preparation, and predictable processes.

I taught this same course to our parish at large last year. It is helpful to note that our “parish at large” consists of a plethora of senior citizens, many of whom have been churchgoers their whole lives. I knew going into my young adult class that the experience would be different. I was excited about it. I looked forward to learning from them and sharing with them. I looked forward to stretching my sensibilities.

The premise of the course is that adults, young and old, have plenty of ideas, life experiences, feelings, and assorted other mental material in their brains. There is no need for the instructor to “fill them up.”  The role of the instructor is to help the participants look at the stuff that has been sitting in their brains for a long time and “stir it up,” to see if it is still within the “use by” date and if it can grow richer.

I could not have known what a blessing it would be for me. Plans, preparation, and predictable processes have absolutely no place in this adventure. In fact, the experience is wild, wooly, and completely unpredictable. I would say there is no process whatsoever, but that would not be strictly true. I believe there is a process, but it is not I who has designed it. It is the Holy Spirit. I often stop for a moment and think about what a marvel it is that I have been able to step back and let the Holy Spirit truly take the reins. It is good for me to get knocked off my perch.

We have just finished session five of a six-session program. So often, my carefully prepared lesson plan has gone completely by the wayside. This week, I do not think I even picked it up. The students are driving the bus. And that is a wonderful thing. Sometimes, the segues are non-existent and the gear shifting transitions threaten to destroy the transmission. Sometimes, I am not even sure what we are talking about. However, at least once in every session, someone says something so introspective and profound that it is clear Grace has entered the building. Additionally, the students’ kindness, sense of ownership, and accountability are inspiring.

Sometimes, there is a clash of world views, even from all of us in the arms of Jesus. Sometimes, it feels a little too intense for comfort. I’m talking about my world view as well as those of the different students. We haven’t quite figured out how to settle all that, but everyone is unfailingly kind. That, perhaps, is the best world view to have. Besides, don’t “they” always say there is no comfort in growth and no growth in comfort? These students are stirring me up AND filling me up!

A Little Slice Of Heaven In Orlando

Thoughts, feelings, and words can be slippery things. Sometimes, I have an experience that ignites an explosion within me. I want to blog about the internal inferno but I struggle to gather sufficient shrapnel to craft a coherent response. This is one of those times, so please grant me some grace.

I recently attended the annual convention of the Episcopal Diocese of Central Florida. Some of you know that I converted to the Episcopal Church in January of 2018 after spending my life as an observant Roman Catholic. My blog body of work probably clearly screams that I am a “churchy” kind of gal. My relationship with God is the most important thing in my life. One of my highest priorities in retirement has been to find out how I can grow closer to God and to serve Him.

The Episcopal community I found in 2016 seemed to speak to my soul. For the first year or two, I largely consumed. I allowed God to feed me. I did not engage much with the other church members because my mother was on her end-of-life journey. The only life I had then was walking beside her during her time in the shadowland between life and death. Gradually, I connected with the church community and became attached. I blossomed spiritually. I began shouldering more of the family responsibilities- getting involved in activities, tithing, serving.  I feel nourished by my church. I enjoy the worship and the fellowship. I have nurturing relationships with people I now believe are my family, including my pastor and his actual family. I have been very active in ministry since at least 2019.  

That is the pretty picture. It is a accurate, true picture. But it isn’t the whole picture. There have been times of brokenness and despair.  Sometimes, loving means hurting. Jesus talked about the blessings that are intrinsic in the painful places in life. He, himself, gave us the greatest blessing- beyond anything any of us can conceive- in the most painful place imaginable when He gave himself over for crucifixion.

I am certainly not Jesus. I am certainly not even complaining because my pain seems insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I am certainly not oblivious to the blessings God provides me- in the good times AND the painful times.

Let’s just say, though, that I’ve had my share of hurt in the church because I loved and because I tried to answer my baptismal call. There have been times when people feared me. There have been times when people misunderstood me. There have been times when people attacked me. It is difficult for me to express the beauty and depth of the bond I share with most of the people in my church… which makes it all the more painful and jarring when something happens to show me that the same brush does not paint everyone.

Over the past couple of years, the crucible of congregational development sucked me into its flashpoint. This period of metamorphosis turned a blinding spotlight on some of the more uncomfortable facets of “being church.” I got scorched by the spotlight. It took me an unreasonably long time to work my way through that period.

As my congregation grew in numbers and vibrancy, I could see so much good happening. The opportunities for personal harm paled in comparison to what I could intuitively feel happening. Church attendance seemed to be increasing. New ministries commenced.  The love seemed to be growing.  I spoke to my pastor about the way events played out over the past couple of years. I came to the conclusion that I would not have changed a thing. I believe most of what I tumbled through was necessary for our church to achieve this new growth. Also, I achieved much growth. Despite the pain, anxiety, and drama- probably even BECAUSE of it.

As I observed all the positive movement in my congregation, it was easy for me to think it was all in my head or to attribute it to “just happening.”  Up until the diocesan convention, everything I thought I observed was intuitive rather than cognitive. Still, my gut saw it as a win and all felt right in my world.

On the first day of the convention, a social scientist famous for analyzing the dechurchification of America, discussed depressing statistics about church attendance and Christian identification. The bishop addressed the delegation on the morning of the second day to present a more optimistic perspective. He relayed a conversation he had with the presiding bishop of the United States. Our diocese has the fourth highest average Sunday attendance in the entire nation. This is a positive sign, in and of itself. The presiding bishop went a step further. He explained that, if we look at that statistic by congregation, we have the highest average Sunday attendance in the nation- over 20% higher than the second diocese on the list. I could take it even a step further. My church has a congregation that is approximately 30% higher than the average for our diocese. The bishop went on to explain that high average Sunday attendance is attributable to three factors- excellent preaching, genuinely welcoming congregations, and vibrant ministries.  

As the impact of his words traveled from my ears to my brain, I felt something akin to hope warm my whole body. I even started to cry quietly. What I heard was that what my instinct observed at my church is not all in my head. My intuition now had hard data to support its truth. What I also heard was that it wasn’t “just happening.”  God is using His people to make it happen. And I get to be part of that.  That thought was so transcendent, my body could not contain it. The tears overflowed my spirit.

What a perfect, exquisite glimpse of Heaven!

TinkerBell Trauma

My favorite fairy has been discon-tink-ued.

People who know me IRL understand that it is “all Tink all the time” in my world. From the time I was a baby, my parents called me TinkerBell. For years, I thought it was sweet and cute. As I got older and read the original play by J.M Barrie, I questioned that characterization. TinkerBell is not always a very nice fairy. Still- good, bad, and ugly- TinkerBell has always been my alter ego. I have endless pictures of myself with TinkerBell. I have a TinkerBell wardrobe that is the envy of four-year-old girls everywhere. Some of you may even recall that I visited the “Bippity Boppity Boutique for grown-ups” a few years back to get Tinkifying makeover. I have an adorable lime green car that I call the “Tinkmobile.”

I also have a lovely little Chase VISA card that earns Disney reward points that I save up each year to pay towards our annual passes. The uber-adorable thing about this credit card is that TinkerBell’s picture is on the front of it. Every time I pull out my credit card, I get a green glimpse of the perky pixie princess. It reminds me that there is a TinkerBell persona living inside of me. Surely, despite my frumpy elderly exterior, there is a feisty, flirty, flittery, fun fairy bursting to get out.

Tragedy struck. Somehow, my Tinker card got compromised and I started getting charged $25 per month for some weird horoscope type service. I contacted Chase to report a fraud and dispute the charges. They agreed to reverse the charges, freeze my account, and send me a new card with a new account number. When the new card arrived, it sported Cinderella’s castle and not TinkerBell. I called the bank, thinking it was an error. There are several designs a cardholder can choose for the card, so I figured the person issuing the new card just accepted the default instead of specifying my TinkerBell choice.

Sadly, this was not the case. The lady on the phone confidently said she could help me get a card with the correct design. As she scrolled the options, however, she realized that TinkerBell HAD BEEN DISCONTINUED! I cannot begin to express the dismay I felt. It was as if I had lost my identity.

Ever since that conversation, I have been trying to fill the TinkerBell-credit-card-sized hole in my heart. I have barely worn anything other than Tink-themed clothing. I managed to wear appropriate church apparel to the Sunday service. Before I returned to the church that evening to lead the young adult study group session, however, I changed into my custom-painted TinkerBell and Periwinkle (Tink’s fraternal twin, for those of you who are not up on your pixie lore) sweatshirt that boasts that “I am the third sister.”  

It still isn’t working. I am feeling unmoored by this turn of events. The bank advised me to destroy the old card. I have not been able to bring myself to comply; I doubt I ever will. Grinding TinkerBell through the shredder is not on my bingo card.

I am in mourning. Max immediately started googling to find some sort of replacement product to ease my pain. The best he could find was a new floral TinkerBell spirit jersey. One could argue that while a Tink-design credit card and yet another article of pixie clothing are both nice but not exactly interchangeable. I don’t care. If my Tink credit card was my heroin, the new spirit jersey might at least function as my methadone.

We are going to Disney Springs today to buy the jersey- lest the delirium tremors begin!

TinkerBell lives!

The Big Crabapple- Part Four- The Grand Finale!

Monday was our last full day in New York. We had an early morning because we had a scheduled tour of the Statue of Liberty at 9:00am. After all our transportation mishaps, I was nervous about making our way to Battery Park in time to meet the tour. I had particularly arranged this guided tour because Max really wanted to go inside the statue and the surest way to do that seemed to be taking a commercial tour. It was clear from the National Park Service website that entry to the statue itself was extremely limited.

After trains, taxis, and automobiles, we arrived at Battery Park just in time. We joined the horde of people standing around our tour guide and listened to his introductory spiel. The first disappointment of the day was that the tour of the Statue of Liberty did not, in fact, actually enter the Statue of Liberty. We could have ridden the ferry, walked around the base of the statue, and visited the Ellis Island museum all on our own for much less money and at a time that did not require us to rise with the chickens. Instead, we hiked around in the crowd while our tour guide plied us with apocryphal stories about his wife and, parenthetically, the Statue of Liberty.

We still made the best of things. I know Max was sorely disappointed, but he did an excellent job of pretending it was okay. I felt crushingly guilty, of course, because that is what I do. Take on the responsibility for everybody else’s feelings- especially the feelings of the people I love. We did enjoy seeing the scale and majesty of the statue. We did enjoy a quick run through the Ellis Island museum. The tour guide took a couple of cool pictures of us, so he was good for something. He also insisted on taking a group picture of the whole horde of us and offered, for a small fee, to share it with anyone who wanted a copy. I am not sure why anyone would want a picture of themselves and thirty of their closest strangers on the grass in front of the Statue of Liberty. I certainly did not.

After we finished the tour and took the ferry back to Battery Park, I had an agenda. We did not make it to the carousel in Central Park, so I wanted to at least ride the carousel in Battery Park. The Google Machine told me that this carousel was a fanciful trip under the sea on fish and other marine creatures. That intrigued me. This was apparently not the run-of-the-mill merry-go-round, but a magical adventure. I looked at the map of the park and found the location. Unfortunately, spotting a location on a map and getting my brain to direct my legs to that actual location is not that easy. We wandered around for 45 minutes trying to find it. To be fair, we spent part of those 45 minutes with an Orthodox Jewish missionary who stopped to try to recruit us to Judaism. There is the first time for everything.

When we finally reached the carousel (Christianity still intact,) it was not overwhelming at first. The carousel was small. The marine creatures were made of some sort of translucent plastic material. They also seemed small for carousel animals, but I acknowledge they were massive for fish. Still, after 45 minutes of searching, I was not about to leave the park without riding that carousel.

Things changed when the carousel started. The animals began lighting up with morphing pale pink, blue, green, and purple shades. The music with other-worldly. It was what I imagine a merry-go-round on LSD would be like. It was a pleasantly bizarre experience. I don’t think I got stoned from it. Although now that I think about it, I did have the munchies afterwards… and the last thing I wanted to eat was seafood.

This was our last Manhattan adventure. We even found a cab to take us back to Penn Station on the first try. We had Carvel ice cream at a shop near the train station and ate supper at a cute diner near our hotel. We slept reasonably peacefully through our last night in New York. The next day, we drove back to the airport. The first stop was to return the car. I could see the car rental place, but there seemed to be no way to get there from the road. I kept wishing we were living on Star Trek, and I could just ask them to beam me up. On about the fourth circle around the airport, I finally found a way off the main road into the car rental place. Relieved, I got rid of the car as quickly as I could. After another squeamish ride on the air train to the terminal, both Max and I let our shoulders release and our breath exhale. We were going home where we knew what to do and how to get places.

When we reached the Orlando airport, we got our bags and went to retrieve my car from the parking structure. Normally, we use valet parking, but the valet parking area was full when we left Orlando. We parked in the structure, noted the level and row where I left the car. We took pictures of the area. We thought finding the car would be super easy.

It was not. We wandered, hauling our suitcases behind us, trying to find the coordinates we noted when we left. We found the level and the row, but my car was not there. Both of us were tired, hungry, and sore. I felt like I should have stayed on Ellis Island. Pulling a suitcase, struggling with a backpack, and slinging a carry-on bag over my shoulder- I felt like I just got off the boat.

After 20 minutes of searching, I realized something. We were in the rental car parking structure, not the passenger parking lot structure.

I should not be allowed to leave my house without adult supervision.

The Big Crabapple- Part Three

Here’s a fun fact- when a hotel hosts rehearsal dinners and bachelor/ette parties on Friday night, they often host wedding receptions on Saturday night. And those wedding receptions are frequently as loud or louder than the Friday night activities. I now know this from experience. Just saying.

I had higher hopes for Sunday. My cousin, his wife, and their adult son were meeting us at the train station to spend the day together in Manhattan. Great, I thought; I’ll have a keeper. It was a huge relief to my cracked confidence that our survival in Manhattan did not depend on my ability to navigate.

After another uneventful train ride, we arrived at Pennsylvania Station. I had purchased tickets for all of us to take a tour on that hop on/hop off bus. We were scheduled for the opposite neighborhood tour than the one Max and I lost the prior day. We also had reservations to tour the Empire State Building. First, though, I was still on the hunt for my New York bagel. We wandered around the station until we found the recommended carbohydrate pusher. I enjoyed my bagel and we set out to find a bus stop once again. Again, the bus stop was much further away than I anticipated. I knew the M&Ms store in Times Square would be a difficult landmark to miss, so that is where we decided to get the bus. About twenty-five minutes into the walk, I casually asked my cousin what that big building was that we saw as soon as we exited the train station. “Oh,” he said, “that was the Empire State Building.” I don’t know why we walked over twenty-five minutes to catch a bus that we intended to take to… the Empire State Building.

I convinced myself that it was all going to work out to the good because I was so looking forward to a guided bus tour of SOME part of Manhattan. We finally reached the bus stop and joined the line. While we were waiting, I asked one of the employees to confirm that there was, indeed, narration on this “tour.” The employee assured me there was certainly narration. We climbed up to the top decker of the bus and settled in to see some sights. We did see sights. However, we still have no idea what those sights were because there was no narration. We disembarked the bus close to the Empire State Building. The Empire State Building Experience was great. Still no guided narration, but there was signage and my cousin was able to fill in a few blanks.

When we finished at the Empire State Building, it was clear that we were not going to be able to eat and do anything else before we planned to go back to Long Island. It was also clear that eating was imperative. Originally, I hoped to go to Little Italy for a meal, but this turned out to be as overly ambitious as everything else I had planned on this trip. Neither time nor my blood sugar was going to allow for any additional trip to get dinner.

My cousin’s son suggested we go to Bubba Gump’s in Times Square. I like Bubba Gump’s, so I was down for it. My cousin’s wife pointed out we were about seven blocks from the restaurant. I didn’t think that was a big deal. Seven blocks didn’t sound like much. I walk an average of over four miles a day every day. What I did not understand was that seven city blocks in New York City are considerably longer than seven blocks in my little subdivision. Seven blocks in Manhattan are about a mile. Since I had already walked about six miles that day and had not eaten for about six hours, walking to the restaurant was not the wisest decision. My cousin began traipsing through the crowds in the general direction of Times Square. I am sure he wasn’t truly trying to lose me, but his pace did lead me to question his intentions. I walk a lot in my normal life, but I am nowhere near as fast as my family is. Luckily, Max did not leave me in the dust. He kept right by my side and gently kept me upright.

We had a wonderful time together at dinner- talking, laughing, enjoying each other’s company. I may have been lost in New York, but I wasn’t lost in my family.

The Big Crabapple- Part Two

Weekends on Long Island are a hot ticket. They are an especially hot ticket if you have a hotel full of wedding guests… and bachelor party guests… and bachelorette party guests. Let’s just say that sleep was nobody’s first priority the night we arrived. It might have been OUR first priority, but nobody cared.

After a bad night’s unsleep, we made our way to the hotel’s complimentary breakfast buffet. Considering how late the other guests must have been up partying, the breakfast buffet was alarmingly picked over. I can only believe that the partying went on until breakfast. The revelers probably spent the evening, night, and wee hours of the morning courting frivolity- then went marauding over the breakfast buffet, taking the spoils back to their rooms to sleep it all off. We ate some scraps and started out for the train station to get us into Manhattan.

I have to say that figuring out the whole railroad adventure was something that I had been dreading. I didn’t know exactly where the station was. I wasn’t 100% sure of the schedule or what line we needed to take. I had no clue as to how I was supposed to pay or when. I had certainly spun a web of anxiety over that aspect of the trip… long before we ever booked a flight. I thought it was going to be the most difficult part of the trip. It turned out to be the easiest. The Long Island Railroad was a piece of cannoli! I found the station on the GPS’ first try. The line and timetable at which I had guessed turned out to be the right ones. I easily inserted my credit card at the vending machine on the platform and was rewarded with two roundtrip train tickets. It was a nice sensation to feel competent again.

Full of misplaced confidence, we arrived at Penn Station at around 10am. It took me approximately nine and a half minutes to find a place in the station selling crumb buns. Because searching for authentic New York crumb buns is one of my holy grail memories with my mother, I refused to move until I purchased this confection and consumed it. I’m not sure a train station crumb bun quite qualifies as “authentic,” but it was pretty yummy and I’m calling it a win.

We found our way out of the terminal to realize we were adjacent to Madison Square Garden, and we were staring directly across from the famous 34th Street Macy’s (of “Miracle On” fame.) The shopper in me whimpered and we decided to make a quick detour into the store before we found the hop on/hop off bus. It was certainly a Macy’s of a different color I can tell you. It felt fancy and luxurious while managing to be kind of kitschy and touristy. It was fantastic with its art décor environment and the wooden escalator and the piano keyboard from the movie Big. It was also huge… I have been in entire malls that were smaller than this store. I kept looking for Edmund Gwenn… or at least anyone with a Santa suit and long white beard.

I pulled myself away after a quick run-through. After all, as fabulous as the Macy’s was, it was still a department store, and it seemed ridiculous to me to come all the way to New York to spend my vacation in a department store. Thus says the woman who spent the vacation commemorating her 50th birthday at the Mall of America.

But I am older and wiser now. I knew that I wanted to see more than Macy’s on our abbreviated sightseeing trip. I had the New York Public Library, Rockefeller Center, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the Central Park Zoo, the Central Park carousel, and a carriage ride through Central Park on my agenda. We had tickets for the hop on/hop off bus. My plan was to use the sightseeing bus as much as a mode of transportation as a guided tour of Manhattan. Someone hawking tickets stopped us every fifteen feet or so. I always explained we had tickets and asked how to get to a bus stop. They always pointed up the street and said, “keep going.”

A mile later, we finally found a bus stop. The driver said they were full, but there was nobody on the lower floor of the bus. When I pointed that out, he told me that we were welcome to sit down there if we wanted. We settled ourselves and waited for the tour to begin. Then, it didn’t. The bus started moving, but there was no narration at all. There was not even any announcement of where we were and what stop was approaching. I decided that maybe you could only hear the narration on the top floor, so I took matters into my own hands. I decided to get off the bus where I thought we should get off to walk to the library. I do not know if it truly was the right stop, but- after a lengthy walk guided by spotty GPS signals- we did find our way. The library was wonderful and I got to see the original Winnie the Pooh stuffed animals that A.A. Milne purchased for his son. Those stuffies later inspired the world of the Hundred Acre Woods and its inhabitants.

When we finished at the library, we grabbed some McDonald’s so I could quickly eat something that would allow me to remain upright. Then we started back to where the bus dropped us off. At least, I thought we started back to where the bus let us off.

It felt like we were walking and walking and walking without seeing anything that looked familiar. I tried my trusty GPS, and it told me we were .3 of a mile away from the bus stop. That seemed promising. However, the next time I checked, we were .8 miles away. I switched directions, which seemed like a smart thing to do if I was getting further from my destination with each step. The next time I checked, after walking in the theoretically “getting closer” direction, the distance was reading 1.7 miles. At that point, I surrendered and decided to get an Uber to take us to Central Park.

Uber seemed like a great option. I got a response almost immediately, telling me that our driver, Leo, would be there in a white Camry within three minutes. The problem was that I could not identify specifically where Leo was going to pick us up. Uber mentioned the intersection we were approaching on our forced march through Manhattan. However, by definition, an intersection has four possible corners. I was certain that, whichever one I picked, I would be wrong. We waited for awhile and I kept my eyes peeled for a white Camry. My heart surged when I saw one coming towards us. When it stopped in traffic, I stepped off the curb and into the street to consult with the driver.

I never knew I had hijacker potential. The driver kept saying that he was not our Uber, but it somehow did not register with me. He became more and more wary as we chatted in the middle of the street. I am probably lucky that my refusal to believe his protestations that he was not my Uber driver only confused him and did not spur him to violence. Finally, I asked, “But aren’t you Leo?”  He firmly denied that he was Leo and sped- or creeped- away as the traffic moved. Left in his dust, I consulted my App again. While my potential hijackee did have a white Camry and did have a license plate that started with the same two letters, the rest of the license plate number did not match what the app listed as Leo’s.

Apparently, white Camrys are the vehicle of choice for Manhattan Uber drivers. There were a lot of them. Indeed, after Leo texted me to tell me he was not working and would not be picking us up, I tried again and we ended up with another Uber driver- also in a white Camry with a license plate number starting with the same two letters.

The ride to Central Park was blessedly uneventful. However, all the time I had spent wandering around trying to find my way back to the bus and accosting a poor Manhattan motorist took a toll. There was not enough time to take the carriage, go to the zoo, and ride the carousel. I opted for the carriage ride, which was lovely. I left Central Park with FOMO, though.

I opted for a taxi to take us back to Penn Station. It came up when I tried my Uber app again. It seemed as though this time, it was going to be fairly easy to locate the taxi who was responding to the request. I could easily see and get to all four corners of the intersection where the app said our driver Adam would meet us. In a couple of minutes, I had confirmation from Adam that he was in the immediate vicinity and would be there within three minutes. Sure enough, a cab appeared. This time, I checked with the driver first. “Are you Adam?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “I am Adam. Where can I take you?”

He was not Adam. Adam is probably still circling around Central Park looking for us.

The Big Crabapple- Part One

Back in 2019, Max and I planned a vacation to New York City for May of 2020. As you may recall, the world wasn’t vacationing anywhere in May of 2020, least of all to New York City. We all spent the spring of 2020 hunkering down in our bubbles. We tried not to breathe when we made our potentially deadly trips to the grocery store. We hoarded toilet paper. We collected large wardrobes of fashion-forward face masks. We called driving through a temporary medical facility to get a COVID test a “date night.”

The hotel we had booked in Manhattan was open in May, but it was too soon for most people to even consider traveling for pleasure. I had a relaxed attitude about COVID, but even I felt faintly queasy about shooting my shot with New York City. Besides, nothing besides the hotel was operational. I couldn’t see the point of being tourists when the only sights we could see would be within the four walls of a cramped hotel room. We cancelled our trip.

Somehow or another, the idea of New York became permanently tangled in my brain with the idea of a deadly worldwide pandemic. After there was a vaccine, after the pandemic waned, after the world started breathing in the produce aisle again… I still became overwhelmed with the thought of another New York trip. It was not that I could not face traveling. I led the charge to re-engage with tourism in November of 2020. It was just New York that paralyzed me. It may be that the whole process of planning a trip to New York City scared me as much as COVID. Once the first trip got shoved to one side, the momentum of my tourist courage shattered in an irrecoverable kind of way.

I was born in the Bronx and lived on Long Island until I was five. I have memories from a few trips when I went to see family as an adult. In those instances, I visited New York City, but I always had a keeper. I never needed to be responsible for any decisions or directions. I just kept both eyes and one hand on whatever family member accompanied me and hoped for the best. I found even that to be scary.

So, what in heaven’s name made me think it was a clever idea to become the designated travel agent for a fun New York City vacation? I blame it on my cousin Raymond. Last year, I decided it had been way too long since I had seen him and his family. His younger son, my godson, was going to be celebrating his 21st birthday in July and I decided to visit them on Long Island for the occasion. On one of the days I was visiting, we planned a trip to Manhattan to see a play. I survived the ordeal easily. The thing is- my beloved Raymond and his wife made it all too easy for me. They helped me select a hotel near them, provided my airport transportation, picked me up at the hotel every day to shuttle me around to anywhere I wanted to go, and provided all my entertainment. When we went to Manhattan, I was able to employ my tried-and-true method of getting around by keeping both eyes and one hand on some member of my New York family at all times. Their generosity, in every way, was almost embarrassing. I certainly did not expect it. I did not want them to feel they had to make that kind of effort again- at least not without me making a similar effort for them in my own stomping grounds.

Bottom line- I was duped. Because this foray into New York tourism was a spectator sport for me, I convinced myself that it was possible for me to do it on my own. Nope. Not even a little bit. Our five-day trip (including two travel days) showed me that I am delusional about my competency in this arena. I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count all the mistakes I made.

My original plan was to use Uber to get to the hotel from the airport and for all our transportation needs on Long Island. We planned to take the train into the city on our three whole days of the trip. I had hop-on/hop-off bus tickets for transportation around Manhattan. In the week or so before we left, I started re-thinking- something that is almost always an error in judgment for me. I noticed that the drive from the airport to the hotel was only 18 miles and I did not remember it as being a bad drive when Ray transported me last year. Eighteen miles, I thought… how bad could it be? I decided that, if I rented a car, it would be more convenient to get to the hotel and, also to get to the train station, restaurants, etc. on Long Island. I checked the prices for rental cars and found a great deal. I made the reservation and convinced myself that I could do this thing.

On the day of our trip, we arrived at the Orlando airport in plenty of time. As we sat in front of Starbucks, I received a call from the hotel. They were calling to tell me that the two-bedroom suite I reserved over six months ago was, unfortunately, not going to be available after all. The hotel assured me it was not a problem because they were going to comp us another room so we would have separate sleeping spaces. Not ideal, but we could live with it. It did leave us with the question of how a room that we reserved months ago could suddenly not be available, but we decided to go with the flow.

Our flight was scheduled to arrive at JFK at 1:00pm. We got there around 1:30, thanks to some random pre-flight taxi-ing around the Orlando airport. While in the air, I received a text from the rental car company. They were cautioning me to bring proof of insurance. No car rental company has ever asked for that in my experience. I, of course, had not packed my handy-dandy insurance card. Still, I told myself not to sweat it; I could probably access my account online and get a digital copy of the card. Then, I kept reading (the text had many, many words.) The rental company clarified that said handy-dandy insurance card was not sufficient. They required a copy of the policy as well. No need to fret, they said, because they conveniently sold insurance at their counter.

Well, fret I did. I felt faintly sick to my stomach thinking of how much they probably charged for such “convenient” insurance. Still, I was not yet in despair. The text gave directions on how to get to their pick-up counter at JFK. After we picked up our bags, we embarked on that adventure. The first stage was getting on the AirTrain out of the terminal. We boarded the AirTrain, despite Max’s protestations that we should wait for the next “less crowded” one. About 843 people, give or take 122, piled on behind us on the already overfull car. I had nothing to hold onto as the train lurched forward, but that was okay because I was unable to move. When we reached the place we were to exit the train, Max made it out, but I was trapped in the horde of people who were paying no attention to my pleas that they “excuse me.” Finally, a lady several layers closer to the door than I took hold of my suitcase and used it as a battering ram to get it (and me holding on behind it) out the door.

We exited the train in front of the office for two rental car companies. Neither, unfortunately, was OUR rental car company. Still, not to worry- of course the cheap rental car company would not have a premium location. I opened the War and Peace length text from the company again. It informed to “follow the signs” to their location. I looked to the left, and I looked to the right. No signs. The text also mentioned turning left and walking to the traffic circle to find their office. We did that. We found the traffic circle. Sadly, however, we found absolutely nothing resembling a rental car office. Undeterred, I thought maybe the right and left got reversed so we retraced our steps and went past where we disembarked from the train. We found another traffic circle. Sadly, however, we STILL did not find anything resembling a rental car office.

At this point, if I had had a single brain cell that was still operational, I would have reverted to my original plan to get an Uber and rethink the rental car issue when we arrived at the hotel. However, I did not have a single remaining operational brain cell. I was hungry, tired, and faintly shell-shocked. I already had a significant case of Travel Trauma. As is likely to happen when infected by this disease, I made an extremely poor decision. I decided to rent a car from the company located right next to the train stop. There was a sign announcing that they had cars available.

I entered the office and joined the line that looked like it probably stretched to New Jersey. Max, who was beyond ready to get on the next plane back to Florida, waited outside the office guarding our luggage. After a lifetime or two, I reached the front desk and rented a car. I rented a car for THREE TIMES the cost of my original reservation with the apparently mythical company of The Office That Did Not Exist. I immediately went on my phone, transferred the astronomical cost of the car rental from my savings account to my checking account, and made a payment of that amount to my credit card. I could not bear the thought of seeing a credit card balance taunting me for my financial stupidity.

The good news? Nobody asked for proof of insurance.

Another minor piece of good news is that the car came with GPS. My car at home comes with GPS, so I thought I understood what that meant. On this rental car, though, there was no navigation button on the dashboard or screen to view the directions right in front of me. The GPS was a tired old tablet with, as it turns out, several different directions apps. It thought even slower than I was thinking at the time. Also, I somehow managed to have several apps going at the same time. I tried my phone but could not get it to talk to me through the car’s tech system.

By the time we accomplished all this, it was about 4:30pm On Friday afternoon. In New York City. On the way to Long Island. That 18-mile trip looked vastly different at 4:30pm than it probably would have looked at 1:30pm. Also. The various voices in the GPS choral rendition of driving directions took us through many neighborhoods that I am certain we had no business being. I understand that GPS systems are programmed to avoid traffic. Avoiding threat of bodily harm might be a good consideration, as well.

The 18-mile trip took almost 2 hours. We finally reached the town where we were staying and me Raymond and his oldest son for dinner. That was the eye of the hurricane… a time of peace, fun, and family bonding. It seemed that the worst might be over.

Nope.

Have a peaceful day!

Terri/Dorry 😊