Lions on 5th Avenue

When I was eleven I went camping with my parents and their group of friends. This is the group of friends that hunt together. My dad hunts. We'd have campfires at night and the men would drink whiskey and tell stories. The kids would explore the woods during the day. I love exploring woods. I remember one morning finding a creek that was so beautiful it was as if I had written it into my exploration. I remember finding hills from which to sing Toby Keith's, "Should Have Been a Cowboy" at the top of our lungs. One day we took our bikes out to the main road and started pedaling uphill. There were about six of us; the boys took off ahead and the younger kids were a little behind me. I can't remember how long I was riding before I turned a corner then looked back, and realized I was the only one around. The hill seemed to be getting steeper. I rode faster, but I couldn't see anyone. It didn't matter how quickly I pedaled, I still couldn't find anyone. I even rode back down the hill a little. So I started yelling. I yelled everyone's name as loud as I could so many times. But no one yelled back and I got so scared I started crying. I remember thinking how it would be unfortunate to come across a mountain lion at that very moment. I was lost, on my own, and alone. I was terrified.

But I eventually found my way, on my own, back to the small path that served as the entry into camp, and found the parents around the tents and trailers. I wiped my eyes and pretended nothing had happened. Taking in a quick breath I realized that no one ever had to know how scared I was.

Sometimes in New York we have bad days, and mostly, we're on our own. Some of us are lucky to have the people we can trust with our overreactions and who will listen to the trivial details that make or break our spirits for the day. But I've learned that if I can get through it on my own and the moment passes, after I wipe my eyes it doesn't seem like such a big deal anymore. And the next day as I'm facing 5th Avenue, it will never even have to know the difference.

Unlocked.

I'll try to explain although, I can't promise you'll understand. It’s kind of like riding a fire-breathing tiger down a river in the rain. Somewhere between a tattoo, and carving confessions in wet cement for someone to find walking home at 7pm on Sullivan Street.

Sometimes it hits me when I’m on the train heading uptown, ten minutes late to an appointment, coffee spilling on my knees as I cross them to fit between two investment bankers in ties on their Blackberry smart phones checking yesterday's sports stats. People are yawning. Wondering why they wake up at the same time every morning to shower and surrender to the American dream. I wake up later and work smarter. But my dream is a little different; a little more International. It’s kind of like a hidden rocky beach near Ensenada where the water is turquoise blue. The coffee is always black. The wine is always red. And lightening storms are watched wrapped in a blanket from the fire escape. I catch my reflection in the window near 23rd street and notice that I’m smiling. I used to think happiness was boring. But it makes me want to discuss lantern festivals and secret restaurants on W. 69th between Amsterdam and Columbus. It makes me want to trade favorite music and love notes and drink pulp free orange juice with breakfast cooked in a pan that hasn't been washed in a few days. It’s sharing dreams about enchanted cottages in the woods and understanding references to Thoreau. It's getting the joke.

I smile because I can't help it. Imagine all the things we’d miss if patience didn’t exist. Maybe we'd never get over fears of ferris wheels. And maybe, we'd never learn that two bottles pair much better with the view at the very, very top of the mountain.