Close your eyes, and envision a different time -- an era of legwarmers, crimped hair, acid wash jeans, and fluorescent shirts, all accompanied by the sounds of synthetic pop and rock ballads. This, dear readers, was the heart of the eighties, and this story takes place in the heart of America -- New York City. On summer vacations to visit relatives in New England, we would drive the entire distance of the eastern U.S. coast from Florida all the way up to Massachusetts and New Hampshire. In order to make the drive less painful, we would occasionally stop at major tourist destinations along the way for educational experiences to learn about our nation's proud history. On this particular trip, we just so happened to stop in the major metropolis of New York City for several days to see what all the buzz was about.
I experienced my first subway ride as we hurtled underground to our different destinations: looking out across the city from atop the World Trade Center, walking through the busy hub of Grand Central Terminal, and gawking at dinosaur bones in the American Museum of Natural History. During this carefree decade, we were able to hop onto a boat without prior reservations in order to cross the harbor toward the indomitable symbol of freedom -- the Statue of Liberty -- much like our immigrant descendants had done several generations before.
While I was only eight or nine years old at the time, certain details stand out in my memory from this fateful day. I remember standing in line to gain access to the statue's pedestal, from which there was a looooong winding stairwell to reach the crown. Ascending the death-defying staircase during the sweltering summer afternoon, and trying not to get dizzy while looking down at the ground hundreds of feet below was not my idea of fun. We were all being herded along like cattle, each of us yearning for our 10 seconds of freedom in the crown, where we could gaze at the greatness of Manhattan from one of the city's best vantage points. While stuck in the unending line, I started to reevaluate my current situation. There I was, on a narrow staircase high above the ground, crushed amongst the crowd of pushy tourists, and it suddenly became clear to me -- this trap was going to be the death of me, so I started panicking and crying for safety. My mother finally relented and dragged me to the opposite stairwell where we made our hasty retreat back to solid ground, patiently waiting for my father who dutifully continued upward for his singular taste of Liberty's freedom, not about to let some blubbering fool steal his view.
And there you have it: one of the biggest failures of my life.
Flash forward 20+ years to my first repeat visit to NYC. In this post 9/11 era, getting tickets to go inside the Statue of Liberty takes an act of congress, and none were available in advance at such short notice for this mini-vacation. Tickets sell out months in advance, and after Hurricane Sandy and the recent government shutdown have both indefinitely closed the statue again, it's a miracle that the statue was ever reopened in the first place. On my first morning in New York, I happened to pull up the online ticketing website on a whim, and a holiday miracle occurred -- there was ONE lone ticket for that morning that was available! I have no idea how or why this single golden ticket became available, but I grabbed the opportunity with such exuberance that I would have made even Charlie Bucket jealous at my good fortune. I threw on some clothes and briskly walked the 10 blocks to board the ferry in time for my appointed 9:00am timeslot (while passing a prominently placed sign telling tourists that there were absolutely no more crown tickets available - suckers!).
I boarded the ferry, sailed on past Ellis Island, and landed at Lady Liberty's feet, looking for solace within her copper dressfolds to house my poor, tired, and huddled mass. I was eager to seek redemption for my past follies as a child, and I proudly climbed each step of the winding staircase with poised determination. After countless steps ascending within the bowels of the statue, I eventually reached the summit and peered out at a spectacular view of Manhattan, knowing that I had managed to redeem myself and close a terrible chapter in my life. Proud of such a feat, I basked in the glory as long as possible, content with my accomplishment. When my coveted time in the crown had expired, I reluctantly took one last look back before heading down, and promptly banged my head into the crown's ceiling, leaving me dazed and confused, but with an unabashed sense of victory.
Approaching the Statue of Liberty
Manhattan from Liberty's crown
