Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
several landmarks in my hometown—Louie's Charcoal Pit, the Wigwam Tavern (though
it isn't called the Wigwam anymore, it's the Cottage Bar & Restaurant), and the build-
ing that once was Longfellow Elementary School (now it's the True Light Presbyterian
Church). I hadn't seen the house I grew up in or the old neighborhood since I made
the same pilgrimage at the end of my last cross-country ride, and though the names of
my neighbors—the McDermotts, the Kopfs, the Hansens (two Hansen families, actually,
next door and across the street), the Ferraras, the Tells, the Asadorians, the Blacks, the
Levitans, the Luskins, the Kellys—came parading back to me, visually it had all faded
in memory. Trees are in different places than they have been in my mind. Our backyard,
which supplied the football stadium of my childhood, is smaller than half a tennis court.
It was a nostalgic, slightly disconcerting detour, made a little more poignant by the
memory of my folks greeting me. But this time, a few hours ago, when I was met on
the bridge by a cheering gaggle of friends and a bottle of champagne, I wasn't thinking
about the last trip or my parents; I felt nothing but exhilaration, and the memory that
came back to me was of another unambiguously gratifying occasion, further back in the
past.
My first job after graduate school was teaching English at a private academy in the
Bronx, and in my third (and last) year as a teacher, the senior class dedicated its year-
book to me. That was thirty-two years ago. (My God, I've been an adult that long!) It
was a fiercely thrilling honor, no less spirit-rousing for being not especially deserved. At
the school assembly where they made the announcement, I was called up onto the aud-
itorium stage, and the kids gave me a standing ovation, which is an experience I wish
everyone in the world could have at least once.
There's nothing more humbling, more unadulteratedly ego-bolstering or more
weirdly embarrassing, nothing that makes you feel more appreciated in the world, than
people on their feet applauding you with vociferous sincerity, and among other things,
it made me understand the manic drive of actors and athletes and politicians who feed
so nakedly on that kind of lionization. Greeted by my friends on the George Washington
Bridge—Mia, Donald, Dan, Allen, Avery, Carole, Bob, Amy, Eric, and two Steves, all of
whom were exultant on my behalf, giggling, clapping, and taking pictures and videos,
which they then dispatched by email to Jan in Paris—I felt that sensation for the second
time in my life.
