A Slice of the Big Apple

Cleveland’s Hopkins Airport proudly called itself "international," but in 1977, that designation meant Canada and a few scattered destinations just beyond the southern border. There were no direct flights to Europe. So Tom and Jim—feeling cooly hippie-ish with their new backpacks (one external frame, one internal, both orange and both overloaded)—had to detour: first to New York, where they'd spend the night, then onward from a truly international hub: JFK.

Tom had visited New York as a young boy, but his memories of the Big Apple were hazy. Jim had never been. What they knew of the city came secondhand from the Cleveland Plain Dealer, the Toledo Blade, and their local TV news back home. The headlines were bleak. New York City teetered on the edge of bankruptcy. The Bronx was literally burning. A serial killer known as the .44 Caliber Killer—soon to be dubbed Son of Sam—was targeting young women across the boroughs. A recent citywide blackout had triggered looting, emboldened street gangs now ruled the subways and roamed Central Park, and 42nd Street and Times Square had descended into a den of crime, sleaze, and porn. 

They couldn’t wait.

The short flight to LaGuardia gave them just enough time to settle into the reality of what they were doing. No more hesitations. No more second thoughts. 

“We’re doing this, Doc,” Tom said. “We’re really doing this.”

Jim nodded, not-so-discreetly checking under the waistband of his jeans to make sure the money belt —stuffed with his passport and a thick stack of American Express Travelers Cheques—was still there. He’d read that this essential, if awkward and sweaty accessory was essential for travel—especially when visiting sketchy destinations. And to Jim, New York City definitely qualified.

As luck would have it, their seats were on the right side of the plane--unfortunately, the wrong side if you were hoping for an inspiring, birds-eye view of the Statue of Liberty, the Twin Towers, the necklace of bridges linking the boroughs. The famous skyline passed unseen as the plane began its descent. 

As would sometimes happen in the unlikeliest of places (a deserted train station in Germany, a hotel bar in Cairo, a busy street in Tehran), Tom and Jim ran into people they knew—or people who knew people they knew.  On the Carey airport bus into Manhattan, Tom spotted a high school friend, Phil Andrye, who worked in the financial district. Phil gave them an insider’s tour and joined them for dinner, along with one of their college housemates, T.R. Paulding, who caught a train down from Hartford. They shared plenty of laughs—thanks mainly to T.R.—but wrapped things up early. T.R. had law school the next morning, and Phil had to be at the office. They lived in the real world.

Later, back at the LaGuardia Holiday Inn, Tom and Jim toasted the start of their adventure with overpriced beers at the Kitty Hawk Lounge, spending more of their hard-earned savings than budget travelers should have. Still, they raised their glasses in quiet self-congratulation, happy to be marching to a different drummer—even if they’d only traveled 600 miles so far, and by jetliner.

The next morning, Tom reported a restful night. Jim said the same, though he’d had trouble falling asleep—not from anticipation, but because his mind kept replaying the scenes they’d walked through: Central Park, Rockefeller Center, Radio City Music Hall, Times Square—and, most vividly, a 42nd Street theater marquee advertising an “exclusive” experience: Watch a Man Get Devoured by a Lion-- LIVE AND ON FILM!

In the words of Leonard Bernstein: New York, New York. It's a helluva town.

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Our good friend mentioned in this post, T.R. Paulding, passed away this year on March 27. No one was a prouder Notre Dame alum and fan. No one had a kinder heart. All who knew him miss him terribly. 

Godspeed, friend.

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And now for the NOW: Reflections on "A Slice of the Big Apple"

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