The YMCA I decided to stay at on 34th Street did not take reservations, but they said not to worry because they always had rooms.
Worrying was my top extracurricular activity. If it were an official sport, I would have gotten a four-year scholarship to Bowling Green. After checking to see no convention was in New York the weekend I planned to arrive, I decided to just go with it. I had to trust that the YMCA staff wouldn’t turn me away from the inn without recommending a good alternative.
Physically getting to New York would be based on more certainty. I fell in love with the city during my high school Drama Club trip in 1984. (Shout-out to Don and Sue Smith who took a bunch of high school kids to the Big Apple. What could go wrong?!) We traveled by train from Lima then too, riding through the night until we walked out of Penn Station the next afternoon into the heart of the roaring beast.
It’s a tedious and draining 17-hour ride, but the familiarity would calm my nerves. I hadn’t been on a plane since 6th grade. Getting from a huge airport to the YMCA with my bags seemed daunting and expensive.
Confident in my reasoning as well as my pseudo reservation at the Sloane House, I went to the travel agency at the Piqua AAA downtown and bought a one-way ticket on Amtrak’s Broadway Limited for Friday evening, August 25th. I charged it on my only credit card.
I would have to stick to a strict budget, of course, and use my card only for emergencies. But school had taught me to be frugal. Through financial aid, work-study, and summer jobs, I somehow always had enough to eat. Granted, it was a lot of Ragu Pasta meals and Kraft Mac N’ Cheese (not generic), but I didn’t starve AND had money for beer.
I had stashed away cash from PR internships with a state government agency and a nuclear weapons facility for just this moment. The week of my departure, I withdrew it all from the local bank. I held onto $200 cash and put the rest into a $1,500 cashier’s check to fund a new checking account once I got to Manhattan. I pondered how to transport it. Putting it in my underwear or in a shoe seemed unsanitary for everyone involved.
The YMCA would charge $150 a week. I estimated I would only need four weeks max to find a job and an apartment. To be safe, I would just drink water, no pop or booze. No shopping. No cabs; I would walk everywhere. No Broadway shows (yet). I would eat only to survive. But seriously, how much more could pizza or a Big Mac cost there? I was sure I had plenty of money to start with.
Photo credit: Karolina Grabowska @ www.kaboompics.com
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