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Welcome To The Jungle

 

The fluorescent tubes in Penn Station’s underbelly did a piss-poor job of lighting the platform. Stepping off of the train was like stepping into a dungeon. A dank, smelly dungeon that oxygen forgot. 

 

Dazed, I followed the crowd to claim our luggage being stacked against a wall. My spindly arms struggled with my three bags, but no one helped as they sprinted to the escalator up to street level. 

 

After my own wobbly ascent, I was belched up into the cavernous waiting room, moored by yards of grimy tile and the smell of burnt cheese and old caramel corn.  My head spun as I tried to get my bearings and find an exit, any exit. I stopped under the huge departures board in the middle of the room, finally spying a sign for 8th Avenue in a far corner. Good enough. I picked up my bags again.   

 

But then the PA system announced the track for the next New Jersey Transit train.  Hundreds of people suddenly woke from their zombie state to rush to the other side of the room. And I was in the way. Grim and determined, they flowed around me like human lava.  

 

Once the mob passed, I made my way to my intended corner and yet another escalator, which zipped me up to 8th Avenue. I landed out on the crowded sidewalk where all of my senses were mugged at once. Noise pummeled my head. Police sirens. Fire trucks. Rap music blaring from boom boxes. Honking cabs. Wheezing buses. People on all sides yelling, laughing. 

 

So many smells twisted my nose hairs. Bus exhaust. Hot, gummy asphalt. Frying food. And what IS that? Chestnuts roasting on an open fire? It’s August!

 

Not quite dusk, the area teemed with people darting in every direction. According to my NYC map from the Piqua AAA, the Sloane House was only 2 blocks away. But I couldn’t walk there with my bulky bags. I stood in a line for the yellow cabs waiting outside, numb from sensory overload. 

 

“Hi!” I said to the driver who didn’t look at me. “I know it’s not far, but I need to get these bags to the Sloane House on 34th. I’ll pay you double.”

 

The driver shrugged, still looking ahead, so I took that as, “Get in.”

 

He didn’t say anything after I gave him a $5 bill for the $2.30 fare once he dropped me off, so I guess did good. We pulled up to a brick behemoth with a dark awning stretching to the curb.

 

Once out of the cab, I didn’t want to look like a tourist. But I snuck a glance up the building, which arched skyward at least 10 stories. My room would be in there somewhere. I hoped.

 

Photo Credit: Wikimedia Commons / Alan Turkus 

 

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