DanMargarita.com

I’ve always enjoyed train travel and that’s my plan to get to New York. I certainly can’t help but be aware of the date, but I don’t need to constantly hear that Amtrak trains are extremely vulnerable to a terrorist attack. Thank you, Anderson Cooper.

Sun. Sept. 10--- The train from the Rt. 128 stop seems like the most convenient to get to, but I would’ve been smart to remember that the Patriots are playing their first game. Despite the traffic, I get there on time and it doesn’t take long for a reminder of the date when two women wearing commemorative 9-11 T-shirts arrive on the platform.

After a pleasant ride down, we arrive at the nightmare that is Penn Station which is the polar opposite of the simple Rt. 128 stop. Emerging from the station, a member of the NYPD stops me to ask if I’ve just taken the train. After telling him that I have, he hands me a pamphlet and tells me to be alert and report anything or anyone suspicious. I ask him if he’s heard of my hotel, the Washington-Jefferson, and he says no, which I figure, if the local law enforcement hasn’t heard of it, is a good thing.

The hotel, named of course after our first President George Washington and Archie Bunker’s former neighbor George Jefferson, is not too far from Times Sq. and is reasonably priced for the area. It’s comfortable and clean, but small. How small? Standing at the foot of the bed, I rest the side of my leg against it and reach out (without leaning or stretching) with my other side hand and touch the opposing wall.

After getting settled I make my way to Times Sq. which always seems alive, any time of day, on any day of the week, and stop at B.B. King’s blues club. Funkmaster George Clinton is playing in the big room but I opt for the small room with the house band. There’s no cover charge, but it costs $7 for an O’Doul’s non-alcoholic beer.

Mon. Sept. 11---- Times Sq. is busy with people going to work but the many, massive video screens are running footage of the ceremony going on at Ground Zero. Families of victims read off names of those lost and politicians make speeches but life is still going on here.

With the collapse of the World Trade Center Towers, the Empire State building is once again the highest building in the city, so I decide to make that my first stop. Security is tight and I’m forced to check my Swiss Army knife at security. It’s not a simple elevator ride to the top. One must constantly walk around several corridors and take two elevators to get to the top.

The observatory is open and very windy, at least on this particular day. But there are bars which prevent anyone from falling over or even climbing over if they try. It’s a clear sky so the visibility is 25 in every direction, meaning that you can even see New Jersey. Where’s the pollution when you need it?

The $6 audio guide is very helpful with the building’s history. The narrorator “Tony” tells us that when built in the early ‘30’s, it was done very quickly with sometimes a floor per day going up. Remarkably, only three deaths occurred during construction. Two were workers falling and one involved a worker who decided to look in the elevator shaft to see if the elevator was coming. It was.

Tony also tells us some useless info such as where he grew up and now lives. Unless he’s inviting us to his house for dinner, it seems irrelevant. The one disappointment is not finding any sign of a giant ape crawling up the side of the building.

Walking back through Times Sq. I see a man with a muslim cap and a long straggly beard, wearing a white T-shirt that has hand-written on the back “I Love Saudi Arabia.” The front reads “King of Terror” which doesn’t seem to be ironic. I don’t think I’m given to paranoia and in most circumstances I’d just write the guy off as a nut, but walking around NYC on the fifth anniversary of 9-11, seems foolish at best, dangerous at worst. I remembered what the cop with the pamphlet said, so as soon as I find a “security” officer, a non-armed officer that acts as another set of eyes for the police, I tell her about the guy. She doesn’t seem overly concerned and doesn’t seem to get on her walkie-talkie and do much about it.

Later I continue sightseeing and on 5th Avenue stumble upon The Museum of Sex. The featured exhibit is “The History of Pornographic Film” which is frankly, more informative and humorous than erotic. A clip of one silent film shows that it was so cheaply made, that between the action, instead of the traditional titles that have the dialogue, the actors hold up cards with the dialogue hand-written on them.

After more sightseeing and dinner, I stop at a small pub around the corner from the hotel. It is across the street from a NYFD Fire House, so many of the patrons are firefighters in dress uniform. It has clearly been a long and emotional day for them.

Tue. Sept. 12--- Looking for a Dunkin Donuts in Times Sq. takes some time, but Starbucks’ seem to have multiplied and eliminated the Dunkin Donuts’ like cancer cells killing off the healthy ones. I make my way to Rockefeller Center and take the NBC Studio tour. Known as “30 Rock” the GE building embodies the history of American network TV and it’s black marble lobby with gold trim and elaborate wall and ceiling murals, harkens back to an era when Milton Berle was the King of TV. One can almost feel his presence.

The first stop on the tour is the set of the “NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams” (or somebody else if he’s on vacation). It’s a cliché for sure, but the set is so much smaller than it appears on TV. Our guide Kat explains that the mob of people you see milling about in the background on TV are merely a video projection of people from 1999. For them, the 9-11 attacks haven’t happened yet.

The next stop is a mini mock studio where they demonstrate green screen technology to the tourists. Two “brave volunteers” are needed to pretend to be a news anchor and a weatherperson. Not willing to pass up this challenge to my manhood, I offer to read the news copy and a man named Paul agrees to do the weather. We put on a brief, phony broadcast and the rest of the tourists watch us make fools of ourselves.

Then we head to the studio of “Saturday Night Live” where we sit in the balcony in seats that have been there since the show’s inception in 1975.The yellow chairs are technically on loan from N.Y. Yankee owner George Steinbrenner, who let the show borrow them under the assumption that the show would soon fold, and the seats would be quickly returned. Once again, the set is so much smaller than you would guess from seeing it on TV. So many classic sketches from performers that have produced the bulk of American comedy were done on this tiny area, which features the stage for the opening monologue, a small area to the left for musical guests and a slightly bigger area where most of the comedy sketches are performed.

At the end of the tour some of us are given tickets to be on stand-by for the “Late Night with Conan O’Brien” show. I have to check-in at 3:30, so I can’t wander far. When I check-in, they tell me to come back again at 4:30. I show up and there are dozens of people waiting for a chance to fill in the empty seats that might be available. We’re asked to line up by number, so at 68 my chances of getting in don’t look too good.

After a long wait, they bring in several people, cutting the line at me. The woman running this says that a few more of us might get in, but people at the far end of the line give up and leave. After another 20 minutes, she comes back and says that she can take four people. I’m first in line, but behind me a group of three women who are together and are trying to decide if one of them won’t go or all three will pass. The show will start soon, so they’re being pressed for a decision. Everyone looks at me and I feel a bit guilty as though I should do the chivalrous thing and offer up my spot and let all three of them go, but I’ve been waiting quite a while and I want to see the show, and after listening to them chat for 45 minutes, I don’t really care for them. A last minute decision is made by someone inside to let us all in and the women sit together as I am given an office chair behind the last row, which is pretty comfortable.

I head back to the hotel at about 6:30 and walk in on the maid changing the sheets. It seems a bit late, but you get what you pay for.

Broadway is synonymous with theater and all the shows available, I opt to see Monty Python’s “Spamalot” at the Shubert Theater. Okay, I saw it in Boston but I liked it enough to want to see it again. I ask for the cheapest ticket possible and get a back-balcony seat for $36, which isn’t bad considering front-balcony seats are $76. You get what you pay for when you skimp.

Since I sat behind the last row for Conan, I guess sitting in the last row at the Shubert is an improvement. Except that this is a grand old theater and the last row is a long way away, not to mention that I’m positioned right in front of an air conditioning duct. How the elderly folks ever climbed all those stairs is anybody’s guess.

Wed. Sept. 13--- It’s kind of hokey, but one of the best ways to learn about a city is to take the sightseeing bus tour, which I do. The upper deck is uncovered and provides the best view but you do have to duck for the occasional traffic light.

Getting off at Battery Park (next to Assault Stadium?) I take the ferry to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. A good portion of this country’s population can trace their roots through Ellis Island where many immigrants first stepped on American soil in hopes of a better life than the one they left behind. They were herded through long lines where they received a six second medical inspection by a doctor. If a possible illness was detected, they were marked and pulled aside for a more in-depth look. If they got past that, they were given a legal exam to make sure no anarchists or communists got through to U.S. soil. Unescorted women and children were kept on the island until a male relative could come and claim them.

The wonderful irony of the boat trip to and from the island is the amount of different languages I hear being spoken. Where once ships took non-English speaking people to the island in search of citizenship, boats now take them as tourists.

Returning to shore, I walk up to Ground Zero. It’s come a long way since my last visit when it was just a massive hole in the ground. Ramps enable construction crews and their vehicles access to the pit, but the viewing site seems further removed and harder to see from than before. Memorials are all over the place. Photos of lost loved ones with messages from their children, spouses and parents are heartbreaking to read. On one side there is a display and timeline of the events. Photos of dust-covered victims, crowds looking up in horror and disbelief and the towers collapsing become too much to look at after a while.

Heading back up Broadway, I stop and have my photo taken with the famous statue of the bull at Wall St. Many others do the same, but instead of the front of the bull, I opt for a more comical photo of me checking the anatomically correct animal for a hernia from behind.

It’s a long way back up town so I jump on the subway, which is where you get to see the real New York City. Three young men jump on the train with a conga drum and a fold-up stool each. It’s obvious what’s coming next and one man introduces them and wishes us well. While some people find their drumming entertaining, three people pull out their ipod’s and plug in their headphones. After they leave a couple of young men get on and admit they’re not selling candy “to start a basketball team” but to put money in their pocket. At least they’re honest about it.

I get off the train at Columbus Circle and several fire trucks are parked nearby. As I walk towards my hotel, several ambulances and fire trucks drive around with their sirens blasting. Yet, the people going about their business seem completely nonplussed. Wondering is something major is going on, I ask a shopkeeper and he seems to think it’s just some sort of drill.

After dinner I head to Greenwich Village to find some live music. I’m not even sure if I was in the right neighborhood, but eventually I found a small club with an 11-piece R&B band playing.

Thur. Sept. 14--- It’s a rainy day, so I get on the downstairs level of the tour bus uptown. Up along Central Park West live many of the rich and famous where a view overlooking the park command millions of dollars. Up into Harlem, past the legendary Apollo Theater, we’re detoured as the street is closed off due to the filming of a Denzel Washington movie. We continue on down Fifth Ave. on the Upper East Side, where many more legends past and present have lived and I decide to get off at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I would’ve gotten off anyway, but can no longer tolerate the bad jokes and puns of the tour guide.

“It’s raining cats and dogs, so be sure you don’t step in a poodle.”

That’s just one example and besides some NYC history, we learn that his mother-in-law is old, fat, loud and obnoxious, at least according to his jokes.

All of the guides mention that tips are welcomed and I’m tempted to give him just one tip---don't go into show business.

The Met is one of the great art museums of the world and is the home of the famous painting “George Washington Crossing the Delaware” which may be historically inaccurate, but still captures the spirit of one of America’s most significant moments. For those of you who have only seen it in a schoolbook, you would be surprised at the sheer immensity of it, standing 12 feet high and 21 feet long.

Back in Times Sq. I’ve learned of a ticket kiosk where you can buy discounted tickets for that evening’s shows. Rather than play to half-empty houses, the theaters sell tickets at 3 p.m. with large discounts. It’s a little chaotic, but the line moves quickly and I buy a ticket to see “Fame Becomes Me” a one-man show starring Martin Short…and five other people. My mezzanine seat is 50% off, but still costs $59.25. The show is Short’s musical-comedy story of his life and career, much of which he admits early on, is completely made up. Getting back to the hotel late, I discover that my bed is still not made.

Fri. Sept. 15--- It’s a rainy day, so a good place for a TV junkie like me is the Museum of TV and Radio. I finally get there after getting different directions and addresses from several people. Admission is $10 and you’re allowed an hour’s viewing, but there are plenty of open consoles so they really let you stay as long as you like.

I ask what the most viewed show is and one employee speculates that it’s “Seinfeld” which seems like kind of a waste. Why pay $10 to see that when the show is on some cable station every night of the week?

Just about any TV show that’s been broadcast and is still on tape, can be seen here. One only need research for a show in a computer and then hand the request to a librarian, who then gives you a slip to give to someone in the viewing room. They set you up and all you have to do is punch in the number of the show you’re looking for. After doing that, I find it’s even more fun to punch in random numbers. I get all sorts of bizarre and/or wonderful things.

An episode of “Dragnet” comes up. Not the campy late ‘60’s show, but the original black & white show with a young Jack Webb and a pre-Perry Mason Raymond Burr as his boss. Then, a bizarre voiceover film about a day in the life of the late actor George Reeves, seems a little creepy with a new movie about his mysterious demise currently in theaters.

It’s still raining when I leave, and New York commuters are prepared with umbrellas, but I am not. I can’t get a cab because those who also weren’t prepared took them all, so I get soaked on the way back to the hotel. It’s not a night for too much walking around, so I find a nice place for dinner and watch some baseball on TV.

Sat. Sept. 16 ---.The rain has passed and along 5th Avenue, there are blocks for a couple of miles with kiosks selling anything and everything. Then I take a train to the Bronx where the Red Sox are playing the Yankees. I know it’s a sellout, but with standings putting the Sox out of contention, I figure I might pick up a ticket. The Stadium area is packed and a ticket can be had for an expensive price or otherwise is a dubious-looking ticket. I could hang around and pick up something no doubt, but I want to see the game and opt for the next best thing, watching it in the bowling alley/bar across the street. I’m not the only Red Sox fan, but I’m the only one not making my presence known. I try not to cheer when the Sox do something positive (it doesn’t happen often these days). Yankees fans howl when the Sox screw up and I feel like a cat in a dog pound.

Later, I make my way up to Little Italy where the Feast of San Gennaro is going on. Mulberry St. is packed with people who make their way past many carnival-style booths with refreshments, food and games. Music is everywhere and one can hear Dean Martin one minute and then reggae music the next. After a great meal, I stop at the Dunk the Clown booth where the wise-ass clown challenges the mob of onlookers to take a stab at putting him in the drink. Foolishly I step forward and he notes my long, unkempt hair.

“This guy looks like ‘Shaggy’ from ‘Scooby Doo.’ Let’s see what ya’ got, Shaggy.”

My three throws miss their target and he stays above the pool of water. As I leave he continues.

“Where ya’ goin’, Shaggy?”

Then they play the theme song to “Scooby Doo” and I move on.

As I make my way to the end of Mulberry St. I look back to see between the old fashioned, one-time tenements, the Empire State building rising, seemingly to be watching over the festivities as some sort of defender of the city.

Sun. Sept. 17--- Time to go home, but getting on an Amtrak train in Penn Station is not as easy as it is on Rt. 128. The track we’re go to is an up escalator to let people arriving into the station. Dozens of us crowd around and the people getting off a train arrive at the top of the escalator and have to fight their way through us to get out. Once they’re done, an Amtrak employee reverses the stairs to go down, and we all push and shove to get to the stairs but it’s slowed as she must check our tickets first.

Back at the RT. 128 stop while I wait for my ride, an older guy keeps walking by and looking at me. It’s obvious he wants to talk to me. Finally, he gets up the courage and approaches me.

“Did you hear the Pope got bird flu?” he asks.

“No”

“He got it from a cardinal” he tells me.

I should’ve asked him if he ever drove a sightseeing bus in New York City.