This is why New York City residents flee in August. In the dead of summer, the city becomes a hot box of sun-reflecting asphalt and concrete. Tall buildings block the breeze, and the humidity has nowhere to go but hang heavy. The smells of the city, never the most appealing bouquet, are magnified, with each scent conjuring its solid form as clearly as if you’d stepped in it.
The streets were relatively deserted. My missing neighbors were either hiding in the air-conditioning or, I imagined, decamped to their beach rentals or European holidays. Work demands had conspired against me this summer, so I wasn’t getting any vacation, and today’s beach day-trip was my consolation prize. As I passed each empty block, drops of self-pity formed like beads of sweat.
I had to take the subway to South Seaport. Underground, it felt like a convection oven. Once inside the subway car, weak air-conditioning whirring provided some relief, and as the car was almost empty, I spread out my limbs like a starfish and tried to think cool thoughts.
As the 1 train rattled farther downtown, more people got on. Two Muslim girls wearing pastel hijabs got on and started giggling about something on their phone. At the next stop, a couple who looked of Indian descent boarded with a young child in a stroller. The baby perked me up a little. He had big brown eyes with eyelashes long enough to cast shade, and he casually hung one leg out of the stroller to catch some air.
I feel ya, kid.
The mother and I shared a smile.
It’s typical to see New Yorkers of different races, religions, and ethnicities, speaking different languages, so I assumed they were residents. But when a family of very tall Germans boarded sporting backpacks, classic tourist giveaway, I remembered that I was on a train headed toward several major tourist destinations: the 9/11 Museum and the ferry dock to visit Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.
I’ve lived here for eight years and I haven’t visited either spot.
My mom and I are always talking about visiting Ellis Island, but we haven’t gotten around to it. I made a mental note for her next visit.
My guess was confirmed once we emerged above ground at South Seaport to more of a crowd than I thought, and my fellow subway riders joined the people surrounding the tour guides who camp out at this station. I always want tourists to have a fun time, so I felt sorry for the infernal weather and wondered if they regretted coming this time of year. But the mood of the crowd was happy and excited. I weaved around people cracking open brochures and guidebooks and walked the opposite direction in the blazing sun to the pier for the Rockaway Beach ferry.
I was among the first in line to board, and I snagged a seat on the upper deck, where I hoped the most wind would hit once we got moving. I had given up worrying about my frizzed hair or sweaty upper lip, as everyone looked equally wilted and shiny. The communal grossness bred solidarity.
And you could feel the collective mood lift once we lurched off the dock and got onto the water. The breeze was refreshing, and people who had previously been sour and silent perked up into chatter and taking photos. A woman took a seat next to me, looking rather elegant in a green sarong. Feeling the friendly mood, I complimented her.
We got to talking, an easy conversation about the weather, New York City real estate, books, and eventually what we did for a living. I told her I was a writer, and she said she wanted to write a book.
She was a human-rights lawyer at the UN representing the needs of refugee children. She was a refugee herself; she had spent much of her early childhood in a refugee camp fleeing the Bosnian War, before immigrating to the United States with her parents. She said she also wanted to write a children’s book about a refugee child, so that some of the children she works with wouldn’t feel so alone, and so that they would know their story could have a happy ending like hers did.
The city I’m lucky to call home
A happy ending in America.
And did I think that was a good idea for a book?
I was awestruck. I told her I thought it sounded like a wonderful book, and she should absolutely write it.
We pulled past Governor’s Island, and the Statue of Liberty came into view.
The sight gave me a chill.
That morning, I was desperate to get out of the hot, sticky, smelly city that New Yorkers flee in August.
And now I was looking at the symbol of hope, opportunity, and acceptance for so many.
I glanced back to the beautiful, shining, city I was lucky to call home.
Everything looked so different from the ferry.
For the Win
Lisa
I don’t know where to begin.
But here we go.
You may recall that Francesca and I were asked to make an appearance on Ladies’ Night at the Philadelphia Phillies, attend a fun party with Phillies fans before the game, and I was invited to throw out a ceremonial first pitch.
So behind the scenes, as soon as I got this news, I felt two things at once.
Excitement and panic.
The excitement is easy to describe. I’ve lived in Philadelphia all of my life, and I love the Phillies. I grew up with the Phillies, and the game was always on in our house and every Sunday when we would visit my Uncle Rocky, Uncle Mikey, and Uncle Dominic.
The Flying Scottolines have a long history of watching other people do strenuous things.
My aunts watched, too, but they would have the TV on in the kitchen, while they were making gravy.
Sunday was not a Ladies’ Afternoon.
By the way, as much as we loved the Phillies, The Flying Scottolines never went to the games because that would have required leaving the couch.
A dream come true!
Also, we would eat Sunday dinner during the game, and ravioli doesn’t travel easy.
In my family, the only thing that trumps the Phillies is carbohydrates.
So to stay on point, the panic of being asked to throw out the first pitch is that I don’t know how to pitch.
I Googled “how to pitch” online and came up with videos that talked about “pitching mechanics,” “thumbs down,” “full windup,” “pronate your throwing hand,” and you get the idea, a “nightmare.”
AW!
I told my friends that I was going to be throwing out the first pitch, and they sent me videos of people younger and more male than I am throwing terrible pitches, but that only made me worry more. I immediately went into hyperdrive, buying a mitt and a ball, and vowing to practice every day, which did not happen.
Mainly because I have a job and it does not involve learning to pitch.
And also I went on book tour where I pitched my book, which is not the same thing.
Luckily, I’m working on a book about a baseball player, and I was researching it with the Great Valley High School baseball team, and Coach Matthew Schultz, and the guys were kind enough to give me a pitching lesson. Plus, my best friend and assistant, Laura, came over with her teenage sons, Shane and Liam, who are not only great young men but great baseball players, and they both gave me pitching lessons.
Bottom line, I had a pitching staff of thirty.
For one woman, and one pitch.
Why?
Because on Ladies’ Night, there was one thing I wanted not to do, at all costs: I didn’t want to Throw Like A Girl.
I wanted to overcome all clichés.
I didn’t want to embarrass all womankind.