In the 90’s, there was a series of television commercials for Pace Picante Sauce that became very popular. In these commercials, several cowboy-types, presumably from Texas, would sit around using Pace Picante Sauce as a means to spice up their local chili, bbq, or TexMex dishes; however, there would always be that one bone head who would skimp and buy a cheaper version of picante sauce that just didn’t set well with his culinary compadres. After some investigation of the label of this subpar sauce, someone would exclaim, “Made in New York City!” This was the cue for the group of appalled Pace devotees to exclaim back, “New York City?!”, as if this inferior imposter of a sauce was cooked up by Satan himself. Then the rest of the cowboys would generally shoot the poor slob, leaving the Pace fans to continue on with their authenticity crusade. Or something like that. Anyway, the point is that the marketing team for Pace chose NYC as the most vile city imaginable. Would a picante sauce be any more “authentic” if it were made in Seattle? Or Des Moines? Or Omaha? No. But the advertising whizzes knew that the one city that would ruffle their customers’ feathers more quickly than any other city in the nation would of course be the center of all things sinful, evil, and threatening – New York City. As much as that message was drummed into my head from a very early age, this was not my experience.

I was 24 when I went on my very first trip to New York City.  It was a harrowing, wonderful, frightening, exciting, new experience, and every trip since then has had some tinge of all of those adjectives even to this day. 

I grew up in a very small town in Arkansas.  My family and I went on a vacation every year, and I have precious memories of those trips. They were usually excursions that were relatively close to home that we could easily experience by way of the family car.  When I was in 9^th grade, we drove to Colorado Springs, which was, at that point, the furthest we had ever ventured from the comfort and familiarity of our little home town.  On the first night of our trip, we stayed in a motel somewhere in Kansas to break up the drive.  Upon learning that we were only halfway to our destination, my panicked mother suggested that we should just turn around and go back; we were getting too far away from home.  Even though I believe that she may have been partly kidding, I’m fairly certain that if either my father or I had agreed with her, we would have never seen the Colorado state line.  My senior year in high school, we drove all the way to Orlando, Florida. and visited Disney World – an experience that was so far beyond what I had imagined as a kid that I would ever be able to do and a standout among some memorable family vacations that were, unfortunately for my patient and giving parents, usually centered around what I wanted to do.  However, all of these trips were via our family sedan.  The thought of flying on an airplane was well outside what we saw as possible or even desired.

Fast forward to my first job post college.  I worked for Dillard’s Department Stores in Little Rock, Arkansas, which I considered the Big City at that point.  I was quickly promoted to Buyer, partly because I deserved it, and partly because of some power play moves among some company brass (okay, mostly because of the power play moves, but if getting more money was the result of my being a pawn in some corporate chess game, I was only too willing to oblige).

About six weeks into the new role, I was sent on my first buying trip to, you guessed it, New York City.  Visiting the Big Apple was another life event that I had only dreamed about and just couldn’t have imagined that I would ever be able to experience, much like Disney World, and as excited as I was to go, I was also scared to death.  I’m not sure if my boss just assumed that I knew my way around an airport or if he just didn’t care (sink or swim, Buddy), but nevertheless, he scheduled for me to go on my first buying trip to NYC completely on my own.  And just to make the situation as frightening as possible, the arrival time at LaGuardia airport was 11:30pm.  As great a guy as my boss was (and he was), I’m still just a little bit hacked at him for that.

So there I was, small town kid who had never gone further than my Dad’s car would take him, flying on an airplane to modern day Sodom/Gomorrah completely alone and not even arriving to Sin City until midnight.  The fact that I’m still alive today to even recount this tale is astounding.

This was well before everyone had a phone in his pocket, so my planning upfront was critical.  I met with some other more experienced buyers about what to do and where to go and kept all the information that I might need stored in a manilla folder that I kept close as if it were the only copy of the Coca-Cola formula.  Luckily these step-by-step instructions were detailed enough to get me where I needed to be without much calamity.

I boarded the plane and found my seat and nervously hung on every single word the flight attendant uttered while telling us all how to buckle our seat belts, identify the closest exit doors, and what to do in case of an emergency water evacuation. Then we were off.  I can still recall the excitement, and the terror, of how the plane felt and sounded as its wheels lifted off the runway.  Next stop, NYC, that is, if nothing went wrong.  I said more than one prayer about this particular plane ride, and my imagination ran through several horrific scenarios as we gradually reached our cruising altitude.  I knew that air travel was supposedly far safer than car travel, but I also knew that no one had every fallen 20,000 feet out of a Chrysler.

This is when God took a little pity on this small town fish who was getting further and further away from his familiar pond.  Out of his infinite kindness, and because he could see that I was needing a hand, he provided me with a kind, motherly angel named Mrs. Jennings. 

I had a middle seat on the plane.  To my right on the aisle was a non-descript gentleman who slept through the entire flight, and sitting next to me against the window was a small, white-haired lady with a kind and welcoming smile.  Apparently, my face showed her all that she needed to know, but she gave me the benefit of the doubt.  “Not flown much, have you?”.  I wanted to check to see if I had the word “hayseed” written across my forehead, but I knew at that point that it wasn’t even needed.  She told me that her name was Sarah Jennings and that she was coming back from visiting her son who had recently moved to Little Rock with his job. Throughout my years of air travel, I have made an art out of successfully avoiding small talk with fellow passengers, but on that evening, my conversation with Mrs. Jennings was exactly what I needed to calm my nerves and ground my confidence that I could do this.  She gave me some advice on how to maneuver through the airport, most of which I already knew thanks to the step-by-step instructions in my manilla folder, but then she did me one better.  After we landed, she walked with me down to the baggage carousel and then, once I had collected my suitcase, showed me exactly where I needed to go to get a taxi into the city.  She wrote down her home phone number on a piece of paper and encouraged me to call her if I needed any help with anything during my stay.  To this day, I’m not 100% that she was even real.  She very well could have been an angel since I have never experienced anything like that ever again.  (Lord, in case I didn’t say it before, thank you for Mrs. Jennings).

Once I was in the cab, I immediately jotted down the name of the taxi driver (Asaad Kelada – I will remember it til the day I die).  I’m not sure why I thought I needed that information, but I felt better knowing it.  I had spent a lot of time praying about that evening’s plane ride, but I really should have been praying for safe passage from the airport to my hotel. It felt like a scene from Days of Thunder (I wouldn’t have the Fast and Furious movie to reference for a few more years)  Surprisingly, it didn’t take me long to get used to the aggressive, yet extremely efficient, taxi drivers, but that first night, alone in New York, in the middle of the night, I have to say I was glad to get out of that yellow car and safely stand outside of my hotel on my own two feet. 

I learned a lot in that first trip to New York.  Professionally, I quickly realized how incredibly ill-prepared I was for a week of vendor appointments, the embarrassment of which ensured that would never happen again.  But most importantly, I learned that I love New York.

I’ve had people ask me what I love about NYC, and it’s difficult to put my finger on exactly what it is that draws me.  I’ve been to far more beautiful cities.  I’ve visited cities with more historical significance.  And aside from Central Park, which happens to be one of my top ten reasons I love New York, there isn’t a heck of a lot of nature to see or experience.  A lot of concrete, a lot of steel, a lot of cars honking (mostly cabs), and a whole lot of people walking as if they are already ten minutes late for an appointment.  And don’t get me started about the smells, especially if you have the privilege of catching trash day in August.  So what is it?

There is an energy, a vitality, a spirit that is unique and specific to NYC.  There is almost a haughtiness that declares itself as the center of the universe and when you are there, you are part of that center, part of that story.  Even all of the aspects that some may consider negative, like the noise and the crowds, are all part of that intensity and energy, and yes, I even like that.

One of my favorite things to do when I am in NYC is just to walk.  Walk through the Park, through Times Square, the streets of Soho and Little Italy, the neighborhoods around the Met.  What a great opportunity to soak up some of the atmosphere that is so specific to each of those areas.  It sometimes amazes me how many distinct worlds you can pass through on a single street and how, even after so many decades, they are still able to hang onto their uniqueness, their individuality.  My wife and I went on a quick trip to the Big Apple last week, and one day, I clocked 24,000 steps.  I just walk everywhere.  One morning, we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, and as touristy as it may be, it was still an exhilarating experience to walk across that great American landmark and take in a breathtaking view of the city’s skyline. And even though there is a significant amount of noise everywhere you go, I always hear music in my imagination.  Gershwin, Ellington, Bernstein, Billy Joel– the soundtrack of New York.  I imagine what these streets must have been like in the days after WWII, which is my historical sweet spot, thanks to TCM.  And how so much of that imagery is easy to translate to the modern day reality of what you see as you walk those streets -the familiarity and history of Madison Square Garden, the Empire State Building, Macys Herald Square, Carnegie Hall, the Chrysler Building (my favorite contributor to that iconic skyline) and countless other landmarks that keep an ever-changing world timeless in many respects and give the city a constant, resolute backdrop for the fads, fashions, trends, and crazes of the successive decades coming to life in their foreground.  There’s an old saying- the more things change, the more they stay the same.  That applies well to the Big Apple.  New York, no matter the flavor or fashion of the moment, will always be New York.

I used to say that one of my big life regrets was that I never lived in NYC.  I don’t say that anymore.  I will always look forward to the visits, but in this case, familiarity may indeed breed contempt.  Dallas is home and is where I believe I’m supposed to be.  But regardless of where I may be hanging my hat, I will always look forward to my next trip to the city that never sleeps.  Unless it’s 1am, raining, and you’re trying to get a cab – that’s apparently when the city does indeed sleep.