1 Shore Excursion Read Free Page A

lashes to get away with very little makeup. And I’m stil l a long way from B otox, thank God, because I sure can’t afford it.
    The elevator door opened and I stepped in as Mrs. Schwartz from 6B bounded out, pulled by her Weimaraner, Fritz, headed for the sidewalk. The elevator doors closed . A few glistening drops on the floor and a faint odor told me that Mrs. Schwartz hadn’t moved fast enough for Fritz.
    Tons of New Yorkers share tiny apartments with beasts of all kinds, large and small. I don’t. I can’t imagine it. I mean, I’m okay with dogs — I had a dog and a cat back home — but scoop ing poop at the beginning and end of every day, in the rain , in the snow, in January? Boarding a pet when I ’m away on long trips? No, thanks. Not for me.
    Like most of Manhattan, I watched New York One News while I ate my sandwich ; then I made some calls, finished packing, and had a long, hot soak in the tub.
    My bathroom, like the rest of the building, is pretty old. The plumbing clanks a lot, but I have this great tub, deep, with high sides . T he hot water is included in the rent so that’s one place I don’t have to economize.
    My p hone rang while I was soaking — rang a long time — but I didn’t even think about trying to answer it. I finally forced myself out of the water and brushed my teeth . After I climbed in between the sheets I was lucky to get the light turned off before I fell asleep.
    When I first moved to New York, the night noise drove me nuts. I mean, Janusz is right. I am from a small ‘ willage, ’ where you can count all the red lights in your head if you think hard enough. My evening sounds were whip-o-wills and the wind blowing through the trees. I also like sleeping with the window open, which of course magnifies the noise problem.
    My first week in Manhattan, I was sure I ’d picked an apartment in the wrong neighborhood. In the daytime the street seemed quiet enough , b ut when I turned off the lights, I learned that New York quiet is not Mississippi quiet.
    Horns. Voices. Garbage trucks. Car alarms . Drunk Russians. Loud tourists. More c ar alarms. Diesel engines . Fire trucks . Ambulances. In the middle of the night. All night. Every night.
    The rest of the world thinks that the phrase “city that never sleeps” means excitement. New Yorkers know what it really means. Night noise. Of course the city never sleeps. It can’t.
    In time, of course, I adjusted. I tried a lot of stuff before reaching that point. The little white pills left me groggy at work. The earplugs were impossible. If I put the window down and went to sleep I woke a couple of hours later, suffocating because of the radiators.
    I complained about noise pollution to the EPA. I called the Ma yor’s Quality of Life Hotline. I drank milk. Nothing helped.
    But then, one night, for no good reason, after three weeks of insomnia, I slept. Nirvana. I simply didn’t hear all that stuff anymore. I had become a New Yorker.

 
     
2
    T he phone woke me on Saturday morning, but when I finally answered it, no one was there.
    Major bummer. Two missed calls. No number listed.
    I rolled over. Probably a telemarketer.
    The phone rang again, but this time, there was someone on the line. My mother.
    “Mornin’ darlin’, time to rise and shine. Aren’t you leaving on your cruise today?”
    “Yes, ma’am, but not until tonight. I’ve had a long week, Mamma, so I planned to sleep in a while this morning. I am meeting my group at Kennedy late this afternoon.”
    “Oh. Well, I’m sorry I woke you up, baby. I just wanted to tell you that another one of your daddy’s sisters is getting a divorce.”
    “Which one? Seems like one of them is always getting a divorce.”
    “Yes, I know. The women in the Marsh family have always had lots of trouble with men. It’s just how they are. The Marsh Curse, that’s what I call it. Always attracted to Mr. Wrong, never to Mr. Right. This time it’s your Aunt Caroline. She’s leav ing that