Jamaican Me Anxious

New York City doesn’t travel well

New York City doesn’t travel well.  

It’s not like one of those precious, local plants that can only thrive in its perfectly crafted ecosystem of concrete and corruption. It’s more like a spoiled toddler having a meltdown because it wants what it wants right now … Now! … NOW!!!!!!! If not, it will destroy whatever space it’s in, whether a local restaurant or foreign city, with shrieking and smushed bananas until it gets it. 

Across the five boroughs, we celebrate our arrested development - a city forever in its terrible twos. A place that thrives on its own self-delusional sense of self-entitled superiority. Here, we are meant to be grateful for paying $1.6 million to live in a “cozy” two-bedroom with no washer and dryer that is permanently surrounded by scaffolding and smells of the Chinese restaurant below. Still, thank God the co-op board accepted you after only 18 months of interrogations, waterboarding, financial audits, and urine samples. Upon passage, they will happily take your money and let you cohabitate as long as your children remain mute, you avoid making eye contact with your neighbors, and you never ask to change or improve anything in your unit, hall, or building. 

A New York City co-op is like living in a commune run by the Gestapo. 

A therapist anywhere else might determine that your relationship with New York City is abusive, co-dependent, and bad for your self-esteem. But, your Park Avenue psychoanalyst is still upset about the e-bike that almost hit her on the walk to Zabar’s and, thus, advises you to step more deeply into your anger and unleash on the next stranger who wrongs you. 

“Now, let’s get back to talking about your mother," she says. 

As we circum-anger-navigate the five boroughs with the sage wisdom acquired at $350 an hour, we move amid billboards and ads that either celebrate or repel what it means to be a New Yorker. A lawyer who looks like a bulldog in an off-the-rack Jos. A. Bank suit offers his services if you want to sue anyone in this city for anything. 

Hurt in a slip and fall? We’ll get you millions!  

Injured in a car crash? We’ll get you millions!  

Experiencing ongoing emotional pain and suffering from a pack of Girl Scouts selling cookies in your local playground as you were recently diagnosed as gluten intolerant? We’ll get you millions!  

The other billboards sell the promise of calm and not-New York in a series of cities seeking to lure our best and brightest. A picturesque beach invites you to vacation - or, why not settle? - in Clearwater, Florida. The landscape celebrates clear sand, blue water, and no mention of the town being owned by the Church of Scientology. Another ad invites you to leave the mess of the subway for a better commute in Maine, a state with virtually no public transportation. 

Each ad finds you in the most perfectly New York-is-terrible moment - the morning subway commute, stuck in endless traffic on the Bruckner, or wedged between garbage piles, to whisk you away.  

Anywhere but here. 

It is the wise New Yorker who accepts the invitation. The gift of other places to help you both heal from and truly appreciate this city. Some will visit Clearwater for a weekend in February to find warmth in climate and humanity. Others will pack up a U-Haul and leave for Maine, never to ride a subway again. At a minimum, sustaining New York requires leaving the city limits often enough to feel the earth, see the stars, and experience people who don’t communicate via verbal rage tweets. 

As we expected our third child, Noga and I accepted the invitation to leave New York and find peace and quiet in Jamaica. Our loved ones swore by a little place near Montego Bay. A perfect resort-that-was-not-a-resort and catered to creatives and adventurers. There were no cruise ships or package deals. Here, you paid a premium to not be surrounded by periodontists from Paramus or Chatty Kathys from Kansas City. The place felt like Brooklyn’s Edison bulbs had a one-night stand with Montego Bay’s jerk chicken. Another one of these endlessly hipsterable places that is featured in Goop and on the social media feed travel circuit for those jetting from Tulum to Bali and then back to Bushwick.  

We left the children with our family and went to celebrate 72 hours of freedom. A moment to refill the tank before adding to the population in our home zip code. One of those insane vacations where you spend thousands and thousands of dollars to escape the city for the simplicity of a hammock and living like locals who make dollars a day and, yet, are infinitely more at ease and happy with the promise of life. 

The flight to Jamaica from JFK is filled with two types of people: tourists headed on vacation from New York and Jamaicans living in New York headed on vacation from New Yorkers. We fell into the former category and sat between a couple who saved all of their money to live it up for one week at the same resort each year in Montego Bay. One hundred and sixty hours of testing the limits of all you can eat and drink. On our other side was a Jamaican home health care worker living in the Bronx headed home to care for her aging mother during her own vacation. We shared small talk over an assortment of Coca Cola beverages and a bag of pretzels too small to have any caloric value. 

Landing in Montego Bay was to immediately feel the world slow to the pace of don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing gonna be alright. While frustrating to anyone who has lost their luggage, it was a welcome gift to those seeking escape from the Big Apple. We bid farewell to our travel mates and jumped in a taxi for the ride out to paradise. Our driver was endlessly affable and the sounds of the steel drum coming out of his radio were the perfect frequency to calm the nervous system.

After two hours of driving, he swung left deeper into the dense jungle and our hotel hid amid the lush trees and sounds of animals. The hotel staff came out to greet us, asking about our trip from New York, and mentioning how many other guests had been on our or the past flight from JFK.

“We host a lot of New Yorkers,” the bellhop stated as fact.

As he toured us around the property, Noga and I stared at each other in giddy disbelief. One corner was more wonderful than the next. Secluded bungalows. Perfectly placed hammocks. The smell of jerk chicken infused the scent of nature. Couples sat in corners of this paradise, reading trashy beach books and sipping on Ginger Beer.

Paradise.

“But wait,” the bellhop said with a smile, “there’s more!”

I grabbed Noga’s hand and we raced after him. Down a beautiful trail, surrounded by candles and along a path of fragrant scotch bonnet peppers. The steps got more dense with elephant ear trees and colorful birds. While it seemed like we were walking deeper into the jungle, a vibrant blue awaited us at the end of the trail - the pristine beach and perfect bay.

It felt like a postcard of perfection, especially the man in the distance in white linen ankle deep in the water. His pants rolled just above the dancing waves. A straw hat shielded his face from the pulsing sun. He stared out towards the horizon. He seemed like a man who was at one with himself and nature, truly grounded into the earth. 

But, as we got closer, we saw that his hands were gesticulating and he was yelling. The sounds of the animals and rustling leaves masked meaning, but we heard what sounded distinctively like, “Fuck you!”

Noga and I looked at each other. The bellhop seemed unfazed. With each step, the sounds of the waves crashing and nature were overwhelmed by the man. Soon he took over the sound of paradise, screaming into his AirPods as he stood in his vacation whites surrounded by perfection. 

“If you can’t secure that space, I am going to fucking murder you! Do you understand me!?” he screamed. “I will fucking end you, you miserable piece of shit!"

The bellhop looked at us without emotion, and said, “The mister over there is also visiting us from New York.”

"In fact, why are you even talking to me? Go do your fucking job, you imbecile!” the man roared.

The birds tried to regain control over nature’s radio, shrieking louder as the waves rolled into shore. But they stood no match. 

“ … you worthless bag of shit!” he yelled, gesticulating more wildly and spilling his negative New York energy through the phone and into this perfect corner of the beach, designating the spot a Superfund Site. 

Noga and I grabbed hands, willing this glitch in our vacation to end. What were we thinking seeking paradise in a distant resort that catered to mostly New Yorkers? Who were we kidding thinking that the power of a distant paradise might temper our brethren? 

“… you stupid motherfucker!” he continued.

We looked to the bellhop with desperation in our eyes. He sensed our fear, our newfound understanding that this pocket of Jamaica was immune to the national motto of no worries due to its clientele. That our remaining 60 hours would be a sunnier jaunt through midtown relocated to the pristine beaches of Montego Bay.

“No worries, man!” he smiled, “All them New Yorkers start here like this, and then Jamaica has its way to calm them down. You’ll see.”

We had no choice, but to believe him.

That evening, we met the man in white linen at war with his vacation. He was a magazine editor, struggling with an obstinate celebrity over a cover shoot that was already $250,000 over budget. Jamaica was meant to be his escape and vacation, but the callings of work needed both him and his worst instincts. Over the remaining days, we shared in meals and drinks with the guests, all New Yorkers, who managed to settle into a calm and ease. The hours reduced the impossible asks of the hotel staff and even invited one patron to eat a fish that she demanded be cooked medium rare, but showed up as medium. Upon discovery of the error, she simply shrugged and said, “No worries.”

With time, the power of the place and people wore down all of our defenses, anger, and resentment. It showed us the gift of a different path - where deadlines are endlessly flexible, life is what’s in front of you, and nature is meant to be untamed. Just as Noga and I could begin imagining giving up our apartment and MetroCard for life on the beach, reality called and we packed our bags to head back to work and kids and another one on the way. The kind bellhop with the easy smile and patience for our people helped us back into the taxi. 

“What I tell you, man?” he said. “Jamaica can fix all you New Yorkers!”

“You were right, but how do we stay fixed?” I asked. 

“I would tell you, man, but then we would go out of business!” he said with a smile.

We all laughed, and headed our separate ways. Us, onto the plane from Montego Bay, making our way through Jamaica, Queens, and back to the wonderful chaos of our kids and the city. Him, back to welcoming more guests so that they might temporarily shed New York and let some calm in.

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If I Can Make It There is a collection of stories about the things and people, including me, that move through New York City. A celebration of the characters who crawl through endless traffic, slog through the subways, and stroll under the shade of scaffolding.

Like our fragmented and broken transportation system, some stories race with enthusiasm to a red light and others remain hopelessly stuck behind a double-parked Mercedes with New Jersey plates and blinkers on as the driver screams over the honking, “Just hold on for a minute! I’m only stopping in for a quick dinner at Sardis.” 

And, all of these stories could occur nowhere else but the greatest city on Earth - New York Fucking City.