From Backroads to Broadway

After losing Ron’s mom in November 2012 and my mom 3 months later, Ron and I felt like we could resume our travels — and what better event than Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade live, in person, in the flesh? I’m pretty convinced it was Ron’s idea — he’s creative when it comes to thinking of fun things to do, while I’m the parent who says yes or no!

We organized a group — including Becky, Marissa, and Jonathan Jennings (our Disneyworld crew in 2013). We agreed that we wouldn’t be in each other’s hip pocket all the time but would do a few things together (the parade, something celebratory for Thanksgiving Day, possibly a Broadway show) and find things on our own.

We arrived in New York on Wednesday and hopped on our pre-arranged shuttle to the Morgan, a boutique hotel on the Upper West Side a few blocks from the parade route, and settled in. We had already arranged to hit the Museum of Natural History and watch the parade balloons being inflated for the next day.

Watching the limp latex eventually become the larger-than-life balloons that thrill the crowds on Thanksgiving Day was a unique experience — it takes a lot of people! It was also chilly, rainy, and crowded, but it was fun to see the parade prep. We had a late lunch at a very crowded Shake Shack, then returned to the hotel to rest up.

We woke up early on Thanksgiving Day to secure our chosen parade perch: the topmost steps of Holy Trinity Lutheran Church at the corner of 65^th and Central Park West. Thanksgiving Day was cold, but it was also bright, sunny, and cloudless. We layered up, had snacks and hot drinks, and waited. We didn’t know what to expect from the crowds, but people were polite and friendly, and didn’t try to crowd or push.

The parade began, and we spent the next few hours watching the amazing spectacle: balloons of Sponge Bob, Spiderman, Buzz Lightyear, the Kool-Aid Man, and the Pillsbury Dough Boy, to name a few; marching bands galore; huge floats; a lip-synching Kristin Chenoweth; and the New York Police Department horse troop (followed by the NYPD scoop-the-poop brigade), to name just a few parade entries. The highlight, however, was Richard Simmons riding in a turtle and waving enthusiastically to the crowds. What a sight!

Thursday night saw us dress up for a dinner cruise on the Hudson River. Again, it was cold but clear, and we had a grand time — eating some tasty food, recounting the parade, and enjoying the dance band and the crowds who took to the floor!

Friday was a day to find your own fun. Becky and the kids went one way, while the rest of the group went to the Brooklyn Bridge; after that, we split up yet again and hit different parts of the city. I ended up at Rockefeller Center to see the iconic Christmas tree and go to the Top of the Rock, which offered an amazing view of Central Park; Ron joined me later to have our photo taken in front of the ginormous ornaments at Chase.

That evening, tickets for “Kinky Boots” on Broadway were on the agenda. We missed Tony Award-winner Billy Porter in the lead, but we enjoyed the performances of an amazing cast headed by Dallas native Stark Sands, the grandson of hotelier Caroline Hunt — and I purchased a CD signed by Cyndi Lauper, the show’s composer/lyricist. The next summer, she won a Tony award — girls just wanna have fun, indeed!

Saturday was bright, sunny, and cold, so Ron and I bundled up and caught a double-decker Red Apple bus tour of the city. Not wanting to miss a single landmark, we braved the elements to sit on the upper deck and take in the fantastic views. That evening, we visited the New York Eagle, a legendary leather bar. Not exactly our cup of tea, but it was an adventure nonetheless!

On Sunday morning, we woke up to have breakfast, then pack and leave for LaGuardia — but there was enough time for Jonathan, Ron, and I to trek to a fantastic comic book store near Herald Square and peruse, then for me to pop into Macy’s to purchase a great Ice watch as a memento of our visit!

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Sitting in the audience as the Rockettes high-kicked their way across the stage of the Grand Prairie Theater, we watched in awe as they performed their perfectly precise jazz/tap/ballet routine.

Turning to Kirk, who most of our friends know to be long-suffering, I whispered, “What if we went to New York for Thanksgiving?” To my surprise, he gave me a Look with a capital L, the kind developed by partners over time through a mysterious blend of patience, resignation, and internal screaming…..you know the type!?! But he also grinned back!

Realizing, while growing up in rural Oklahoma, the spectacle of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade had always seemed like one of those televised miracles for me — balloons the size of buildings floating through Manhattan, smiling children, cheerleaders, and marching bands! Kirk was happy to play along.

Mentioning the idea to our friends who were with us that evening, a small group quickly formed.

Then, as we walked back to our car as the final note of the can-can had finished echoing in our ears, we both were left questioning, “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

So we made plans to take a bite of the Big Apple. Possibly nibble it. At the very least, we’d give it a good lickin’!

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Several months later we landed in New York the day before Thanksgiving. To begin our time in the city, we planned to meet some of Kirk’s friends for lunch near Central Park. Nothing major, grabbing a greasy burger at the Shake Shack, chatting up with Kirk’s friends about our plans and then hitting the bricks. Wiggling through the crowded sidewalk, we found Tim and Pat standing outside waving to us.

I wasn’t prepared for the crowd inside the restaurant. People standing and eating from their plastic trays while small children ran, danced, and screamed wildly! I stood there, stricken. Somewhere between fight and flight, Kirk took my hand and walked me over to a tiny table in the corner. I don’t know how he saw it. But he could tell I was in over my head……..love you, honey!

Admittedly, I am what you might call a “Google-nerd”. You’ve dealt with my type before. That is, someone who can’t go to the bathroom without checking Google reviews to see which stall has the best acoustics. So I “searched” for things to do nearby and, lo and behold, we were mere steps from the parade staging area. Balloons the size of minor planets were being inflated by teams of determined New Yorkers in matching jackets and the shared good humor of someone who has been told too many times by passers-by, “You look like you’re having fun!”

Despite the drizzle (which had been steadily falling since we stepped out of our taxi) Kirk and I watched, pointed, and placed bets on which balloon would become what. One lumpy mass looked like Garfield. Then, another one looked like Garfield too, but turned out to be SpongeBob!

Once we were back on track, we went location-scouting. Parade viewing, we discovered, was serious business. We climbed stoops, leaned over fences, and generally behaved like festive trespassers until we found a promising spot near the starting line. It was not prime real estate, but it had “potential,” which is like real estate but with a tinge of frostbite.

That night we set our alarms for the A.C.O.D.—the Appropriate Crack Of Dawn—and drifted off to sleep; lulled by dreams of a giant Snoopy chasing me through Central Park, I kept one eye open just in case he was already at our window!

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The next morning there was cold.

The hotel, in an apparent fit of holiday mischief, decided to turn our room into a spa. Not the warm, eucalyptus-scented kind, but the Scandinavian glacial water-plunge kind. Perhaps it was a sudden malfunction in the water heater that made my morning shower act of an martyrdom. Tiptoeing out, I left Kirk comfortably snuggled in the bed, leaving him to the cruel mercies of the arctic plunge that awaited him I whispered a fond, “Good luck with that.”

In the lobby, I found Becky, who is the sort of friend you want with you at 5:00 a.m.: cheerful, maternal, and armed with coffee the size of a dwarf’s helmet. Remembering my dislike of the TASTE of coffee, she wisely opted for EXTRA whipped cream and EXTRA HEAVY mocha, thus ensuring that I would remain in good spirits while avoiding the collapse of polite society……you were definitely doin’ the Lord’s work that day!

Realizing that Marissa and Jonathan weren’t with her, I asked if they were OK. Shrugging, she said they had decided to watch the parade on TV instead. I probably gasped a little. I’m sure my face reflected my surprise……I have ZERO poker face. That said, over the years I’ve watched their willingness to be honest and open with one another, and it’s something I have grown to admire more and more about their family!

*So, “you go, girl!” with your well-adjusted family of considerably more grown-up children than the person that’s sitting here talking about our lives with strangers! (No, I’m not talking about you, sweet reader, I’m talking about the person that’s reading this over your shoulder while you’re on the train, plane, or minivan!).

We might’ve rushed over to Holy Trinity Lutheran Church a TAD bit early. Staking our place on the steps of the historic church, we stood there enjoying our own private parade of pedestrians as they nervously flocked to their preferred nesting areas as well…..so we weren’t alone too long!

While we were there a mere 2 hours before the parade would kick off, it still felt (at least to me) that we were “barely in time”……thankfully, Becky played along marvelously with my “early bird” obsession, refusing to abandon me on the mean streets of Upper West Side Manhattan!

Eventually, the group assembled. Some bleary-eyed. Some confused. And at least 1 of us had learned the perils of guzzling a 32 oz. café mocha when a 40-minute wait for a stinky, public porta-potty would be waiting to test a person’s fortitude!

Now, there’s always a moment before every parade when time freezes. A kind of quiet tension. People lean forward. Neck-craning begins. Someone says, “Do you see anything?” Someone else pretends they do. Then a police horse clip-clops past and everyone cheers like they’ve just spotted Beyoncé.

Suddenly, music came thundering down the street, echoing across Central Park and back again, and the air vibrated around us.

Wave after wave of performers swept past us! The marching bands. The floats. The oversized cartoon characters. The poop patrols! Everyone hooted and hollered at the performers as we stood there, mouths agape.

Then a caravan of motorized turtles began to swarm down the street followed closely by none other than Richard Simmons! Waving to the crowd, he enthusiastically embraced the divine whimsy that was his brand. Ensconced in that monstrous reptile, he was having the time of his life!

Y’all, I won’t lie…….I might have lost a little self-respect as I kept waving and screaming “Richard! Richard!” as he drove past. But I will always appreciate the smiles and memories he gifted us with that day!

As our day slipped toward evening, we went down to Battery Park for a Thanksgiving dinner cruise along the Hudson River. The atmosphere was cozy. An amazing jazz band crooned softly as the Manhattan skyline glittered like a diamonds in the sky. The food was traditional — turkey, stuffing, the fixin’s, and a pumpkin pie I would’ve sworn had been stolen from my momma’s refrigerator! At one point we walked out onto the upper deck to see the Statue Of Liberty as we slid by……all in all, it was a perfect evening!

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Of course, no trip would be complete without a moment of silence.

We visited the 9/11 Memorial Pools. And here, words fail — appropriately so. The city, normally so loud, went quiet. Even the fountains whispered.

The names. The tears. The reverent silence of strangers.

Some places don’t demand reverence — they command it.

We walked the perimeter. Occasionally, someone would pause and gently rub a name into paper with charcoal, trying to preserve a memory from erasure.

The nearby museum was under wraps, windows papered over like the future still waiting its turn.

Kirk, beside me, didn’t even need to be asked. We would return.

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Finally, with our time drawing to a close, we sought out a Broadway show. I had seen 1 or 2 musicals in my life, which is to say I knew it involved singing, dancing, and at least 1 actor holding a note long enough to qualify for immortality.

Kirk made the call: Kinky Boots.

It was glorious.

People danced. People sang. People wore boots that could double as siege weaponry. The audience roared. I clapped so hard I nearly dislocated my dignity.

Would I see it again? Yes. And again. And possibly 12 more times with increasingly gaudy merchandise.

And thus, our whirlwind trip to New York came to an end. Kirk, by now, had learned a crucial truth: when I start any sentence off with, “You know, I think it could be fun if…..” — it’s time to hide the credit card and pretend he didn’t hear me!

Hahhahhahhah! I can’t wait to see how that works out!