The Big City

Post written by Bridget Strub.

Saturday morning I woke up at 3:45 am…on purpose. I don’t like to wake up early, especially if I don’t have to, but Saturday was different. I was given the opportunity to be flown, for free, to New York City and attend a free day-long conference hosted by Columbia University’s Teacher’s College. For those of you who are even remotely familiar with me and my many neuroses, you know that I have a pretty intense passion for free stuff. I also have a mild obsession with professional development opportunities. So, when I was presented with the chance to combine my two loves, I was blinded to the possible effects that that much travel could have on my already tired system.

It’s amazing what an hour of turbulence can do to six ounces of orange juice sloshing around in your tummy. More than once I eyed the white bags tucked neatly into the pocket of the seat in front of me. Thankfully I didn’t have to use them, but as I arrived in NYC and peeled my white-gripped fingers from the arm rests, I was feeling a little less than myself. Being shoved into a stale taxi with no circulation for a half hour trip didn’t help either. It’s amazing that those big vehicles fit through the small spaces they drive through. I had to laugh as I noticed the guards people place on their bumpers to avoid the inevitable scratches that occur with the regular bumping shared between cars. Needless to say, with all the starting and stopping, neither my stomach, nor my head were all that excited to sit through a day’s worth of workshops.

I was shuffled around to different speakers from 9am-3pm. I heard a total of six people speak without a break, or lunch, and my already fuzzy head was as cloudy as the Los Angeles skyline by the end of the day. Not knowing the difference between 112th and 120th Streets, I decided not to stray from the group I came with. We wandered the blocks of New York City waiting for our five o’clock dinner reservation. Through the dreary rain I noticed one thing about the sidewalks of the city; they were saturated with restaurants, cafés, bistros, delicatessens, and bakeries. There weren’t any chain restaurants in site. Each eatery had its own special flair and distinct flavor. Even in the rain, awnings protected their patrons so they could dine in style. My mouth watered at all the potential experiences, and subsequent blog entries, I could have at all of those places. I even saw Tom’s Restaurant. At first glance, the baseline of the Seinfeld theme song jumped off the sign and danced through my head. I felt stupid as I freaked out about it to the people around me. They didn’t seem to appreciate the moment of nostalgia as much as I did, so I kept quiet about my excitement. Spoiler alert: the inside of Tom’s is not, in fact, the diner of Seinfeld’s. Call me naive, but I was a little shocked.

After battling the rain for awhile, we finally ducked into Campo Restaurant an hour before our dinner reservation for drinks and a dry place to sit. I enjoyed a glass of wine and great conversation with some of my colleagues, but realized that my fuzzy brain was feeling even fuzzier. As I contemplated taking a nap right at the bar, we were finally seated for dinner. They offered the usual grilled pizzas, pastas, salads and such, but they had gourmet ingredients and portions with gourmet prices. I decided on the margarita pizza, which happened to be the cheapest entrée on the menu (and also happened to cost as much as my glass of wine).

The service was exceptional. The pizza had the thinnest, crispiest crust with the perfect balance of cheese and sauce. The company and conversation was refreshing. After my last slice was swallowed I eased back into my chair and took in my environment. The restaurant had exposed brick, classy décor, and a great vibe. I began to feel jealous. I wished Campo and the other eateries we passed earlier in the day could get transplanted into Rochester. Park Avenue is our city’s one pocket of unique cafes and cluttered sidewalks. Each New York City block is a Park Ave. Their architecture is beautiful, and the buildings are incredibly unique. Everyone walked everywhere, and looked ridiculously stylish doing so. I was starting to feel pretty down about Rochester, but on my cab ride back to the airport I realized something.

If I want to get from the East side of Rochester to the West side, I can expect it taking fifteen, maybe twenty minutes tops. I don’t have to protect my bumper with another bumper to avoid the scrapes of overly rushed vehicles. If I want fresh produce, I can drive twenty minutes to pick corn, apples or blueberries for myself rather than having it imported into our city. I can wear my slippers, grungy sweatpants and tousled hair to walk my dog without worrying that a double-decker tourist bus will drive by with overly eager photographers snapping my picture as an example of “what not to wear.” And most importantly, my friends and family are not in NYC. While I enjoyed the company around me at dinner, I recognized that I didn’t, and hadn’t felt like myself all day. I wanted to share the moments of excitement, awe, and exhaustion with the people I love most; my friends and family. And they can’t be found anywhere else but in Rochester (and some other surrounding areas that don’t require a turbulent plane ride to get to). Yay for Rochester…I’m a fan!

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