Tourists

     It's August.  New York City entertains a plethora of tourists.  They come from as far off as Sydney and as close to home as Stamford. Little girls with their cute dresses to match their American Girl dolls giggle up Fifth Avenue holding tight to their mommy's hands.  Blonde boys support their favorite team in colorful soccer (or should I say "football") jerseys, and are surely way too cool for school.   I watch them all on the Today Show in the mornings with their signs strewn over the barriers, waving feverishly at the camera while talking on their iPhones.  "Al! Come to me. I want to be on TV!!!"  "Hi Mom!"  "Matt: It's Grandma's 85th Birthday!" And I pass by the ubiquitous busloads of Sex in the City fans waiting in endless pursuit for a Magnolia's treat.  They wait.  And they wait.  A white cake with baby blue frosting and colorful sprinkles is worth 45 minutes in line.  It will be their $2.50 out-of-body experience. In and out of the redundancy of Mark Jacobs, Juicy Couture and Ralph Lauren, the tanned Italians fumble with their seventeen shopping bags.  Their Euro is well worth the dollars spent on this side of the Atlantic Ocean.
     I am hard-pressed to remember many of the details from my first visit to Manhattan. It was dirty.  It was scary.  Broken windows adorned the Harlem streets, and I stared at them in wonder as our bus rattled down some avenue unbeknownst to me.  We had come to see Evita on a school trip.  I was not sophisticated enough for Evita.  I didn't cry for her like the rest of Argentina.  Rather, I squirmed in my seat longing for intermission so I could get a box of Rasinets.
     In another visit to New York, my BFF Nina wanted to introduce me to her brother who stored their deceased father's paintings all around his Amsterdam Avenue apartment.  Mammoth, creepy babies on canvas, dark and ethereal, stared at me like serial stalkers waiting for their next victim.  But oh, how I wanted one of those paintings and how saddened I was that their father in his extraordinary pursuit of artistry was denied any notoriety until after his death.
     And on another occasion, that same friend sparked my love for the boys of summer taking me to my first Yankee game. Dave Winfield was close enough for us to feel his sweat as he careened across the outfield.  I didn't know Dave Winfield.  It didn't matter.  I screamed for him, throwing my body over the first base line, "Daaaavvvvve!  Daaaavvvvve, over here!" Must have been the ball field beers loosening up my vocal chords and extracting some Bronx chutzpah.
     So it was baseball, art and Broadway that brought me to the decision to make my home here in the Big Apple, the city that thousands of tourists dream of visiting at some point in their lives.  To see Lady Liberty and the colorful lights of Times Square is their fantasy, and they shop and eat and look and walk and dream. 
     But my dream is still far off, a calendar year away, and thousands of miles far between.  I'll be a tourist.  Sean will wear shorts and button down shirts while I will pack only sun dresses and sandals, perfect for bike rides and Vespa runs through the hills of Tuscany.  I'll stand in line for the best gelato, carrying my Salvatore Farragamo shopping bags.  I'll marvel for hours at "David" and shake off the chills at the thought of being a Gladiator.  And yes...after a few sips of a nice Chianti, Sean and I will hold hands and test our faith with a little CLIFF JUMPING off the coast of Cinque Terre. Liam will challenge a local to some football, both Roman and New York style and Samantha will get his phone number when they're through. 
     It's August.  I hope Rome has started planning for our visit.