The Greatest Saunter
Part VIII: Train 6670
EDITOR’S NOTE: This is an ongoing series about setting out to hike 32 miles around the island of Manhattan in a rainstorm and the thousand-mile road that led there.
Part II: Men’s Wearhouse and Mount Everest
Part III: The Fountain of Youth
“Should you get lost, consider yourself lucky.”
—Cy Adler
I was definitely lost, most profoundly and existentially, when it came to my career. But, at that moment, as I stumbled around the dark, stormy Financial District, I was lost quite literally.
I’d woken up on Friday, the rainy eve of the Great Saunter, exhausted. It occurred to me that the only pants I’d brought on the trip were the ones belonging to my suit and a pair of chinos. I’d actually purchased two pairs of excellent and expensive hiking shorts before jetting off to Florida, but the idea of needing hiking pants hadn’t even crossed my mind. It was May in New York. Why the hell would it rain? So, off to Target I went.
That morning in Morristown, New Jersey, my old base camp from the summer prior, the rain started off as more of a drizzle than a downpour. But it was insistent enough to be a concern. As I drove along the freeway, it became so stormish that the visibility became problematic. Just the simple tasks of ducking into the coffee shop and then crossing the Target parking lot were enough to soak through my L.L. Bean anorak, which I’d wear on my New York expedition.
Inauspicious.
It wasn’t just the interminable rain. My feet were badly blistered. Just stumbling around Target for 30 minutes — never mind 30 miles — had made them worse. I panic bought three more pairs of socks because you can never have enough fresh socks when your feet are messed up and the forecast calls for rain.
Perhaps it was only an evolutionary defense mechanism with a big event looming, but I felt incredibly, overwhelmingly stressed out. That job opportunity, which had materialized out of air had vanished just as quickly. The idea of returning to my resoundingly sedentary part-time job felt supremely unfortunate, especially after a week of rambling all across the East Coast, spending lots of money, seeing all sorts of cool things and generally having a blast. At that point, I just needed to get to New York.
After drinking a beer or two at Twin Elephants, a solid little brewery in Chatham, I got dropped off at the station in Summit — yet another charming New Jersey suburb I’d become acquainted with. Driving through the picturesque downtown of Summit, which, like any self-respecting town in New Jersey had one of those delightful old signs announcing it had been settled in 1710, I was crestfallen.
The weather was miserable. The rain was relentless. The sudden blisters on my feet. The luck. The misfortune.
It was one thing to not be able to complete this walk simply because it’s absurd to attempt to walk 32 miles, but to be dealt such a bad hand…
As I entered the station, I was greeted by two giant red buckets — set out to catch the rain leaking through the roof — with two fluorescent green cones standing sentry, warning of the wet floor with the stencil of a tiny little person slipping and eating shit.
It was just the perfect image for this hilariously bad weather. Not even NJ Transit, at a large suburban commuter hub, was ready for the downpour.
As Train 6670 bumped and rolled through the driving rain, water streaking across the windows, darkness obscuring the view, I once again felt at ease. I was on the road. Or, better yet, on the tracks.
Short Hills, some disembodied conductor called out.
Millburn, the site of the Millburn Deli, where I’d eaten lunch after running all through the South Mountain Reservation, marveling at the waterfalls before getting (partially) lost in the woods.
Maplewood.
I love trains, I thought to myself, unprompted. The original iteration of this journey was to be via train, but I’d liked the ability to freelance via car, the flexibility of driving. In retrospect, the train trip would have been an utter delight too. I could have easily stopped in cities like Charleston and bounded around. But figuring out what to do with my luggage — like the nearly-lost duffle — would have been a logistical hurdle.
South Orange.
On this foray into the city, I had two umbrellas, my black backpack that goes everywhere with me (the top half has rusted from so many hours and adventures in the sun), and a smaller duffle, not the one I’d momentarily lost, packed full of clothes for the Great Saunter.
Orange will be next, Orange.
I love the NJ Transit system. I’d traveled across northern New Jersey and into New York for walks, runs and unofficial saunters. I love getting dropped off at a station, heading off to some new, unknown destination to run, explore, eat, drink — then hopping back on the train to be deposited right where you started.
The train was largely empty allowing me to sprawl out. A luxury of train travel is when you get the seats where two sets are facing each other. You fling your bags up on the opposite set, one foot up on the seat. A minor luxury.
Brick Church.
It took me a few times of the station being called out to recognize what was being said, but I still couldn’t place it.
North Broad Street.
Secaucus, Secaucus.
Next and final New York Penn.
As I navigated the labyrinthine subterranean tunnels that led from the train depot to the subway stop, the walls were paneled in wood, appearing eternally under construction. I was jarred by how resoundingly filthy the Penn Station subway stop was. The train car I sat down on was largely empty. The classic orange and yellow plastic seats glistened in the soft bath of the overhead lights. I almost missed my stop and continued on into Brooklyn, when, at the last moment, as the doors stood open, it occurred to me that Wall Street was right near where I was staying. So, I wandered off into the dark, rainy night.
It was 9:40 p.m. — some eight hours before the Great Saunter was to begin — and I was soaked and somehow simultaneously sweating bullets by the time I made it up to the street in the Financial District. It’s remarkable that I’d get lost in a neighborhood that I know so well and have visited so many times, both when I lived in the city and on trips since. But, I mainly blame Duane Reade, my stupid oversized umbrella and Donald Trump.
I really needed a poncho. No one who worked at Target had known where — or if — I could find one. So, Duane Reade was my last hope. It was hard to see much of anything beyond the brim of my umbrella, but the Duane Reade detour was when it all went wrong.
The sign on the giant glass window advertised that the store was open 24 hours. I could literally see shoppers moving through the aisles. But the door wouldn’t budge. Belatedly, I realized that the actual entrance must be on another block.
I noticed the NYPD barricades first, a sure sign that I was standing in front of a Trump building, one of many in this town. This one, unoriginally, was called the TRUMP BUILDING. It was among the properties scrutinized in an exhaustively-reported New York Times profile from September 2020, which unfurled the ex-president’s decades of tax avoidance and general financial malfeasance. The Duane Reade was inside on the second floor. No one there seemed to know if they had ponchos, but if they did, they’d be by the umbrellas. They weren’t. So, I settled for some Ben & Jerry’s, a random, but delicious consolation.
I thought the handle to the freezer was missing at first but eventually realized the ice cream was actually under lock and key. What the hell, I wondered, Is wrong with you, people of New York? I walked the wrong way past the Stock Exchange, now thoroughly turned around. I finally made it to the DoubleTree where the front desk was, oddly, located on the second floor.
Inside my room, I realized there was no freezer, not even a proper mini fridge. So, I deposited my ice cream inside the vaguely refrigerated drawer and left it to die a slow, melty death.