There's No Map in the Sky: A Guide to Tourism in New York

Imagine this, if you will. You’re at work. It’s 1:41 and you have a meeting at 2. This meeting won’t be over until 5 and you need to run to the bank. The bank is less than five minutes away, ergo this quick errand is entirely doable. So, you head out. You walk briskly to your car, hop in, and start the engine. You're pumped up and ready to take care of business. And suddenly, there I am. Standing in front of your car, staring at the sky.

You wait a moment to see if I move. I don’t. You sigh dramatically, hoping I’ll get the hint. I don’t. You look around, hoping to find some way around me. There's none. You’re starting to get pretty pissed so you honk at me. Now that I realize you've noticed me, I pull out a map and ask you how to get to Dash. You know, the Kim Kardashian store? Annoyed, you point me in the right direction. Instead of moving, I hand you a camera and ask if you’ll take a picture of me. I want everyone to know that I was here. Standing in your way. Fucking up your flow.

So, how does this whole scenario make you feel? Do you hate me? Do you find me incredibly obnoxious? Do you wish I would go back to the fanny-pack wonderland from whence I came so you could take a 19-minute break and not return to work in a homicidal rage?

Welcome to my world.

You see, I've gotten a lot of flak for expressing how I feel about the tourists who turn my lunch break into a game of Frogger. Granted, the majority of this criticism comes from people that don't live here. They remind me that it comes with the territory. And they're absolutely right. I'd be a jackass if I moved to Oklahoma and then constantly bitched about all the tornadoes. But then again, someone's gotta get on TV and tell everyone what the twister sounded like when it went through the trailer park. And that someone is me.

Last year around this time, something magical happened. This showed up right outside the Flatiron Building.

Beautiful, isn't it? I was devastated to learn that this ingenious idea was actually the work of an anonymous prankster. At least that's what the media called it. A prank. Honestly though, is it that outrageous that slow movers go in one lane and fast movers go in the other? Doesn't every highway in America provide both options? If you're in a hurry, get in the left lane. If you're not, get in the right. It's just that simple. In fact, let's explore this traffic analogy a little more, shall we?

Let's say you're driving down the highway and you realize you have no idea where you are. Do you slam on the brakes in the middle of the fast lane so you can pull out a map? Because if you do, then you deserve to get hit by the semi that slams into you a few seconds later. However, chances are you do what any normal person would do in this situation and you pull over. You get out of the way of moving traffic so you can collect your thoughts and come up with a plan. So, Mrs. Bonnie Hapshatt of Elk City, Idaho, I ask you this—why the hell aren't you pulling over when you're lost on my highway? You think that just because the millions of people that live and work in New York aren't in cars that traffic rules don't apply? Walking as a mode of transportation?! Pshhh! What buffoonery! Well, you know what, Mrs. Bonnie Hapshatt? I hate you. I hate you, Mr. Hapshatt, and your moon-faced Hapshatt children. And everyone else here hates you too.

I work in SoHo. I've worked in SoHo for nearly four years now, save for the eight-month stint at another job about two blocks south of Penn Station. Penn Station is infuriating because of the lost, luggage-wielding morons who stare at the sky as if a map will appear from the heavens, but SoHo is a far more hateful beast. Not only do we get our fair share of sky-starers, we also get the shoppers. When tourists come to New York, they're just dying to spend some money in SoHo. I'm totally fine with that. SoHo's awesome and, quite frankly, I don't blame them one bit for wanting to be here. However, if a tourist, once again, slams on the breaks because of a shiny distraction, then that tourist must be fully prepared for the upcoming impact from a semi, or in this case, an irate editor on her way to Duane Reade.

There's also the tourist who decides to make a sharp left turn into Uniqlo or Steve Madden, for instance. This behavior is essentially the same thing as cutting someone off on the highway. So, go ahead and call me a bitch, Amber Oakdale of Branson, Missouri. Your entourage of airheads will surely be impressed that you got sassy with a local when she shoved past your oblivious ass.

I know it seems as though I hate absolutely every tourist that visits New York. This is not true. In fact, I do notice the group of tourists that pulls over when lost. And as my special way of saying thank you, I pull up next to them to ask if I can help. Sadly, these tourists usually don't speak English, so my kind gesture usually leaves me feeling guilty because I'm almost certain I've inadvertently sent them to the Bronx. But it's the thought that counts, right?

In conclusion, all I'm asking is that tourists remember that people live and work here too. Remember—if you wouldn't do it on the highway, don't do it on Broadway. And to all the Mrs. Bonnie Hapshatts and Amber Oakdales of this world, don't resent me for making you feel unwelcome. Thank me for enhancing your cultural experience in New York.

A Bitch Reflects

It’s recently been brought to my attention that I am a bitch. More specifically, I am a bitch toward cab drivers. Cabbies, if you will. This came as a huge shock to my best friend Kelsey who was visiting me this past weekend.

She hopped into the backseat of a cab just as I said, “Will you just take us where I tell you to go?” Personally, I don’t think it’s that bitchy to ask a cabbie to do the one thing he’s supposed to do, but whatever. Kelsey stared at me in shock, mouth agape, and quietly said, “Oh my god, you’re such a bitch to cabbies!” I shrugged and said I’d give her some background information when the man I just snapped at was no longer holding our lives in his hands. When we finally reached our destination, I explained.

“Dude, I ran out into the street when it was pouring so I could grab that cab and you know what that bastard did? Stared at me while I tried to open a locked door. Instead of unlocking it, he cracked open the window, scowled at me, and asked where we were going. When I told him that we were just going a few blocks up the street, he sighed like I had just asked him if I could take us to Denver.”

Kelsey nodded. “That’s professional.”

“Oh, it gets worse. When I waved to you guys to cross the street and then tried to get in the cab, he yelled at me and said, ‘Don’t get anything wet.’ Like that’s possible during a torrential downpour, which, by the way, he had just made me stand in so he could make it known that I was inconveniencing him. So, by the time you, Nick and Allie had reached the car, my bitch switch had been flipped.”

“So that’s why you told him to just take us.”

“Exactly. He was a turd, so I treated him as such.”

“Got it. You are excused.”

Even though I had Kelsey’s approval of my behavior toward this particular cabbie, I couldn’t help but think about other cabbies with whom I’ve quarreled. And after living in New York for nearly four years now, believe me, there have been many.

It’s an absolute guarantee that I will throw down with a cabbie on New Years. Why, you ask? Because cabbies refuse to take a passenger from Manhattan to Brooklyn on New Years Eve. They assume they won’t get a fare to take back to the city when they drop off said Brooklynite, so they just don’t bother. It’s frustrating, rude, and, not to mention, illegal. Cabbies, by law, may not refuse a passenger. And nothing pisses them off more than when you remind them of this.

A personal favorite moment of mine occurred on around 4 AM New Years Day 2010. I’d hail a cab, cabbie would stop and roll down the window to ask where I was going (doors locked, mind you), and as soon as I’d say “Brooklyn,” he’d speed off. After the seventh cabbie did this to me, I was ready to fight. So when lucky number 8 pulled up and refused to take me home, I stuck my head in the window and said “fuck your mother” in the friendliest tone possible, almost as if I was saying "thanks anyway!" I felt victorious. That is until the cabbie drove off and I realized I was still in Manhattan, still had to pee, and still had blood pouring into my strappy heels. By NYE 2011, I had another plan.

When I hailed a cab, he rolled down the window, as expected, and asked for my destination.

“42^nd and 3^rd.” I tried to hide my smirk.

“Hop in.” 42^nd and 3^rd is basically Times Square and this man was more than willing to deal with that madness. Brooklyn? Hell no. Hoards of drunk, cold, lost tourists? Abso-fuckin-lutely!

I hopped in and shut the door. I began laughing, perhaps a little too maniacally, and then said, “I lied. I’m going to Brooklyn.” Let me tell you, homeboy was pissed.

“Get out.”

“No.”

“I said get out.”

“And I said no. Take me to Brooklyn.”

“I’m not going to Brooklyn.”

“Actually, you are.” This is when I began raising my voice.

Cabbie and I went at it for a solid ten minutes. Sitting in some alley in the Lower East Side, this guy was flat-out refusing to do the one requirement of his job. When someone brings me manuscript and tells me to edit it, I edit it. Because that’s my job. When someone tells a cabbie where to take them, they take them. End of story.

“Should I call 3-1-1 and ask them if you’re taking me to Brooklyn?” 3-1-1 is a local service for New Yorkers. Neighbors being too loud? Birds pooping on you too much? Need to quit smoking? Call 3-1-1.

He sighed deeply. “Fine.”

“You want me to call?” I pulled out my phone but soon realized he had actually agreed to my original request, as we were now moving toward the Manhattan Bridge.

When he finally brought me home, I struggled to bring myself to give the man a tip, but I did it nonetheless. I’d already drunkenly screamed at the bastard; no point in adding insult to injury.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it,” I said as I walked out of the cab. I can assure you that that man hates me. But it’s okay. I hate him too.

So, back to last weekend. When Kelsey and I were ready to head home after our night out in the city, I decided I’d show her that I could actually be nice to cabbies. Friendly, even. During our trip home, we chatted casually with our driver. He told us about his favorite places to eat, good curry, and how he had gained all this weight when he moved from Bangladesh because he just loves his donuts. I’m not much of a donut fan myself, but Kelsey is, so she said, “I love donuts, but I try not to eat them because they’re bad for you.” Cabbie looked at Kelsey in the rearview mirror and said, “Oh, you’re fine!” Kelsey and I were pleased with this cabbie. He was a nice, chubby man who had just encouraged Kelsey to have her donuts and eat them too.

When we finally got to my place, I decided I’d tip him well since he had been so friendly. (I'm talking 30% here, people!) Just as I handed him the money, Kelsey stepped out of the car. When I got out, I could hear the cabbie say something, but he drove off before I could ask him to repeat it. Kelsey stood in the rain, shocked.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Did you hear what he just said?!”

“No…”

“He said, ‘On second thought, maybe you should lay off the donuts’ when he saw me get out of the car.”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” I was floored.

“He said that! After we were so nice to him! Why even bother being polite when someone’s gonna say something like that?”

And just like that, I had more than Kelsey’s approval for how I treat cabbies. I had her support.