in a galaxy very, very close…well, our galaxy, actually, I was a sulky adolescent and my dad took me to New York City. We stayed in what was to me a very fancy hotel. My dad told me that a famous pianist lived in the hotel. Van Cliburn, maybe? I don’t quite remember. It may well have been false—my dad was a great storyteller. It seemed terribly glam, living in a hotel, never having to make your own food. At the time, I made it a life goal: live in a hotel so you never have to do chores again. It still holds a lot of appeal.
During that trip, dear old Dad forcibly exposed me to a lot of culture. A lot! We went to the ballet. Even then, I hated The Dance. Probably, I was jealous of those waif-like creatures who tippy-toed around, looking so elegant when I myself couldn’t walk half a block without bumping into something or someone. We went to The Museum of Modern Art. Like any good tween, I scoffed at the messy Jackson Pollock, the goofy Keith Haring, and, my favorite, a toilet seat hanging on the wall. I have since changed my opinion on Jackson and Keith. The toilet seat artist—sorry, bub. You can’t fool me.
We also went to a Broadway show. I was just beginning to fall for David Bowie, whom I will love forevermore. He was starring in The Elephant Man, and Dad got tickets. It was the first time I’d seen a play, and I got choked up at the sight of my musical crush in person. Cried like a baby at the curtain call.
My dad traveled a lot, it seemed. It always seemed so glamorous, his overnight bag, the little shampoos that he’d bring back to us. I travel a lot these days, too, mostly for a day here or three days there. But even though I didn’t fully appreciate that first trip to a new place, I think it instilled in my a love of travel that I still hold, even while writing this blog from the House of Mouse. Because hey. There’s room service.
Thanks for the trip, Dad. Thanks for letting me see Bowie up close.