New York In A New York Minute

The offer sounded absurd. Could I make it to New York – all expenses paid – for the weekend? A family friend wished to present me as the ultimate surprise gift at my father’s 60th birthday bash. The chance to be the “icing on the cake” outweighed the long haul. Already starved for sleep from a week with no more than four hours rest on any night, I pulled an all-nighter before departure to wrap up last-minute preparations.

That morning I straggled into work an unprecedented 17 minutes late, barely in time for the last bell for the first of three scheduled classes. “How did you spend your weekend” was the lesson plan. I couldn’t help but gloat. The students “played basketball” or “didn’t do anything.” One virile chap “played sex everyday.” I was headed home for a cameo. The teacher translated, but the students still looked shocked.

I would like to thank Northworst for living up to its moniker. After a four-hour delay, a chilly reception awaited onboard. The cabin was super-cooled. My nose hairs stuck together when I inhaled. A stewardess overturned a beverage bin full of ice cubes, creating a watershed that trickled through the economy class aisle. I wondered if the water would freeze.

My time on the ground fared better. The customs officer noticed hesitation on my declaration form with a crossed out answer. “Where is your residence?” he asked. “Uhhh, I don’t really know,” I trailed off. He returned my smile with one of his own. Maybe he hadn’t seen it all. “Where do you receive letters?” “Both countries, but mostly USA.” “Okay, you’re a resident. Welcome back.” And happy to be back was how I felt opening a yellow cab’s window on the Triborough Bridge to soak up the night skyline that blurred by with familiarity.
To maintain the element of surprise, I couldn’t return home, and instead spent the night out on the town. With driver’s license and passport in luggage, I hoped my Japanese foreigner’s card would do the trick at the door. “Show me something in English!” laughed the bouncer, waving me inside. For effect I pointed out the birth date, and explained that I lived in Tokyo…but am a resident of New York.

At 3 a.m. I left the bar craving a subway ride. I boarded an uptown 6 train, and in Japanese style began to nod off, not worried if exhaustion tipped my head onto the shoulder of the black youth next to me. I awoke to his saying, “Dude, you don’t look so cool,” followed by a recorded, “This is 96th Street.” Sayonara! I bolted off the train before it chugged into El Barrio de East Harlem.

Saturday night I cinematically entered the birthday feast, held at a sumptuous Chinese restaurant in Midtown. The birthday fly-by mission was better orchestrated than the Iraqi invasion and Katrina’s response. My family and most of the 30 guests were stunned. “Jeff?” my sister questioned. Mom’s eyes widened to the point that they could have rolled out of their sockets. She couldn’t believe them, and ran over to touch my cheeks. “Are you real? Are you real?”

Only temporarily real. The brevity of my visit added punch to my presence. Fourteen hours later I jetted back to Tokyo with memories that will persist until dad turns 70.