Bring Me Your Poor, Your Tired...

I don't know how this happened, but Scott and I should never get on the computer and start looking at airfares.  It always ends badly.  Or amazingly, depending on how you look at it.  I love to travel, anywhere, anytime.  But the more ensconced in life I get, the harder it is to pull myself away from my insulated little corner of the universe.  It doesn't stop me from planning trips, but it sure does make me a lunatic as the departure time nears.  9-11 changed everyone's worldview, of course, and there was that flight into Hong Kong where Scott and I thought we were going to die.  (We tried to land twice, unsuccessfully, then flew to another airport out of desperation.  It was so turbulent, my seatbelt came off and I hit my head on the overhead bin while holding Xanthe.  Scott and I, always cool under pressure, were mouthing swear words to each other across the rows, since we were seated apart.  Seconds from death, we were arguing about why my seatbelt wasn't fastened.  When we finally touched down, I was ready to row home across the ocean, but we had to take off and try Hong Kong again!  I thought for sure we were going to die.)  Every time I leave home, I have these panicky feelings that I might never see my kids again.  It's really uncomfortable.

Once we had safely landed in NYC, I felt better about possibly making it home alive at the end, and we were able to relax and have a wonderful time.  Once the magnetic pull of home is weakened by distance, it's easier to realize how exciting the outside world is.  It's hard to know at home when your groove has become a rut.  Funny though, even in New York, we noticed that people are totally wrapped up in their own little world.  Two blocks from the Brooklyn Bridge and two blocks from the Guggenheim, people who were clearly locals had no idea where those landmarks were when we asked for directions.  And in New York, the epicenter of civilization! 

After taking the red-eye, it was a heavenly surprise that our room was already ready when we arrived at 7 am.

We rested for all of eight minutes, then took the subway downtown to Battery Park where we caught the ferry for Ellis Island.

Ellis Island is haunting to me.  Every time I go there, I have chills the whole time.  The faces of all those brave, terrified immigrants are so powerful.  I have a book I bought at Ellis Island years ago with stories and pictures from people who were there, some of them for months.  Felice Taldone, and Italian immigrant, said, "I left my mother in Italy.  You cry for your mother all the time, so I wrote a letter to my mother from Ellis Island.  Told my mother I got off, I got a job.  And it made my mother strong."  Oreste Teglia, another Italian, said, "The second day I was at Ellis Island I noticed this old man.  He took two tongue depressors and he made a cross out of them.  And he got at the end of the bed.  And he would kneel with this for a long time, every day.  He'd just kneel and pray.  The poor man was so scared and lost.  No one to talk to."

So many people passed through Ellis Island, each with a powerful story, some heartbreaking and some inspiring.  On a funny note, there is an old Italian saying on the wall at Ellis Island:  "Well, I came to America because I heard the streets were paved with gold.  When I got here, I found out three things:  first, the streets were not paved with gold; second, they weren't paved at all; and third, I was expected to pave them."

And pave the streets they did, all these determined immigrants to whom so many of us - all of us - owe our good fortune.  Looking into the faces of New Yorkers, you see the immigrant experience, whether fresh or generations removed.  You see it in all its incarnations, and it gives the city an incredible energy.

Here are Golda and Ruby, channeling the whole "poor, tired, huddled masses" thing.  Tired, definitely.  And that was the first morning of our trip.