While I’ve always aspired to one day visit New York City, I’d never have made the 1,220-mile trip just for the sake of it. No, it was actually my wife’s ambition of always wanting to experience the Thanksgiving Macy’s Day Parade that provided the impetus for it. With her 40th birthday the same week, it seemed like the perfect milestone to celebrate it. The only undecided aspect was the mode of transportation. After a grueling drive in a rented minivan to Washington D.C. in 2013, I swore never to log such a distance again in a car. Similarly, my wife and daughter were afraid to fly, so by process of elimination we settled on a train. There’s a certain romantic notion associated with riding the rails that harkens back to a simpler time, even if many in today’s fast-paced society ridicule locomotives as old, crude and inefficient. But to satisfy my curiosity, I ran the numbers for all three forms of transportation (Car, Plane, Train) and Amtrak was still the cheapest by far. And thanks to a holiday promotion where my daughter could ride for half-price, it was even less expensive than Greyhound’s bourgeois bus service.
Scrolling through the list of Amtrak trains, I saw a lot of exciting names that could also be substituted for the iron giants in Pacific Rim. Acela Express, California Zephyr and Silver Star all sounded like great call signs for Jaegers. But sadly, our gleaming, steel chariot was simply named Crescent and I couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be reminiscent of a moon phase or those delicious Pillsbury rolls. Nevertheless, I was just glad it wasn’t the Sunset Limited. That Amtrak train was involved in the bloodiest rail disaster in history, crashing right outside Mobile, Alabama killing 47 passengers and injuring 103. Two years later, it was sabotaged near Palo Verde, Arizona, killing one person and wounding 78. Naturally, I suppressed these facts from my daughter who, at eleven, is going through a fragile stage of fearfulness. With Amanda’s father and my Mother both passing away so close together, it has stricken her with a preternatural anxiety about dying. She had already expressed concerns about the safety of riding a train even though I quoted statistics that showed just 0.03 deaths per 100 million passenger miles. Automobiles, I pointed out, were much more deadly with fifteen times the rate of fatalities. But she didn’t accept it, and I guess I shouldn’t be surprised since she frantically worries about tornados every time it rains.
I was astonished to learn that our train, travelling from New Orleans to New York daily, crosses more territories than any other in Amtrak’s fleet. And in so doing, it allowed me to see five new states I’ve never visited before: Delaware, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey and New York. The Crescent typically ferries 833 riders daily and over 300,000 annually. It also boasts specs that would make for an incredible supercar--- twin turbocharged V-16 engines, each displacing 10,690 cubic inches and pumping out a combined 8,500 horsepower at just 1,047 RPM. Alas, it’s 217,000-pound weight curtails any neck-snapping acceleration, as does it’s aerodynamically-limited top speed of 110 mph. Consequently, with a 2,200 gallon gas tank, I wouldn’t be able to swing the diesel to fill it up.
We boarded the Crescent in Hattiesburg at the Amtrak depot which was restored and re-dedicated in 2007. It’s been said that this was a popular hangout for singer Jimmy Buffett when he was attended USM in the sixties, but he clearly hasn’t been back and who can blame him? Despite it being 9:00 in the morning, there seemed to be a lot of inebriated commuters who had already taken the midnight train to Margaritaville. An affable, if obese, man missing his front teeth sat across from me in the waiting area and peppered me with questions. After prying our destination out of me, he then eyed my Senior Bowl Charity Run shirt and asked if I was going for the New York Marathon? When I declined that I was, he took another guess and asked if I was in the military? He quickly volunteered that I looked and acted like a “service man”. I affirmed that I wasn’t and began to pray that I would not be seated beside him for the duration of the trip. As I looked around the assembled occupants, I regrettably conceded that none appeared to have any experience with authentic Japanese Kobe Beef or Ferraris, the two main things I was looking forward to in The Big Apple.
Once on the train, I declared to my wife and daughter that the accommodations were remarkably like an airplane, and the only tiny difference was a distance of roughly 35,000 feet. This did not amuse them, so I attempted to be satisfied with the separate dining car, onboard Wi-Fi and extra legroom afforded by Amtrak. There were some occasional bumps and knocks, similar to turbulence experienced when flying, but overall it was incredibly quiet. I had feared the horn blaring at every intersection (and there were hundreds on our route) would be a constant source of irritation, but thankfully, it was barely audible.
In Birmingham, Alabama, my luck ran out when the spare seat beside me was filled. The tenant was a man in his late fifties who apparently thought deodorant was solely for girls and that garlic was a natural mouthwash. He was travelling to Philadelphia (which he annoying referred to as Philly the entire trip) and given his girth, was clearly fond of his hometown’s cheese steak sandwiches. Furthermore, there were no armchair dividers restricting our space, so he took up all of his seat and about a third of mine, leaving me squeezed against the window. When I realized that he would be crammed beside me for the next 20 hours, I began to frantically fumble around for anything I could use to take my own life. Conversely, there was nothing, so I was forced to divide my time between catatonically staring out the window or entertaining erotic fantasies about the two college cheerleaders in the next row.
A slug-like pace of 65-70 mph and numerous stops in every small town quickly inflated our travel time, requiring a mind-numbing TEN HOURS just to reach Atlanta. In comparison, it typically entails only five hours in a car to travel the same distance. Furthermore, some of the rural stops were so remote that an actual train depot wasn’t even visible. At night, this became more ominous when my wife feared our train was being hijacked due to us stopping for a shadowy group of individuals near the tracks. Nevertheless, I had no complaints about the beautiful autumn scenery. It was a hypnotic swath of amber, gold and crimson that streamed past my window, interrupted only by Normal Rockwell vignettes of small town America.
In all fairness, I have to take exception with the glamorous way train travel has been unrealistically portrayed in recent movies such as Casino Royale and Spectre. I never spotted Daniel Craig on our train, much less anyone dressed in a $5,200 Tom Ford tuxedo jacket. Nor did I see Léa Seydoux dreamily drifting down the aisle in a diaphanous dusty green dress. Nope, we were headed to Trenton, not Tangiers, and the only “celebrity” on our train was a redneck in a cowboy hat who thought he was Tim McGraw. So, if you do decide to travel Amtrak, please adjust your expectations accordingly.
In Washington, D.C., there was a brief stopover for them to switch our diesel engine to a more efficient-- and cleaner-- electric one. Here in Amtrak’s “Northeastern Corridor” the railway infrastructure was much smoother and faster. The bucolic pastures of the Carolinas and Virginia gave way to glimpses of Baltimore’s Atlantic harbor and the industrialized steel mills of Pennsylvania. By New Jersey, I began to see the urban sprawl and the graffiti that characterizes it. Finally, as we headed into New York City, I noticed our speed was 105 mph and wished the entire trip could have been undertaken at such a rapid velocity.
A completely sleepless 27 hours after departing Mississippi, we were dizzily disgorged into Pennsylvania Station, the busiest passenger transportation facility in the Western Hemisphere, serving 600,000 people every day. When we left Hattiesburg, the weather was a perfect 70 degrees and sunny, but the Empire state was not nearly as hospitable with cloudy skies and a vicious north wind driving the temperature into the 30s. It was a brutal wake-up call for us, as was trying to navigate through the bustling crowds of holiday travelers with 7 suitcases in tow. New York City recently surpassed 8.5 million citizens and another 4 million were expected for Thanksgiving. Fortunately, our hotel, the Radisson Martinique, was just a few blocks away. Standing 19 stories tall, it was a magnificently restored Beaux Arts landmark occupying an 1898 French Renaissance style building. I’d been warned to expect a small hotel room since real estate is at such a premium, but it was actually pretty spacious. The only downside, aside from the exorbitant daily price, was a scenic view not of Central Park, but a brick wall.
FORT TRUMP
Less than two weeks after he won the Presidency, we were outside Trump Tower amid the protestors, revelers, and general curiosity seekers. NYPD had set up barricades around the building which greatly impeded the already clogged pedestrian traffic along 5th Avenue. News crews were lined up across the street, and it seemed reporters were covering the scene nearly twenty-four hours every day. Seven uniformed policeman were stationed in front of the gleaming gold doors and some of them appeared to be in standard NYPD uniforms. However, at least three were outfitted in full riot gear and were brandishing M16 assault rifles. Furthermore, to visit the famed Tiffany and Company jewelry store next door, we had to wait in a security line and consent to have our bags searched. Industry analysts forecasted a 10% drop in sales for Tiffany’s flagship location given the post-election disruptions. Despite that, estimates are that it will still pull in $320 million this year, with $100 million of that coming in between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Lord knows I did our part to prop up Tiffany’s stock prices, buying Amanda and Victoria each one of the company’s overpriced heart-shaped necklaces. Before leaving, we also saw the legendary Tiffany Yellow Diamond, the largest diamond in the U.S. Our salesman informed us that the softball-sized rock was originally 287 carats before being trimmed down to a more polished 128 carats. And even at that reduced mass, it was still nearly three times larger than the celebrated 45-carat Hope Diamond. He wrapped up the presentation by admitting that it was truly priceless.
YANKEE ROSE
Back in 1986 when the Statue of Liberty was undergoing restoration for its 100 year anniversary, singer David Lee Roth’s first solo album single was a tribute called “Yankee Rose”. It featured lyrics like “She’s a vision from coast to coast/Sea to shining sea” and “Watch the sparks will fly/Fire cracking on the fourth of July”. The jingoistic jingle got my blood-pumping, so we decided to catch the South Ferry to Staten Island to clamp our own eyes on Lady Liberty. Interestingly, the small island on which it sits was originally a quarantine area where citizens with communicable diseases were secluded during colonial times. Later on, it was part of a cluster of small atolls known as the Oyster Islands due to the enormous mollusk beds encircling them. Unfortunately, toxic waste decimated the area at the turn of the century killing off all marine life, so in 1956 the area was renamed Liberty Island. The copper skin of the statute is said to be as thin as two pennies put together, just 3/32 of an inch, but it weighs a reported 62,000 pounds. Incidentally, my daughter thought the statute was intentionally green like the color of our money. However, I explained to her that the jade patina was a natural byproduct of the oxidation of copper called verdigris, whereby it lost electrons from exposure to air and water. Otherwise, the Statue of Liberty would be a shiny orange-red color. And at 305 feet and 1 inch from the base of the pedestal to the tip of the 24k gold torch, it’s a massive 29 feet taller than the Brooklyn Bridge. But there’s also a sinister side to the Statute, whereby some purport that it’s a sign of Satanic solidarity, as evidenced by the fact that it’s creator was a Freemason and that there are occult-like Freemason symbols inscribed on its base. Also, “Yankee Rose” were the last two words in Anton LaVey’s Satanic Bible, and if they are to be believed, indicates that Lady Liberty is a thinly-veiled depiction of Lucifer. Given the holiday and threat-level, we were escorted each way by a 25-foot U.S. Coast Guard Defender Class vessel. It was equipped with a manned 7.62mm M240 Machine Gun on the bow. Thankfully, there were no incidents, but I certainly felt much safer with their presence there.
FERRARI OF NEW YORK
My wife and daughter dragged me to see The Rockettes and a Broadway musical (each at great expense), so I figured the least they could do was tolerate a brief visit to the Ferrari showroom in Manhattan. Located on ritzy Park Avenue, it blends in with the other rectangular buildings unless you’re specifically looking for it. And unlike every other place we visited the entire week, it was the only one where we were the sole customers. Unfortunately, by Ferrari standards, the automobile selection was pretty sparse. I was hoping to see a LaFerrari, but all they had was a 488 Spider, California T and a F430 Scuderia. I spoke to the saleswoman that greeted us, explaining that I was a long-time enthusiast, and asked if I would be permitted to take a few pictures? She was very accommodating and gave us free reign. As she was walking off, my wife mentioned that the California looked like the silver one I drove in New Orleans. I commented that she was right, but that the actual color was Argento Nurburgring. I noticed a sly smile of appreciation cross the saleswoman’s lips as she realized I was more than just a camera-wielding tourist. Ironically, the most valuable of the trio was also the oldest, a 2009 F430 Scuderia in a very rare Grigio Alloy (Light Blue Silver) with Ferro (Grey) racing stripes. I never ascertained whether it was a customer car or on loan from the factory, but it was not for sale. The California T was a solid Nero Black with the exception of a subtle tri-colored (Green, White & Red) stripe celebrating its national flag and running the length of the vehicle. Finally, the 488 Spider was the newest and most powerful with a 661-hp twin-turbo V8. They also thoughtfully had a “Ferrari Store” whereby visitors such as myself could actually afford to buy something like a cheesy $20 mouse pad or a tacky $30 ashtray. But that’s not to say everything was cheap; also on display was a 1:8 scale LaFerrari just like the one actual owners received, that could be yours for the low price of just $8,200. I thanked the saleswoman for letting me look around, but obviously left empty-handed. Outside, I was stopped by three of New York’s finest sanitation workers who had seen me inside and wanted to settle an argument. Their squabble was over what time of year was best for selling a Ferrari? Moe (not their real names) claimed that Christmas was the best time, but Larry thought the warmer summer months were ideal, and Curly was undecided. As an appointed authority in their eyes, I ended the debate by answering that summer was the most lucrative season and cited the asking price of a Ferrari 360 on Ebay that had dropped $10,000 from June to November. Larry was positively jubilant in his victory as he and Curly relentlessly teased Moe about being wrong. Following that, they showered me with questions they had always wondered about “EYE-talian cars” but apparently had no one to ask (they didn’t strike me as voracious readers). Eventually, my wife had to pull me away so we wouldn’t be late for our dinner reservation.
MACY’S 90TH ANNIVERSARY THANKSGIVING PARADE
Two days before the parade, authorities in New York arrested Mohammed Rafik Naji, a 37 year-old Brooklyn man, when it was discovered he was planning a Thanksgiving Day assault. The ISIS supporter was alleged to have been plotting a potential truck attack during the parade stating, “I mean a garbage truck, and one drives it there to Times Square and crushes them.” Chillingly, investigators also said that Naji referenced a “reconnaissance group was already put on the scene.” I’ve lived with the physical threat of hurricanes my whole life, but it was a little surreal —and scary— to realize I could potentially be involved in a terrorist attack. Nevertheless, I arose on Thanksgiving day at 4:30 a.m. so that I could save a spot for Amanda and Victoria to watch the parade from. Of all the places I would never have imagined myself being, here I was in pitch darkness and frigid weather, staggering down 5th avenue in New York City. I felt like Dennis Quaid in The Day After Tomorrow and it was so cold I halfway expected to see the Statue of Liberty entombed in ice just like the movie. What I wasn’t expecting was the eighty-two sanitations trucks filled with 16 tons of sand at every intersection. These were the anti-terrorist barriers erected by the police to prevent a copycat crime of the ISIS one that killed 86 people and injured more than 400 last year in France. As the sun came up, I saw more and more police presence and later learned that there were a total of 3,000 officers stationed along the 2.5-mile parade route. In addition to radiation detectors, police helicopters and undercover cops, there were also “Vapor Wake” dogs trained to sniff out the faintest signature of explosives. Finally, the NYPD’s “Critical Command Response” team was overseeing the parade for the first time with high-powered assault rifles. Luckily, the only real danger we faced was our feet becoming permanently stuck to the filthy pavement. Banana peels and rotten milk were the only two items I could visually distinguish in the adhesive substance which mimicked a giant glue trap. An informal survey I took of visitors for the parade revealed families from Oklahoma, Texas, Tennessee, North Carolina and even as far away as Ecuador. The Macy’s parade itself was similar to our Mardi Gras, with a lot of standing and massive crowds, but unfortunately without the eventual payoff of beads and boobs, so I don’t recommend it.
CHINATOWN
Add ChinaTown to the list of places I never thought, or wanted, to actually visit. But that’s how I ended up in some creepy basement on my daughter’s quest for crazy Asian toys called “Kawaii”. I quit trying to understand the concept behind them, but apparently the little plush toys with names like Rilakkuma and Gudetama are insanely popular right now. There are even entire channels on YouTube devoted to them. I asked my wife how it was possible that we were able to peruse $1 million in Ferraris with no supervision, but the oriental shop owners suspiciously followed us around like we might suddenly swipe a $5.00 toy? It was also the only time in my life I’ve felt illiterate, as nearly everything was in Chinese. Granted, I can fumble my way through some Spanish and French, but all the obscure writing might as well have been Martian for all I could tell. Despite that, there were a few Chinese proverbs I spotted such as: “Karma's a bitch. Dogma, however, is a wildcat in the sack”and “Religion is the opiate of the masses, but Vicodin is the opiate of the business class” which reminded me how much I could have used some on the train ride. Finally, I did notice an Asian-authored study guide for immigrants taking the New York Driver’s License test. What struck me as funny was that it featured a 550-hp Ford GT, instead of something more appropriate like a Honda, Nissan or Toyota. Traffic problems in Manhattan are bad enough, but do you really want to learn to drive behind the wheel of a 200-mph supercar?
I don’t know if he was Asian, but I did happen to see a Nero Black 458 bravely tackling the post-Macy’s Parade traffic. Trust me, I spent a week in that gridlock, and there’s no way I’d drive my Saturn in that snarled mess, much less a $250,000 Ferrari. Seriously, did he have nothing else to drive, or did he simply have a death-wish? Several times we had to take taxis, which are now all environmentally-friendly Toyota Priuses, and the drivers all had one speed: Flat-Out. I also don’t think we had a single cab fare that was less than $15 one way. The meter starts running at $3.50 as soon as you’re picked up, and then continues to accrue like a bad payday loan whether you’re stopped or moving. Holiday traffic was so crowded across the Williamsburg bridge in Brooklyn that our driver actually took pity on us and proposed we take the nearest subway terminal rather than going all the way down to Central Park. We agreed, but even being dropped off at out hotel and walking the other twenty blocks, our cab fare was still $40. Only in NYC have I ever covered more distance on foot than in a car.
STEAK AND THE CITY
Last year, we celebrated Thanksgiving at Disney’s Polynesian resort, eating such tropically-influenced items as pineapple-coconut guava cake. It’s safe to say the Pilgrims probably did not mark the occasion with a similar dessert when they first dined here 400 years ago. As such, it made perfect sense that we were celebrating this Thanksgiving in New York City, possibly the furthest environment you can get from the Magic Kingdom, but where both have an oversized rodent as their mascot. Our “traditionally untraditional” meal this year consisted of genuine Japanese Kobe Beef, another entrée I’m reasonably sure was not consumed at Plymouth Rock. That’s because Hyogo Prefecture in Japan where the Tajima livestock of Wagyu cattle are raised, is roughly 7000 miles away, or nearly twice the distance the Mayflower sailed to America.
This has been an item on my bucket list for the past 25 years after I read an article about John F. Kennedy Jr. dining on Kobe Beef at The Old Homestead Steakhouse. It turns out, the name is pretty accurate as it’s indeed the oldest steakhouse in New York, dating back 100 years before I was born to 1868. Back then, it was a three-story Greek-revival mercantile building known as the Tidewater Trading Post since the Hudson River regularly lapped at its doors during high tide. Affluent locals and travelers shopped there, and sometime around 1890 the name officially changed to Old Homestead. By 1953, the reputation of Old Homestead was such that a Nebraska farmer promised the restaurant a cow and delivered a fiberglass replica after hauling it across the country in the back of his truck. When it took up too much space on the sidewalk, it was relocated to the metal canopy above the entrance. The kitschy cow was christened “Annabelle” and “We’re The King of Beef” was emblazoned on it. For such a fine-dining establishment, the statue looks like it belongs outside a Western Sizzlin’.
In 1991, owners Marc and Greg Sherry were looking for a unique dish to distinguish the Old Homestead from the dozens of other high-end steakhouses in Manhattan. That’s when they came across Kobe Beef in Japan which Sherry described as akin to experiencing “the 4th of July in your mouth.” They worked dutifully with the Japanese government to export a few hundred pounds which they began selling in their restaurant. Despite the exorbitant price, it was an immediate success and they had trouble keeping up with the demand. Naturally, the expense and rarity spawned a whole host of industry imitators, who rolled out their own counterfeit versions using cheaper cuts but claiming the Kobe name. And when Kobe Beef exports were suspended from 2009 through 2012 to curb the Japanese hoof-and-mouth epidemic, Sherry was the first U.S. restaurateur to travel to Japan's Gunma prefecture in 2013 to bid at auction on the pricey beef. Furthermore, it reportedly took 45 days before it was cleared by customs to enter our country.
Much like Cuba offers the perfect climate and soil for its singular tobacco and sugar cane, Japan’s Tajima region is characterized by mountainous terrain that helped shape the smaller, densely-built cattle. Early on, they were prized for their ability to move in such narrow confines and carry heavy loads for farmers. Their history can be traced all the way back to 794, but it wasn’t until 1868 (ironically the same year Old Homestead opened) that they were recognized for their unique meat. As legend has it, an Englishman arrived at the newly opened foreign trade port in Kobe and convinced a local famer to sell him one of his Tajima cows for food. Word quickly spread of the delicious flavor to other visiting merchants, and they all began asking for “Kobe Beef”.
So what separates Kobe Beef from our domestic cattle and makes it so much better? Although popular culture loves to reinforce the image of the Tajima cattle being fed beer and receiving hand massages to tenderize the meat, such lore is less rooted in reality than Godzilla. The main difference is breeding and genetics. Our “Black Angus” beef is so adulterated that virtually none of its DNA can be traced to its Scottish forbearer, the Aberdeen Angus. Instead, there’s just a laughably vague set of ten generic guidelines required for certified Angus status such as the steer must be “Usually black or red in color” and possess “No hump on the neck exceeding 2 inches”. In stark contrast, all Tajima cattle have an individual 10-digit identification number and their pure bloodline lineage can be traced back centuries. Similarly, their diet is a specifically chosen amount of organic barley, corn, grass, rice straw, soybeans and wheat which varies depending on their age, condition and time of year. Unlike domestic beef, they are never fed antibiotics or growth hormones. In the end, this stringent process only yields around 3000 cattle each year, less than the amount in one midsize U.S. cattle ranch. Due to that, there’s only enough real Kobe Beef imported annually to satisfy the typical beef consumption of just 25 American households.
What makes Kobe Beef or Wagyu (loosely translated at Japanese Cow) so prized is the incredible amount of intramuscular fat or “Sashi” present, and Japan’s Beef Marbling Standard (BMS) is the most important criteria when grading it. Our richest cut available, USDA Prime, equates to roughly a 4, whereas Kobe goes up to 12. To determine the final meat quality, there are three yield grades and five quality grades. The yield grades are classified as A, B or C and the quality grades are designated 1-5. Old Homestead advertises a rating of A5+ which means a yield percentage of more than 72% along with an “Excellent” BMS of 8-12. Kobe Beef has a unique mouthfeel due to the fact that its "Shimofuri" fat marbling has a very low dissolving point of around 70 degrees. It literally melts in your mouth. But the other benefit aside from the velvety texture is that all the fat is monounsaturated which helps lower the bad cholesterol (LDL) while promoting healthy cholesterol (HDL). Additionally, Kobe Beef is even high in Omega 3 and Omega 6 fatty acids which are essential for good health.
There was also some trepidation about my visit, since I’d questioned after a quarter-century of anticipation if it could possibly live up to my expectations? I’d read countless online reviews that criticized the establishment and servers for being surly and, in some cases, even downright rude. So, I was prepared to accept that, but I’m happy to report that everyone from the hostess down to our servers were all very pleasant and accommodating. In fact, our waiter didn’t even bat an eye when I ordered the $350 steak, although I jokingly asked if he needed to check my credit first? I also speculated if they’d ever had anyone dine and dash on such a large check? For all I knew, the Sherrys could have mob ties to John Gotti or the Gambino crime family, and I certainly didn’t want to be erased like Jimmy Hoffa. Also, you’d imagine for such an expensive price that a salad, potato or bread would be included, but everything was a la carte. Whenever a waiter walked out of the kitchen, I nervously eyed him to see if he was bringing my prized Wagyu filet. I curiously wondered if there would be any special presentation that accompanied it, like maybe a marching band or a stripper would pop out of a huge cake holding it? Sadly, the actual delivery was pretty low-key, with no confetti or fanfare. Additionally, Marc Sherry kept walking past our table and I had to suppress the urge to leap out of my seat and announce through a giant bullhorn and humongous flashing arrow that I had traveled 1,200 miles for the privilege of blowing over $500 on dinner. But he had a laser-like focus and seemed very busy, so I didn’t want to interrupt him.
Ordered at the suggested medium rare, the outside had just the right amount of sear and the inside was a perfect strawberry color. In Japan, it’s served in paper-thin sections like sashimi, so I trimmed off a small slice and relished it on my palette . With the rich concentration of oleic acids, the flavor was exquisite. It really was better than anything I had ever eaten. I savored it with as much restraint as humanely possible, but after sharing some with my wife and daughter, the 12 ounce portion was quickly devoured. I’m surprised there’s not a Kobe Beef support group, like Wagyu Eaters Anonymous. It’s certainly addictive and expensive enough. Forget gambling and alcohol, Japanese Wagyu would be my vice. I then wondered aloud how many of the destitute and homeless we saw littering the streets had once been like me, coming to New York City for the first time, bright-eyed and optimistic, only to succumb to a life of crime to support their Kobe Beef habit? “Probably none. Zero. Zilch.” my wife interrupted with an exasperated tone in her voice, and I reluctantly agreed she was probably right. I was just saying that, while not likely, it could happen.
CONCLUSION
Of course, I’ve edited this article for brevity and humor, but in all seriousness our trip was pretty incredible, particularly with such magical moments as it snowing on us in Central Park. New York is such a cultural epicenter that literally everything is at your finger tips, from the newest fashions, to world-class dining and performing arts. You can’t see it all in a week, even though we tried. Initially, I was cautiously optimistic about how well three Hurley hillbillies would fare in a place so busy that it earned the axiom “New York Minute”. However, within the first 24 hours, I inexplicably felt as though I’d lived my whole life there and I really embraced the fast-paced lifestyle. Similarly, my daughter was ready to move to Manhattan. But then again, she also said her favorite meal of the entire trip wasn’t the Kobe Beef or Canadian lobster, but the $5.00 hot dog she got from a street vendor. And as for the age-old stereotype of brash Yankees, we never saw it, even during the most stressful and hectic time of the year. We treated everyone with respect and that’s what we got in return. Rounding a corner at Madison Square Garden, I caught a policeman sharing his lunch with a homeless man. In passing, the officer reached into his fast food bag and handed the homeless man a bag of French fries. Now, this wasn’t some carefully orchestrated publicity stunt, or a post that would go viral on Face Book and be shared 10 Million times. Only my daughter and I witnessed it, but it bears repeating. As of late, the police have been under a lot of scrutiny, and some of it’s justified. Yet, it’s not fair to blame them all for a few bad apples. During the Macy’s Parade, I thought of all the police present and how I knew they’d rather be home with their families on Thanksgiving. But like the Coast Guard we encountered earlier, they were there in the bitter cold, ready to offer their lives to protect us if necessary. The media gives New York a bad rap, but what I experienced that week reaffirmed my faith in humanity.
