I wonder how many times, I heard the words, “Travel safe,” in the last few days. How many times have I spoken them?
I’m with other seniors in an Italian bakery. Around the corner is the coffee shop for writers and hipsters. Another block and I could have Yemeni coffee. When I left home, I headed for Quhwah Valley, but I don’t have my laptop, so the old Italian place seemed more my style than the cultural experience of Yemen.
The Nor’easter hit us last weekend with residents near the beach saying it’s the worst flooding they’ve seen since Hurricane Sandy. My boss moved the farmer’s market to where we could be protected from the elements of the weather. Sales were as good or better than expected. After all, it was weather for concocting in the kitchen.
Saturday evening, Laurence and I went to eat lagman (beef, noodle) soup on Rockaway. Being on the beach in the wind and rain shower with other New Yorkers and watching surfers riding the high and wild waves was the highlight and a sight we’ve seldom seen.
Sunday’s service encouraged me, especially the sharing in Sunday school with my sisters of one Spirit though we came from a background of different congregations and countries. Sadly, my husband stayed home with a cold as did the Queens tract workers, but I’ll give a shout out to Mrs. Tract. She maneuvered via bus and train to bring me her food for the fellowship lunch at church. This would not be so remarkable for someone who’s been here awhile, but Anna is fairly new to the city. (Thanks Google Maps.) Anna and I witnessed the handing out of soup and the Gospel to the homeless gathered under some building scaffolding when I met her on Broadway to get her food. It warmed our hearts to see caring and sharing in Elmhurst. Later, I took the rolling backpack with Anna’s salsa and my lettuce to contribute to the lunch for the 50 people expected to worship at Sugar Hill on Sunday morning.
Laurence missed out again on Monday when I went up via Metro North to Poughkeepsie for the birthday party of Sister Christianah. He sincerely wished he could go, but Elmhurst Hospital needed him to work. I met the missionary couple in Grand Central and rode up with them. As always, it was a lovely ride along the Hudson River. It surprised us to see the trees turning color as we got further north. The Northeast is a beautiful picture in the fall!
We ate jollof rice, pounded yam, and agusi soup in a community building where the Akinyombo family worships. We sang a rollicking “Happy Birthday” and had cake and ice cream. The Nigerian and American cultures blend perfectly when we are one in Christ. The fellowship was sweet.
On the return trip, my friends got off the train in Harlem while I rode on to Grand Central. I witnessed a tourist’s mouth drop open and her eyes light up in awe as she stepped into the Great Room of the station. I live here, but I continue to be humbled by the magnificence of it and that I can be a part. Through the turnstile I went, and down the escalator to the 7 train. We first rode the 7 in 1988, and it is as familiar to me as are the country roads that take you home. It was after 10 pm when I walked the last blocks toward home in The City That Never Sleeps. These streets are also familiar, but still, I am ever alert to my surroundings. Laurence welcomed me as I came into the foyer of our apartment. I’d traveled safely.
“Travel safe.”
Berniece
