A Filipino on an All-American Roadtrip

The journey of a thousand miles begins at five in the morning. The sun was not up yet, and neither were the natives. Liars, I thought to myself. New York City does sleep after all.

The orange glow of the streetlights and the tiny incandescent light on the porch illuminated the otherwise dark driveway, where my father and brother were loading suitcases and plastic bags into an old red two-door Chevrolet. Beads of sweat were already forming on their foreheads as they tried to fit three large pieces of luggage into the tiny car’s even tinier trunk.

Before the first stirrings of dawn could brighten the sky, I got into the car and attempted to get comfortable in the cramped backseat. My Aunt Alexis squeezed in next to me, while my brother called shotgun, and my dad got behind the wheel. Within minutes, the junker sputtered to life and we were off.

Dirty dreams in New York City

Not at all like the movies.

The filthy, gum-blackened steps of the Subway station in Jamaica, Queens, where rats fearlessly crossed pedestrians' paths, was a far cry from the bright lights of the New York City dream. No trace of Broadway glamour -that spark that made the city one of the best in the world - could be found among the human detritus piled in the corners of the 169th Street Station.

Only the bright lights of the Subway station in Times Square, Manhattan
reflects the glitz of the city.

Commuters waited in line to swipe their Metrocards. Native New Yorkers breezed through, while others were quickly exposed as tourists when they held up the queue because of their unfamiliarity with the fickle machines. The train platform fared no better than the rest of the station. Posters on the wall had long fallen victim to vandals. A cold draft circulated a musty, earthy smell around the terminal. The gloomy interior brightened every few minutes with the arrival of the F train, only to go back to the dismal quiet it was before.

The train was long. Empty, too. Where were all the people? New York is famous for its sardine can-packed cars. No one complained, however, because a seat on the lengthy ride to Manhattan was always a blessing. There was nothing to see out the window, but the inside of the car was a different story. The few people inside the car were an odd mix; no nationality was left out. Hispanic, Middle Eastern, African, European, American, Asian – a mini UN, right in that small, ancient train compartment. The relative warmth in the car was cultivating a nasty combination of human odors, but this unplanned gathering of people, who obviously hailed from different walks of life, revived the New York dream. Maybe behind all the dust and debris, the Big Apple really is what it is made out to be - America's melting pot of culture.