Getting Drenched Again, This Time Without Ophelia

On Friday afternoon, I left work a few minutes early to walk briskly to the pick-up spot for the bus that would take me to DC. Ed was out of town and I'd decided to go spend the weekend with my brother and his wife. It was a warm, humid day, and the forecast called for rain later that evening. My bus was supposed to board at 5:15, though, so I was confident I'd be snugly ensconced in my seat and headed south by the time the first drops began to fall.

The Bolt Bus used to pick up on 34th (I think) and 7th Avenue. It was on the same corner as a Sbarro's pizza shop and a subway stop with plenty of other buildings nearby. This was convenient for me, but I guess not for a lot of store owners and pedestrians who must have complained about the ever-present lines of people choking the sidewalk with their luggage as they waited for the bus. Now long-distance bus pick-up spots have been moved west. Bolt currently meets its passengers on 33rd Street between 11th and 12th Avenues. For those unfamiliar with Manhattan geography, 12th Avenue is the last avenue you hit before you find yourself floating in the Hudson. It's several long blocks from the nearest subway and there's nothing out there but warehouses, which is what makes it a great spot for throngs of people to stand around on sidewalks. Bolt's pick-up location is on the overpass that spans the Penn Station rail yard. There are no buildings for a five-minute walk in any direction. 

I arrived in plenty of time for the 5:15 loading, which was a shame because the bus was really late. Bolt is usually punctual and so I was annoyed, but only a little. I chatted lightly about our situation with a girl who'd come barreling down the sidewalk, fearing she was running late, and a family of four that was standing near me.

Our conversation grew strained as we watched a bank of ink-black clouds start to thicken to the west, however. The wind picked up with sudden ferocity and we saw lightning over Jersey. Then the buildings of Hoboken grew blurry and were soon merely smudges of gray. The tempest was headed right for us and there was nothing we could do. 

I usually carry an umbrella with me if rain is even suspected--when one walks everywhere, not having one can be disastrous--but since I had plenty of time before it was supposed to rain I hadn't brought one this time. Instead of my sturdy rain boots I was wearing thin leather flats and had my laptop in a plain fabric case in my open-top tote bag. As the first drop hit my cheek at around 6:00, I threw my fake leather jacket over the top of my tote bag (being a cheapskate really worked in my favor here, as the fake leather turned out to be pretty water-repellent) and lay my backpack on top, hoping to shield my computer. The mother in the family I'd been talking with hurriedly handed her kids disposable plastic ponchos and pulled me very generously under her umbrella. And then it poured. 

Within minutes, my left shoulder, which was directly under one of the umbrella spines and was therefore the direct recipient of a steady rivulet of water, was soaked. I could feel the stream of water under my clothes pouring down the side of my body, over my hip, and down my leg. I held my purse as close to the kind woman as I could; it stayed dry, but as she was rotund and the umbrella was small both of us got soaked. The girl who'd come late was huddling under the umbrella of another recently befriended stranger. The kids wandered the sidewalk in their ponchos, laughing and complaining about wet feet. About ten people had made a mad dash for the trailer of a semi-truck that was parked across the street, the only shelter available, and were huddled miserably under it. As the rain continued to thrash us, however, they were forced to move closer and closer toward the street-side of the trailer to escape the river that was forming in the gutter on the other side. 

We huddled for twenty minutes. If there had been any escape I'd have given up my spot on the bus and just gone home, but a 15-minute walk stood between me and the closest train and I knew I'd never get a cab. My hopeful prediction that the rain, like most sudden and powerful summer storms, would blow itself out was laughably false. 

By the time the bus came, I was completely soaked. Everyone boarded as quickly as possible and we ended up leaving at 6:25. Some people changed into dry clothes, which looked good to me except that I didn't have any. My backpack had kept most of the water out, but everything inside was still pretty wet. My purse, mercifully, had remained dry so I had to settle for using tissues from a pocket pack to mop the mascara off my face. Then I sat down gingerly for one of the longest bus rides I can remember. I was uncomfortable, but I'd have been thoroughly miserable if not for my laptop. I kept it powered on and balanced in my lap where the heat it generated kept my shivering to a minimum. To my surprise, no one complained about the air conditioning, though I'm sure many were just as cold as I was. Usually I'd just as soon dispense with the rest stop the bus makes, but I was longing for it this time; I fantasized about peeling off my leggings in a bathroom stall and putting the under a hand dryer. But our driver never stopped, and I was still soaked when we pulled into DC nearly five hours later.

I squished to the taxi stand in my sodden shoes. My brother, who is usually not terribly sympathetic about lack of creature comforts, was horrified at my state and immediately poured me a tumbler of whiskey. He noted that I'd left wet footprints on the stairs, even all these hours later. I told him I suspected trench foot. I was given dry pajamas and chased into a hot shower while he and Jane threw the contents of my backpack into the washing machine. I hung my backpack and tote bag so they'd dry and spread out everything that had been inside them. I discovered later that the rain had melted the glue that held the lining in my glasses case in place and all but destroyed one of my flimsy leather purse straps. 

Two days later, I left DC on a sublimely sunny afternoon. Bolt picks up in the shelter of Union Station, so even if the skies had opened unexpectedly I'd have been safe and dry. I usually dread the bus ride back to NYC after a fun weekend away, but I settled contentedly into my seat this time, ready for smooth sailing. Bolt is generally not the most comfortable of options, but it felt downright luxurious compared to the ride I'd taken a few days before.  

Getting Drenched with Ophelia in Bryant Park

Many have heard of New York City's Shakespeare in the Park, free Central Park performances of various Shakespearean plays that run through the summer in our fair city. It's tough to get tickets for the limited seats, though (one can get in line at the crack of dawn to collect them in person or enter a virtual lottery online each day), and I have never been so lucky. There is an alternative which, though less picturesque perhaps, is no less appealing: Shakespeare in the Parking Lot. I saw this wonderful company perform Julius Cesar a few summers ago in (you guessed it) an parking lot* and they were great. Eager to see them again, I arranged to meet my friend Lia for dinner and a performance of Hamlet last Friday. This time, the stage would be set in Bryant Park.

Before the play began. Look carefully to spot Lia's smiling face on the left!

Lia and I brought dinner to the park since the weather was so nice. After eating by the fountain, we meandered toward the makeshift stage and found seats. Lia pointed out, sensibly, that it would be a good idea to use a bathroom before the 2.5-hour play began, and I groaned inwardly even as I agreed; time spent in park bathrooms in New York is time best forgotten. I googled "Bryant Park bathroom" in hopes of finding a map and was alarmed to find an article called "Bryant Park Bathroom in the News" among the search results. To my utter shock and delight, however, the article did not contain information about the number of used needles, rats, or bodies found in the bathroom in a recent investigation. Instead, it seems the bathroom was named the best public bathroom in 2011 by some online travel forum. Lia and I discovered that the bathroom was indeed something special. The line was longer than we'd have liked, of course, but inside we found an elaborate, fragrant flower arrangement on a ornamental stone pedastel, beautiful mosaic tilework, and real marble counter-tops. A fastidious park employee kept the line moving, the floors mopped, and the counters spotless. Will wonders never cease.

We got back in our seats just in time for the first lines of the play, a modern interpretation that portrayed Gertrude as an alcoholic, Ophelia as a hopelessly depressed cast-off, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as dopey frat boys. The acting was fantastic and I was so engrossed that I hardly noticed the coal-black clouds gathering overhead until the first raindrop hit my nose. Lia, ever prepared, whipped a small umbrella from her purse and we crowded together under it. To the west I could see bright sunshine over the Hudson River, but the sky above us couldn't have been more ominous. The actors admirably pushed through the end of the scene and then the director took the stage. "We think this is going to pass," he yelled, "so we're going to give it five minutes." The storm did pass, but not before soaking everything and everyone with the kind of intensity you get only from short-lived summer cloudbursts. Lia and I stayed seated (a move that kept our seats dry) but most of the people around us made a run for it to huddle under nearby trees or overhangs. Those who stayed in their chairs pulled out umbrellas or tried to find shelter under playbills, newspapers, or blankets. 

The play began again as the rain tapered off. It showered once or twice more before the final scene but not with the same vigor as it had the first time. The actors gamely pressed on despite the damp, sudden chill, and body mic outages. None reacted to the rain overtly, though Ophelia, without breaking character, busily wiped off a bench before sitting on it once, and Claudius gesticulated wildly with an umbrella he was using as a walking stick, which he then opened nonchalantly as the rain began again and used to shield himself and Gertrude.

A Shakespearean tragedy can be a rough way to launch a Friday night out in New York, so I was relieved that the company arranged for one of the actresses to end the play with a beautiful, soulful song whose words I can't remember. The tone was both wistful and hopeful, and Lia and I left the park in an upbeat mood. It sprinkled on us once more as we headed to Starbucks for hot drinks before going our separate ways. 

We were lucky to catch Hamlet, which ran for several weeks but closed the night after we saw it. Next on Shakespeare in the Parking Lot's agenda is Twelfth Night, then Othello in August. I hope to catch both, back in the usual parking lot instead of the park, alas. It's not that I will long for the pretty scenery; the performances are so good I won't notice where I'm sitting. But I will miss that bathroom. 

*The company's website explains that parking lots are perfect spaces for public performances because they're easily accessible plots of open space in a very crowded city. Benches were set up around the stage area for Julius Cesar and those who did not fit either stood or sat on the ground.