Do The Indians Want It Back?

It's a well known legend that may or may not be true.   Three hundred or so years ago, the Indians sold the island of Manhattan to settlers for 24 bucks.   

I wonder if the buyers kept the receipt.  And can they get their money back?

I write this as I lived through a horrific day in Manhattan.  Not as terrible as the infamous 9/11, but crummy for a normal day.  I don't think it's anything but a regular day on the once-revered island.

I used to commute to Manhattan every day in a previous life.  Each day was by rote and almost robotic.   The same Metro North train into Grand Central.  And then since everybody was centered in Midtown, it was always a short walk to your place of business.

Um, not any more.  Oh, sure, Midtown is still loaded down with offices.  But the lower end of Manhattan is now being overloaded with companies moving down there.   Probably because the rent is cheaper.

So now, if you pop into the city via Grand Central, you often have to drag yourself to the subway for another twenty minute ride.   There is no other way to do it.

Now I had to do just that the other day.   Ride Metro North in and then get down to lower Manhattan.  For me, the subways are not an ideal option with all the stairs and my knees and such.  So I opted to hail a taxicab.  Okay, that used to be easy, right?

Wrong.

Traffic all over is at such a standstill that cabs don't stream by easily.  Indeed, they trickle by.  Drip by drip by drip.  I stood with my arm in the air with gobs of classic humidity oozing from every pore of my body.

When I finally scored a cab, the driver was...how would you say....stupid.  It needed to look at a map when I called out my address of destination.   And then proceeded to zig zag from one crowded street to another.

As I watched this slow cab to China wind its way downtown, I noticed something.   The city has gone out of its own way to make things miserable.

Delivery trucks double parked at every turn.

Designated bike lanes that eat up part of every thoroughfare.   

Designated pedestrian walkways in the street.

Scaffolding everywhere.  New buildings going up.  Old buildings being restored.  

It took forty-five minutes to get downtown.  And it wasn't even rush hour.   

Heading back to Grand Central, I opted to call for a Lyft.  My driver, Mohammad, pulled up and couldn't read my name on the app and he alleged that I was stealing a ride from somebody else.   I had to show him more identification than I do to board a flight at the airport.

He got me to Grand Central in a little less time.   Despite a tow truck broadsiding him.   You can't make this crap up.

Once at GCT, I channeled my old commuting days by treating myself to a black and white cookie from Zaro's.   I remember they used to be a dollar.  Now $4.50.

I realized that, if I had still lived in New York, I would have long since figured out a way not to work in Manhattan anymore.   

And also thought about the fact that even the Indians, still reeling at their treatment by the White settlers, wouldn't want this mess back at any price.

Dinner last night:  Hibachi steak at the Cheesecake Factory.