Labor Day Weekend (The Grey Line Journals)

I get to start late on Sundays. Which I think is the only plus side I can find to having to wokr on Sundays. That, and the traffic is light, especially on Labor Day weekend which now that I think about it, is the only thing good about having to work on Labor Day weekend. And the weather's perfect, so I decide I'm going to bike to work. The ride to Prospect Park is, as always, a wide tree-lined shelter of peace and tranquility, the Park itself being the athleticists nexus of Brooklyn. Tight-sinewed joggers and bicyclists in spandex-skinned packs, Ipods in palms or on wrists, their eyes and minds bonded to the road ahead. We peak right before Grand Army Plaza, the great green bronze Spirits of Army and Navy, the chariots and wavng sheets, which though looking lighter than air flowing atop the plaza arch, although probably weighs three times what I do.

Then it's down Flatbush avenue. I left the house at exactly ten, and I'm gunning down toward the Manhattan Bridge on this deadly driving thoroughfare, which because of it's unique direction, is the only option to get to the Manhattan Bridge directly. It's twenty after and i need to be at the offive before eleven. I try to envision being flanked by an enormous sports arena and apartment complex as i pass by the Atlantic Yards and give a nod of recognition as I pass the Williamsburg Bank, the "Beacon of Brooklyn."

I'm at the bridge, and for the first time since I learned how to get to it, pass under the bridge to get to the bike path on the North side. The one that lets out onto Division st, making it much easier for a bike to not get runover.

3rd avenue will probably be best. I give a nod to the dull friendliness of Murray Hill. The sports bars and D'agastinos, it's the closest to a white-flight suburban outdoor mall I think Manhattan will ever get. With the exception of a small handful beautiful people in sleeveless silk-screen T-shirts, the streets are empty. Labor Day Sunday. It's 10:50 AM Who the hell would be rushing about in Murray Hill of all places? I pass by a buxom young blond woman wearing a shirt that says "Not everything in Nebraska is flat!" And laughing as I sail past her, wondering if I can make it all the way cross town in five minutes I think with a slight touch of sentiment for this nation I am reluctantly part of, I think "it's going to be a good day."

Yesterday was madness. Busiest I'd ever seen it. The line at TS wrapped around the sidewalk planters and then around onto 47th st. and almost looped back around in front of the Starbucks. I'd take a day like today over a slow day anytime. Especially when it's nice out, there's nothing worse than standing around waiting for an hour on a yucky day. I change my sweat-soaked shirt into my uniform, wondering if there's any discreet way to dry them out on the bus siderails while I'm doing my tour. I conclude that there isn't. I clock in and I'm out in the square less than five minutes late. Safe.

I crank out three tours back to back like it was nothing. Marathon man here.

Actually, that's not exactly true. I was a BP deadhead for the first two. BP stands for Battery Park, the half-way point where usually large numbers get off for SOL and EI (Statue and Ellis) any good tour guide should have his tip-speech ready to roll by the time we pass the Wall St. Bull. There were so many tourists up at TS that if there were less than ten tourists on the bus after BP we'd empty them on to another bus and take the West Side Highway back up to the Square. Orders from the Big Boss who was supervising that day. Half as many tips as I would've recieved, but much, much easier to deal with.

So first time back I took care of my Brooklyn College Italian class homework and the second I had lunch and did some bustop yoga. After my third run the crowds died down and I had done my fair share, time to see what's going on in the theater.

"National Treasure"? . . . Oh yeah, there's supposed to be some reference to early New York down by Trinity Church. Good enough for me.

4/5 of the way through the theater when they finally make the one thirty second reference to NYC history my cell phone starts ringing.

"Gideon? It's Grandma. Poppop and I got tickets to Shakespeare in the Park tonight, I'd like you to join us." I smile. Sounds like a good Labor Day Weekend to me. I tell her I'll be out in an hour and I'll come right up.

(Next: A review of "Two Gentelmen of Verona" at the Delacourt Theater)