|
Bosworth
Magazine Archives
|
Ned
Travels to
"The Little Apple"
When I one day I heard my bohemian adopted parents mention something
about heading to Manhattan, I thought to myself,
“It’s high time I visited a great city.”
Truth be told, I’m more of a country goat. I like crowds, to
be sure, but not the kind of crowd that’s moving rapidly. I
have heard rumors that large cities are full of people walking quickly
in all different directions. This is an alarming prospect, to a goat.
The reason can be difficult for predatory humans to grasp readily, but
at times the survival of a goat can rest on how in sync the individual
is with the herd. When a group of goats loiters in a field, quietly
grazing, and one of those goats suddenly bolts for the hills, all the
remaining goats will immediately bolt as well, without first checking
to make sure there is something worth bolting from. For goats in the
wild, this is a practical impulse. For a cultured, urbane goat like
myself, it is absurd.
 Yet, I find
myself peculiarly susceptible to directional suggestion. Harry and
Melissa discovered this while I was still young, and sometimes when we
were all outside passing the time, they’d take off running
down the driveway. I’d flee with them – my heart
pounding and tail sticking straight up in the air, to help signal any
others that had missed the exodus. I’d catch up to Harry and
Melissa every time, only to find them laughing at my expense. There
never was anything to run away from.
Fortunately, the novelty of this game has worn off and my adopted
parents rarely subject me to such torments anymore. Nonetheless, I have
long avoided environments filled with quickly moving people and had
begun to feel this was leaving weak spot in my perception of the world.
So, when the avenue for change appeared, I seized the opportunity. When
Harry and Melissa began to load the car for their Manhattan trip, I
installed myself firmly in the back seat. I was excited, both to combat
my flocking instincts and to visit some cultural hotspots. Besides, it
seemed nothing called “The Big Apple” could be all
bad. Ask anyone. I love apples.
The drive took rather longer than I expected, but I spent most of it
sleeping. When we finally stopped, I was surprised by the lack of
sky-scrapers visible out the window. In fact, the roads were small, the
city interior full of stone buildings that weren’t surrounded
by milling people. I was also immediately struck by the large amount of
trees and vegetation around the town, and surrounding hillsides.
I’d envisioned Manhattan as a concrete desert, an
herbivore’s nightmare. Not so! There were plenty of generous
shrubs for convenient nibbling as we walked through the streets.
As we walked, we soon encountered a sign for a university called KSU.
I, confused, glanced up at Harry and Melissa. They continued to walk
along quietly, exhibiting not the least interest in the sign. I,
personally, felt astonished and ignorant. I’d known about the
Julliard School for Music, and New York University, Pace University and
Columbia, but KSU? I stared at the spacious, green grounds and stately
buildings and then, not wanting to broadcast my ignorance, trotted on,
deliberately averting my eyes to keep from seeming over-interested.
I will confess, the day that passed did not meet my expectations. For
one thing, I never saw any bridges or water. I had thought Manhattan
was an island, but again didn’t want to inquire lest I expose
myself to ridicule. The people were not the well-dressed, high-lifers
I’d expected, but seemed instead rather average and ordinary.
We seemed to avoid the really great attractions. Instead of the
Guggenheim, we went to the less well-known Oz Museum. As fascinating as
it was to look at those ruby slippers, I got a little tired of the,
“I don’t think we’re in Kansas
anymore,” joke. After all, we’d never been to
Kansas. It just wasn’t funny.
Disappointed and tired, I dispiritedly followed my parents to a place
where we planned to eat dinner. Someone at the Oz Museum had
recommended the Little Apple Brewery and after driving around on
remarkably quiet streets, we found this establishment in a strip mall.
Although the food was good, and the staff was goat tolerant, I could
scarcely conceal my dissatisfaction with the place. It had this
strange, rustic rural motif, which perhaps was meant to make the New
Yorkers feel less imprisoned by the big city, but frankly did nothing
for me.
As soon as we finished our meal, I returned to the car and slept or
sulked in the back seat until finally, we returned home. I am forced to
conclude that my reluctance to visit big cities was entirely unfounded,
and there is nowhere on earth I need hesitate to visit. |
|
