By Ikenwa Nnabuogor
The Greyhound finally emptied us in the famous, magnificent Port Authority Station, New York, after a three-hour ride from Wilmington, Delaware.
My family and my sister-in-law’s from Germany had enjoyed a cool early morning ride through Philadelphia to hit New York, looking forward to the New York fun.
Both families needed the New York summer feeling badly, and said temporary goodbye to Delaware for the sights and sounds of New York.
Arrangements were to see New York and enjoy it for the whole day and return to Delaware at night.
Those were organically jettisoned as the irresistible lure of the Big Apple changed our plans to stay a night for a day full course New York sightseeing.
Could it have been a few hour tour of the great New York and back to Delaware in a bit? So, I thought! I thought wrong, though… I was New York fever-struck!
The change of plans was worth it as the famous 41st Street welcomed us fresh out of the Port Authority Station.
Summer time meant the sun was up but the 41st Street sun hit us with a brand new refreshed start to give me that sensous “this is New York” feeling.
Could the spirits in the realms have agreed we would be in New York after watching new Hollywood movie From Naples to New York in the inflight movie facility on board the big bird that breezed yours’ truly into the Uncle Sam’s territory.
From a walk through the 41st Street, the famous Chick-fil-A restaurant, the Times Square, to the open roof Viewpoint bus ride viewing the out-of-this-world splendour of a city, New York wasn’t just a four-hour visit.
A quick bell to my Onicha-Ugbo sister in Co-Op City Bronx had her on the other side of the phone accepting us to spend the night in their famous Bronx haven.
Movies, football, music, folklore, stories, had filled me to my fill about the Bronx story. Bronx in a bit after seeing Little Italy, Manhattan, my mind raced a mile about numerous stories I heard about Bronx.
“Take a train at the 41st Street Central Train Station and alight at Gunhill Station, my son will come and pick you,” Ngozi directed.
The expansive New York Central Train station big enough for three large birds to take off swallowed thousands of head disappearing into their trains traversing the sprawling city.
Bob’s your uncle, Bronx, in my wild mind but not with fears borne out of the different mix of stories about the city.
Dunhill Road Station, corrupted from Gunhill, yours’ truly mistakenly unheard from Ngozi struck as a mistake as settled down into a standing position in the crowded coach.
A quick eye search on the screen showing the train station stops bore no Dunhill Road Station sign neither was Gunhill.
Could we have been on the wrong train, I feared, in the confusing, highly-populated city?
“Dunhill train station, huh”? African-American passenger fired back at me, as I asked helplessly.
“Ain’t nothing like Dunhill bro, we got Gunhill, Gunhill you meant bro?
I knew he was right but couldn’t communicate Ngozi as the WIFI connection in the train hardly saw my phone.
“You guys gonna have to change train in the next three stations to connect Gunhill after four stops,” he helped.
Settling in and warming our seats just three minutes after we hit platform, Gunhill Station was breathing on the electronic display on the train’s roof.
Signs of reliefs from the eight-team contingent was uniform as we were only berthing in Gunhill in a few.
Alighting from the station emptied us into the arms of group of fierce-looking Jamaican green grocers at the train entrance.
We arrived before schedule and had to wait for Ngozi’s son to pick us.
Jamaicans and the ugly stories I have read and watched in the movies about them?
Was that what Gunhill was all about? Violence, rival drug gang attacks and arms deal as the name suggested?
Did Kingston and Montego Bay dump half of their population here?
How long were going to wait for the son to arrive with our kids looking very tired?
A walk down the street revealed Gunhill was full of the Caribbeans whose stalls lined a long stretch of the buildings on every side.
Admiring it turned out to be yours’ truly busied fingers on the phone camera enjoying quick succession of clicks backgrounding the Caribbeans.
Asking a female Jamaican hustler the appropriate place to wait for our hosts, coincided with Ngozi’s son appearing on foot from the park to get us.
We were headed to the Co-Op City, a rich Bronx neighbourhood with residential high-rise buildings housing different upper class Americans and other nationals.
A 30-minute drive separated us from the lower class Gunhill area to the beautiful Co-Op City.
Dinner served, sleep next and exit Co-Op City in the morning.
Port Authority Manhattan, next and Greyhound found the road route to Delaware.
