This entry is not about phlegm

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One year ago today I was just home from a great trip to NYC. Without even unpacking, I settled down on my chesterfield and enjoyed a great big swig of the Liquid Tylenol I had purchased at Duane Reade and smuggled home. There is nothing like this stuff, I swear to you; it lets you breathe and sleep horizontally and go seven whole minutes without erupting into coughing spasms. As someone who has endured bouts of bronchitis their entire life, ones that leave lesser men weeping in a puddle of their own phlegm, you can trust me when I endorse a product, yessirree.

That, however, is simply an aside and will not be the central theme of this entry. (Yes, I hear the chorus of hallelujahs: pipe down now and listen, children.)

It was early-ish Sunday morning after a party the night before. I pulled on some track pants and a sweater and crept quietly out the door so as not to awaken my roommates who were sleeping off the alcohol, the dancing and the wild karaoke of a few hours ago. The hotel lobby was bustling; full of people lined up at the concierge desk, luggage racks rolling to and fro. To the left, a restaurant overflowed with patrons.

Feeling horribly underdressed; I quickly ducked into the lovely restroom to enjoy the numerous amenities in that one small room. It�s amazing that they cram chairs and occasional tables into the ladies room; I guess in case the woman that�s �required� to accompany you doesn�t have to go and would rather not just loiter in front of the tray of soaps, hand creams and perfumes on the counter. I suspect I walked out of there prettier thanks to all that product.

That done, I made a beeline for the complimentary Sbux coffee located to the right of the bar. Teeny tiny cups, man! More in the manner of a shot glass, honestly. I tossed one back, refilled and tossed again. It was at that point I figured it would be rude to just stand there doing that until I had ingested the equivalent of a Venti, so I gave up and tried to figure out what the fuss in the restaurant was all about. Turns out almost everyone had their eyes turned upward at the large screens, watching some sort of Indy/F1 nonsense.

Not interested in the least, I decided to make my way out to find a real coffee and a paper. I certainly didn�t have far to go, half a block actually. The only problem came when I tried to cross the street: there were 36,000 people in my way! See, the NYC Marathon was gearing up and everyone was participating in a Parade of Muscles and Sinew in anticipation of the main event, happening a bit later in the day.

Looking down the street there were runners as far as the eye could see. It was almost absurdly surreal - something I�ll probably never see again but also something I�ll never forget as long as I live. And of course I had been so single-minded in my hunt for caffeine as to leave my camera behind�I still kick myself for that error in judgement.

People were running, walking or traipsing along in their running gear or costumes, asking the local constabulary along the way if they would pose for pictures with them. Everyone almost seemed drunk, whether it was on the endorphins or the fellowship or the fact that they were actually participating in a NYC Marathon in the Big Apple. It was something to watch.

I waited until the absolute last of the stragglers had passed before I crossed over to pick up my coffee and crossword. By the time I came out of the store, traffic had resumed and all trace of the events of 10 minutes before had dissipated like the steam rising up from the manhole covers at my feet.

I cannot believe it�s been a year. I have many memories of that city and the people who came together from near and far to break bread and laugh and dance and sing with me.

Still, I believe the memory with the most staying power will be the one this country girl found alone in the heart of New York City.

Posted at 2:48 p.m.