I wonder if this is what it’s like for people who remain in their hometown, the way the past and present collide in one moment after another. My brain stumbles, grasps for something to hold as memories pop out of the shadows without warning. I seek for significance, but really, what’s notable isn’t so much what I remember as the emotions triggered — and how unusual such vivid recollection is for me.

I’m driving through Los Angeles, heading south on the 5, a trek I made a zillion times before moving to Humboldt in 1998. Suddenly the rental car vanishes and I’m in my light blue ’73 SuperBeetle, Concrete Blonde’s “Free” blasting from the tape player. I shake my head, clench the steering wheel in hopes of, literally, getting a grip. But in the same way a dream you abruptly wake from lingers, the past fails to completely dissolve.

For Mother’s Day, Chelsea and I have breakfast at Potholder. I open the menu and see “Super Spuds,” the same dish I used to order 20 years ago, when Chelsea and I likely sat in this very same booth. She was two, then, and the waitresses would scoop her up and take her in the kitchen, pour raisins into her outstretched hands. The Potholder was always loud, an easy place to have a toddler. I was such a new mother then. I thought I’d made all my mistakes. I had no idea how much harder life would get.

The next day, we rent bikes, pedal down the beach path. I used to bike that path with her secured in a baby seat on the back. I’d be tired when we arrived at the Children’s Museum, the Farmers’ Market, the free concert on the Promenade, whatever our destination was for the day. She’d be anxious to get out of her seat, to run. She always sought out the action. I had to keep up.

Rounding the block, I wince. I think it was this very neighborhood where Chelsea wandered off one afternoon. We’d been at a friend’s barbeque all day, decided to wrap up, go home. I went into the bedroom to grab our things. I came out and she was gone. A dozen people and no one had noticed her toddle away. We split into search parties, combed the neighborhood. I walked, choking back sobs, sure I had lost my child forever. When we found her, a long five, maybe 10 minutes later, the guy who’d been keeping her safe yelled at me for being such a bad mother. I fell apart as I collected Chelsea into my arms, sure he was right. Bobby came running, saw me bawling, almost punched the guy.

We walk by an empty storefront. The building lacks not only a tenant, but also any sort of care. Peering through dirty windows, I see the abandoned bar, the old counters torn out. No hint of Mama Tina’s Cucina remained. I wonder what ever happened to Mama Tina, to Vito, to the waitress with the twins. The other place I worked, a music-venue-slash-dive-bar was razed shortly after we moved away. “It’s like I never existed,” I say.

I drive down 4th Street and light up to see Portfolio’s still there. I remember when the coffeehouse opened, a mere two blocks from our apartment. They had crayons and paper-covered tables, ideal for plopping my artistic daughter in front of while I ordered a cappuccino. Sometimes the other patrons would roll their eyes, annoyed, I suppose, at their serious works of art rendered obsolete by my daughter’s innocent genius.

The salon next door boasted a banner, “Celebrating 25 years in business!” My bridesmaids and I spent the day getting our hair done before the wedding. I’m not sure I could find the park where the ceremony took place, but I remember the store in front of which we picked out my ring — a guy we knew who imported jewelry from Thailand met us on the sidewalk. Next week, Bobby and I mark 20 years of marriage.

That salon was also the place I had my tarot cards read for the first time. A lark to kill time while waiting for my highlights to develop. I hadn’t told anyone but Bobby I was pregnant again. I hadn’t told anyone how scared I was, how unsure. “You have so much love inside you,” the woman said, looking at the cards I’d pulled. “You’ll have all the love you need.” Insight or luck, I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Those were exactly the words I needed to hear. That tiny moment tweaked my world, colored it with hope that hadn’t existed seconds before. I would have all the love I needed.

She was right.

In the East River Ferry restroom, between three girls who appeared about 10-years old:

“Oooh, I just got a text!”

“Oooh, it’s from your boyfriend!”

“I know this girl who texted a photo, but she left the toilet seat up and you could see it in the background!”

“Text FAIL!”

“Nasty text FAIL!”

In Harlem, from a woman yelling into a cell phone:

“I know I didn’t mean to sound like that! Maybe I do need to change my attitude! But sometimes I am loud!”

At the Keith Haring exhibit:

“It’s just ghetto art as high art.”

At Central Park, immediately after I admired the innocence of the children playing nearby:

(Singing a Peaches song) “I’m gonna suck your – !”

Waiting for the L Train, between two men decked out in Brooklyn Devils biker regalia and a backpack-loaded guy and girl exemplifying the Pacific Northwest traveler cliché:

Bikers: “Does this train go to Brooklyn?” (Did I mention the “Brooklyn Devils” T-shirts and patches covering their bodies?)

Hippies: “Yes!”

Bikers: “Hey, are those toes on your shoes?”

Hippies: “Yes! They’re toe shoes!”

Bikers, impressed: “They work all right then?”

Hippies: “Yes! Once you get used to them. See, they get you using your whole foot in a way regular shoes don’t. They’re amazing.”

Bikers: “Yeah, those seem pretty cool.”

5-8-12

The last day of vacation started out feeling like a lot of work. I couldn’t put off figuring out how to get Nick home or dealing with my own ongoing travel plan adjustments, so I spent an hour, maybe longer, online and on the phone, trying to find the best solutions to a plethora of problems. Too much nonstop screentime agitates me under most circumstances and being stuck on the computer instead of out in the streets of New York prompted me to snap at Nick for not moving quickly enough.

I solved that problem with a ticket to the Empire State Building – he’d been wanting to see the city from up above – and directions on how to get himself there. An hour later I decided I’d done all I could, chatted my brother about meeting for lunch and got myself to Manhattan as well. Nick had met up with Tag at his office, they found me at Madison Square Park, a charming spot of green and trees below the iconic Flat Iron Building.

Asia Dog!

The wind whipping my hair into my face gave Tag pause about where we should eat, as did the impending rain, but I assured him we’re used to weather and so we would up back at the food booths on Madison Square. “Asia Dog!” I exclaimed and closed in on a mango-relished, pickled-onion-slathered tofu option. The guys opted for empanadas. We shared birthday cake truffles from one of David Chang’s restaurants. I read his magazine, Lucky Peach, and yes, the truffles tasted better than actual birthday cake. (My whole New York adventure can be summed up like this: Eat, walk, look, repeat.)

Urged on by the sense we should see as much as possible before leaving, Nick and I opted for the East Village. Our stroll down St. Mark’s place reminded me of walking along Haight Street, tourist traps intermingled with decades-old shops that likely had a fair claim on history.

The drops landing on us without pause sent us back to the train, back to Brooklyn. Before returning to the shelter of the apartment, I had one more stop to make: Dun-Well Doughnuts.

Dun-Well’s vanilla-with-chocolate-sprinkles option.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

Yes.

That need dealt with, I picked up some wine and nearly skipped back to Tag and Jen’s – the joy of being on vacation had settled back in. Or maybe it was a sugar rush.

We wrapped up the evening with the best sushi I’ve ever had – so good, I may be ruined for everything back home – at MoMo’s, plus some particularly crisp sake, followed by more wine back at their place and conversation into the late night. Despite knowing I had to be up for our flight at 4 a.m., reluctance prevented me from going to bed. Once I did, vacation would be over.

5-7-12

The chocolate milk was really good, extra fresh and creamy, and the pastry I bit into flaked apart on my tongue, the sweet fig melding with the sharpness of goat cheese, my regret over spending more money I hadn’t planned to turning into delight that I had. Blue Stove, place of good things. We launched ourselves toward Harlem.

Harlem was Nick’s idea, motivated in connection with a hip hop artist he admires. Or admired – Big L met his end a while back. We weren’t going to the site where he was gunned down, at least not primarily; our mission was to find a particular intersection mentioned in one of Big L’s songs.

I appreciated the pilgrimage aspect, but had reservations. When I lived in Long Beach, and rap and hip hop were bursting into mainstream culture, we used to mock the white kids co-opting the gangsta style in the suburbs. Snoop Dogg and NWA were blowing up, but my scene encompassed grunge and blues, the natural evolution of an adolescence built  primarily on punk and New Wave with a healthy dose of dance floor hits and errant Van Halen tune. I did spend a summer in Berkeley in 1984, which introduced me to break dancing and rapping before it washed into my desert hometown. But enthusiasm for Grandmaster Flash (and later, Run-DMC and LL Cool J) didn’t translate into a love of early-‘90s hip hop. Reminding myself that this was not 1992 South Central – times have changed and younger generations don’t seem to identify with music by genre so much as by liking what they like. I kept my mouth shut about the cultural weirdness of a white kid from NorCal rocking hand gestures on a Harlem street corner, swallowed my qualms and snapped a couple photos of my kid posed below a street sign. Even when a woman striding by hollered out, “What you know about that intersection?!” I didn’t flinch. I wish we’d had more time to explore Harlem properly, but we had plans to meet up with Jen midtown, so after a short stroll, we departed on the train once again.

Before wandering Central Park, we needed food – in addition to the usual fueling, Nick’s blood sugar kept dropping low and I worried he wasn’t eating enough. The Shake Shack provided a solution to that particular problem. “This is the place most often compared to In-and-Out,” Tag noted. I opted for the Portabello burger, which was not only a slab of Portabello mushroom, but a slab of Portobello mushroom stuffed with mozzarella cheese and deep fried. On a bun. Like deep fried mushrooms and mozzarella sticks combined into one single greasy masterpiece. I ravished it – and the crinkle fries that we ordered on the side. I also guzzled down an entire caramel milkshake despite my usual aversion to massive quantities of ice cream. Usually a kid cone satisfies any ice cream craving I have. But this milkshake was too good to leave.

Nick reviewed the burger as “good, definitely better than a typical fast-food one, but not on the level of a Humboldt grass-fed beef burger.”

Smart kid.

Sated, we rambled on through Central Park. Squirrels scampered. Dogs cavorted. Couples rowed adorably around the lake. Tourists posed for photos against trees and castle walls, the lush greenery of the park ringed by skyscrapers in all directions.

The view from one particularly fine spot in Central Park

After Central Park came our first and only disappointment of the trip: We couldn’t get Nick into The Colbert Report. Even VIP tickets weren’t enough to overcome the 18-and-over age restriction. I anguished over attending without him – my excitement in seeing the show dipped considerably as I imagined myself inside, cracking up at Colbert’s jokes, while Nick wandered alone through the darkening city streets. “Mom, just go,” he insisted. After several minutes of hesitation and indecision, he convinced me to take advantage of the opportunity and that he would be fine.

The near-hour wait crammed standing in a holding room with 70 other people didn’t help. I stewed in my worry. Even once we were released to the set and ensconced in our seats, cool air wafting under the hot lights, I couldn’t shake my own distress that this would not be a shared experience.  Once the opening comic started pitching jokes at us, I relaxed a bit. By the time Colbert came out, my guilt had subsided to a manageable ache. The audience had a chance for a Q&A with Colbert out of character.

Memorable questions included, “Um, I’m a filmmaker up in Allentown, uh, do you have any advice for me?”

Colbert: “Get out of Allentown.”

Another person asked if he’d ever accidentally gone somewhere still in the role he plays on the show. At first, Colbert said no, but then remembered. “One time I was working on something as I was driving home and I walked into  my house still in character. My wife took one look and said, ‘Get the fuck out and come back in as my husband.’”

The set fills less space in the studio than on the TV set. The crew moves in and out, changing shots, dabbing make-up, refining lines till the last minute. The production flowed along and we, the audience, the most important part of the show we were reminded several times, laughed our brains out, eager to please Stephen, to provide the energy he needed to magnify his brilliance.

I tamped down the post-show glow and we met back up with Nick, then toured through Grand Central Station. The ceiling looms overhead, grand with painted constellations. The whole place glitters. Marble and brass, wood and gold – Grand Central radiates history. I wondered if a list exists documenting how many movies have scenes filmed there. One of my favorites is the baby carriage scene in The Untouchables, Andy Garcia’s character engaged in a gunfight with Al Capone’s guys, all while a baby carriage clacks and slides toward what looks to be certain doom for the infant inside.

And then we ate again!

This time, Caracas, where they serve arepas and rum juleps so tasty I would’ve happily ingested several of each. We shared plantain chips and guacamole, fried plantains and sips of Nick’s coconut shake. Everything tasted like vacation, as if sun, sea and sugar-fine sand awaited outside. (And when I called the next day, worried we’d left Nick’s glucose meter behind, they searched for it and called back to say no luck. It turned up in his bag, but I appreciated the kindness of their effort.)

Delicious.

5-6-12

We arrived at Coney Island under a blue sky, the first we’d seen since arriving in New York. Apparently back home, warm weather and sunshine has been going on without us; we’ve had mostly gray and drizzle while tripping around Manhattan. Still, we’re in New York! And today, Coney Island!

Despite the sunny Sunday, relatively few people thronged the boardwalk. The only line we faced was the one at Nathan’s, where we started with pretzels and fries. I ordered an almond pretzel, they forgot to make it, I ended up with two pretzels as consolation: a cinnamon-sugar one, crunchy and sweet on the tongue, and a plain salted, still warm and soft.

Before we could get to our first ride, the lure of “Break-a-bottle-win-a-prize!” drew Nick over to a game booth, where he did, in fact, break a bottle and win a prize. After posing for a photo with the purple elephant stuffie, he found someone to give it to. When the little girl realized he was gifting her with this magnificent toy, she flung her arms wide to accept it, then wrapped it up in a tight hug, big grin cracking her face.

Yikes.

That accomplished, we  boarded our first ride, the Soarin’ Eagle. I hadn’t looked at it too closely before buying tickets. It was a rollercoaster and I generally love rollercoasters, so sure, let’s go. This one called for climbing up several rungs and lying prone against the padding, face exposed to the wind, as the safety rails closed on our backs. “Just like that,” the attendant reassured us. Then, clank, the machine lifted us parallel to the ground and moved us like Superman through the air. We spiraled up to the top, encased, shins pressing against the metal bar. I closed my eyes and kept them that way. I opened my mouth to scream a few times, especially when the ride corkscrewed us through the air at high speed. “It’s okay, Mom!” Nick hollered. We yanked to a stop. My shins felt like they’d been kicked. I checked for bruises and we moved on to the silly Steeplechase, where instead of climbing into a car, you ride astride a horse, sort of like a carousel on a track.

The bumper cars offered even more comic relief. The beats pumped as we powered into and around each other, thrilling with each successful aggression. Meanwhile, three of the attendants leapt from car back to car back, hopping off on the center island, then jumping onto the bumper, swinging around on the rail, riding along for a moment before stepping to another car. With the party music thumping, their constant moves made for a near-dance performance and added an extra dimension of excitement. This was no tame bumper car ride – this was a high-energy crash and speed experience! Giggling, we moved on to, at last, the Cyclone.

My kind of rollercoaster. Plain old cars to sit in and wooden rails that shake and moan as you creak up the prelude to the first drop. Everything looks rickety and old, and you can’t help but wonder if this is going to be the moment the aged structure gives out. And then you reach the peak, the cars hang for a split second, long enough to realize you can’t see the tracks, the drop is so steep, and then BOOM, you’re falling down one drop, launching back up, flying down the next, wind smashing your face and flinging your hair, a cacophony of screams packing the air as you rip around a turn so fast you smash into your seatmate and the whole time everything is rattling so hard you can’t believe nuts and bolts aren’t just shaking out of whatever they’re supposed to be keeping together. Suddenly you screech to a dead stop, are jerked forward then back as the coaster rolls you into the loading and unloading zone. Everyone laughs, relieved to be alive.

The rest of the time passed in a happy blur of arcade games, boardwalk strolling and being carried aloft in the Wonder Wheel.

For dinner, we hit L&B Spumoni Gardens, which boasts a crowd straight of a Sopranos or Godfather scene. The dining room was packed. At least three old Italians celebrated birthdays. The waiter would come out bearing a platter of spumoni cones, everyone would sing, the spumoni would be set in front of a small, wrinkled person and all the folks at that table would clap as the celebrant attempted to blow the candles out. Sometimes help was needed. We ordered a Sicilian pie, a pear salad and a bottle of Chianti. Despite been filled by all that, we opted to ask for some spumoni, too. (When in Rome… or anywhere in Italy…)

What arrived was a monument of sweetness. Four cones balanced together into a pyramid, under which stood a mountain of spumoni and on other side of that, a piece of cake. (One cheesecake, one chocolate mousse.) Chocolate syrup and sprinkles decorated along the edges.

Decadence on a platter.

We powered through about 90 percent of the cold, sweet, creamy dessert before admitting we couldn’t finish it all. We returned home, full and tired, and called it a day.

5-5-12

That must be the tour group and sure enough, the skinny young guy in the white track suit, cap and chains turned to us, clipboard in hand, ready to sign Nick in. “The Birthplace of Hip Hop” tour promised a “luxury bus ride” through Harlem and the Bronx to the Graffiti Hall of Fame, the Apollo Theatre and more. We told Nick to have a great time and left for coffee at Eataly.

For breakfast, we strolled, coffee in hand, through the Madison Square food court (which has a better name, I think, but I can’t recall it at the moment). High-end booths featured smoothies, sandwiches, pizza, “Calimexican” and, of course, bagels. Tag chose the paprika-guyere, Jen opted for the something-cheddar, and I decided on the feta-olive. The crisp-soft bread combined with the creamy-salty taste sent me back to bagel heaven. I think if I lived in New York I might just decide the hell with it and let myself get fat on bready delights.

From there, off to St. John the Divine’s Cathedral, a place I stumbled upon during last year’s visit. The Peace Fountain outside displays Michael the Archangel having defeated Satan – you can tell Satan has been defeated by the fact his horned head is hanging off to the side – and cuddling giraffes. All this, on top of a giant crab, representing our origins and connection to the sea, and ringed by grade-school-kid created bronze sculptures, all about the size of coffee mugs, of animals both real and mythical. It is the most wonderful statue in the world, I’m pretty sure.

The coolest sculpture in the world.

The Cathedral itself stands 12 stories high and two football fields long with stained glass windows illuminating everything from traditional God worship to a celebration of sports including bowling and tennis. The organ pipes rise from the second balcony with such grandeur that to hear the organ played must alone cause instantaneous conversions. The purpose of a cathedral is to both honor God and inspire those who attend to worship. I think if I lived in New York, I’d be wholly committed to attending any and all services offered at St. John’s.

It’s an inclusive place – in addition to the Chapels of Tongues, designed to embrace various ethnic groups, the place currently has an exhibit of crayon drawings done by child victims of the earthquake and tsunami that hit Japan last year. The pictures are striking and the interpretive text hits hard. A drawing of a face bleeding red tears was drawn by a young child having recurring nightmares about ghosts after losing so much in the disaster. A drawing of a house being engulfed by a giant wave is self-explanatory, but to read about how the boy kept seeing the image on TV over and over after experiencing it in his own life still triggers an ache of sorrow. A harsh scribble of a gray-brown pile is the result of children trapped in shelters with inadequate facilities, where the need to poop is not easily solved.

After a couple hours of exploring the cathedral, we lit out for the north end of Central Park. Birds flitted, children played, couples picnicked on the green field between pond and stream… the scene could’ve been a painting from a time when all was right with America. Not that such a time has existed, but the tapestry of joyfulness reminded me that despair is a useless emotion and prompted a little more faith that things just might turn out okay.

We met Nick post-tour – smashing success. Raheim of The Furious Five led the tour, did “The Message” live on the bus, they met Doug E. Fresh, etc., etc. We continued the food goodness with sandwiches from the No. 7 Sub Shop. Mine involved roasted broccoli on a toasted bun with some extraordinary aioli – delicious, especially eaten in a park, Flat Iron building prettifying one end of the view and the people-watching engaging in the other.

In the evening we bussed over to the Brooklyn Museum of Art for the Target Free First Saturday event. The description included an interesting selection of art and music offerings, but the promise of exploring a rooftop art exhibit most intrigued us. Of course, free events tend to result in a crowd and this was no different, so getting to the exhibit meant smashing into an elevator after a long wait. But to go on the roof? This was going to be good.

We exited the 5^th floor as instructed to find… a roof. Not a staircase leading up to the roof of the museum, but an actual constructed roof, upon which we were invited to climb. After the initial disappointment, we all enjoyed walking, running, posing and otherwise making good use of the peaked and shingled display.

Not the roof we expected. Still fun.

After checking out the Keith Haring exhibit, which included a memorable moment of a mom telling her approximately eight-year-old daughter to, “Slow down and look at the art!” before realizing a few seconds later that the art she was instructing her daughter to look at consisted primarily of cartoon penises engaging in various sex acts, we opted to find a place for dinner.

The first couple blocks outside the museum offered nothing intriguing, but then we came upon Kimchi Tacos, which looked cute and tasty, and where my brother recognized a friend. This friend immediately raved about the place, so we ordered up a variety of kimchi tacos and, oh, wow, what a new and sublime taste experience. Someone needs to do this in Arcata.

Back at the museum we alternated between a band featuring a violin, cello, drums and beatbox vocals –if that’s the right term – and DJ Spooky spinning outside in the parking lot. DJ Spooky’s set served up the beats and inspired some booty-shaking, but no one danced better than a group of kids who had such hot moves that the rest of us stood around amazed, camera and cell phones out to capture the wonder.

New York overflows with wonders, expected and not. I’m grateful to experience this.

5-4-12

“Cinnamon raisin with walnut raisin, toasted.” Oh, New York bagels. I love you. My order prompted praise from the bagel guy.

“Walnut raisin is the best thing in the world,” he said about the cream cheese spread. “Well, if you go to our other shop, they have maple raisin and oh, wow…”

“I love maple,” I responded, and we both spaced out for a moment, equally lost in contemplation of maple’s wondrous goodness.

After bagels, Nick and I traipsed to the postal services place on Graham because although I managed to get everything ready to mail, I failed to actually mail three important things before leaving. This, when I work across the street from the post office in Arcata. I believe the very convenience of the post office works against me; if I can go there any time, procrastinating is easier.

In any case, mission accomplished and I could get back to the pleasures of exploring New York. Today’s adventure began on Staten Island, a place where Nick, a Wu-Tang fan, was keen to go.

Ready to board the ferry.

The weather forecast had called for possible thunderstorms and a thick haze lay over the city as we pulled away on the ferry. Still, we could see the Statue of Liberty looming from her island, tiny people circling the statue’s base. The ferry is free, runs 24 hours a day and offers a scenic ride. With that and the $29 unlimited Metro pass, getting around New York for a week is a bargain. Which is key, since I’m trying to do this town on about $60 per day for the both of us.

Staten Island! It’s not a tourist stop much beyond the ferry, nevermind what the big “Welcome to Staten Island” map that greets you would have one believe. We set out on the Escalade, the path that runs along the water, figuring we’d stumble upon the touted “historical district.” Again, great views. Also, goslings. We never found the historical district, but we did loop around through the projects as the sun popped out. Staten Island surprised me with the amount of greenery surrounding a business district comprised primarily of discount stores, nail salons and pizza shops. Two pit bull owners out for a walk shouted their conversation over the dogs’ incessant barking. A woman in a green velour track suit with dyed red hair hustled across the street gabbing into her cell phone, “Oh, yeah? Well, what she needs is to…” She moved too fast. I’ll never know.

Hoping for Ryan Gosling, but these cuties made my day!

We continued our public transportation-themed day with a trip out to Roosevelt Island via skytram. The island itself is pretty with an interesting history, but Nick’s blood sugar had dropped low, so all we did was kick back for a few while he had a (godawful, overpriced) soft serve ice cream drowned in pseudo-cherry sauce. As we boarded the tram for the return trip, a dozen four-year-olds flooded around us. “Let’s sit in the back!” they exalted, cramming together on the bench in the rear of the car, poised to take in the view, which, since we were still in the station, was the tram’s infrastructure, about a foot outside the glass.

Once we chugged into motion, their excitement grew.

“Look at the people! They’re like ants!” a boy cried.

“We’re floating in the air!” another boy shouted.

“Actually, there’s wires,” a girl reprimanded him.

“Is that a whirlpool?” a girl asked, pointed to a circular patch in the river. The girl who’d corrected the boy about the wires again spoke up with authority. “Yes. Oh! If we fall, we’d better hope there’s not a whirlpool! If there is, we’re in trouble!”

Roosevelt Island skytram

Nick and I suppressed our giggles and headed back toward Brooklyn for a slice and our home-away-from-home. Four men strolled through the train, performing an impressive version of “Down By the Boardwalk.” I dropped a dollar in their donation bag.

(Note to self: Get more cash. Most places we’re getting food and drinks are cash only. Of course, since I switched from Chase — which has branches all over New York — to Coast Central, I’m sucking up ATM fees every time. Unsure of a solution to this problem.)

We both spaced the Union Square exit. I realized my mistake when I noticed the train was emptying rather than filling, an odd reversal considering it was after 5 p.m. So we had to get off the train, walk around to the other side, get back on, catch the right stop, make the transfer — all told, we spent about 50 minutes underground. I was ready for fresh air and a slice, and so we popped into Carmine’s, where I opted for roasted veggie and Nick ordered chicken and bacon with a side of ranch (thank you, Big Pete’s).