01/10/05’s illustrious band:

I Heart NY

Brought to you by the General and the Big Apple.

"I have tickets to see Rockapella in Manhattan on January 8. I have an extra. I think you should come."

So read the e-mail I got from the General, Pen Pal Numero Uno, a couple weeks before Christmas. Once I cleaned up the puddle under my chair, I wrote back to say OK, I'd go. It was as simple as that.

I rolled out of bed at the ungodly hour of 3:45 a.m. on Saturday, Jan. 8, to shower and eat before catching a Super Shuttle ride to the airport. It was supposed to arrive by 4:55 a.m. but did not, so I called them. Turns out the driver had had a problem of some kind and they'd been trying to call me, but I had given them my cell phone number and the phone was not turned on. Oops! They sent a cab instead, and I was off and running. Well, more like dozing. But I was off.

I arrived at the airport early enough for a nap and caught several more ZZZs on the plane, so I was wide awake by the time we landed at La Guardia. Never having visited New York City before, I was all agog. I had plenty of time to gog as the shuttle wound its way through Manhattan, dropping off other passengers on the way to the General's bunker on the Upper West Side. The route included Park Avenue, Broadway, and Central Park, so I got half my tour out of the way before even reaching her front door.

The General lives on what might as well be Sesame Street, a narrow byway lined with multistory prewar brownstones with worn steps and pigeons out front. Nervously I pressed the buzzer to gain admittance to her building. We had never met in person before, so I had first-date jitters. My fears proved groundless, however, as the General gave me a warm welcome.

I'd had plenty of warning that the apartment, while marvelously located, was very small. I soon discovered that what she meant by "very small" was very small. As in 10 x 15 feet small, plus a loft/shelf for her mattress. Futon and closet along one wall, junior-sized kitchen (sink, stove, fridge, cupboards) and fold-down table along the other. Window; ceiling fan; done. Bathroom? Down the hall and to the right, shared with other residents of that floor. Me? Suddenly very, very large. Good thing I packed light. The necessity to stack belongings inside and on top of one another has lead the General to christen her digs the Jenga apartment, like the game in which you try to remove strips of wood from a stack without toppling the whole tower.

Actually, I liked the apartment quite a bit. It was cozy, but everything was within reach. There's something comforting about a room that has its arms around you like that, especially in a big scary city like New York. Plus, we didn't plan to spend my whole 48 hours in town tripping over each other in there. As soon as I'd tossed my bag under the table, we donned hats against the drizzle and hit the streets.

And what streets they are. I expected to be wigged out by the hustle and bustle, such a contrast to my quiet suburban existence, but I wasn't. There was a lot of foot traffic because there were actual stores people could walk to -- stores that weren't part of huge conglomerate chains, nor housed in flat, fat sprawls devoted to the automobile. Or perhaps the people were walking the few blocks from the handy public transportation to their apartments, stacked neatly above the shops. My home metro area lacks anything resembling this kind of urban planning, so I was fascinated by the contrast.

Also, New Yorkers are friendlier than Minnesotans. Sorry, but it's true. Aware of the need to get along with their elbow-to-elbow neighbors, New Yorkers, or at least Manhattanites, have decided that cordiality is the way to keep things moving smoothly. Which means that they'll actually make eye contact and speak to you. I've lived in Minnesota for 11.5 years without feeling any similar sense of community. Nobody got up in my face as we strolled up Broadway, but they didn't pretend I didn't exist simply because we hadn't know each other since preschool, either. In fact, I had a rather lengthy discussion about Brazilian voting laws with a woman who sold me some postcards, the General gave a lost lady directions to the subway, and the waiter at a café we visited twice recognized us on the second visit. That was refreshing.

After a just-right diner lunch and chat about our favorite band, we returned to the apartment. We had intended to go back out for some more sightseeing, but never quite got around to it, opting instead to continue the gabfest. And check e-mail, of course. We're both such geeks! The General checked her mail while I called Mom to let her know I'd arrived safely, and I checked mine while she returned a call. It was a perfectly normal and natural part of the day for both of us, kind of like the siesta is in some cultures. What does that make our tech break, an e-esta?

Then it was time to pretty up for the concert. I've caught a bit of flack for traveling all that way just to see a little ol' Rockapella concert, but here's the deal: I didn't travel all that way just to see a Rockapella concert. I went to see my friend the General, and the city, and some other online buddies, and Sean Altman's Sunday night performance . . . and Rockapella. The concert itself was the icing on a very rich cake.

We arrived at the venue in good time, thanks to an expedient cab ride, and found our seats right away. (Actually, we found somebody else's seats on the first go, thanks to the usher. D'oh!) They were toward the top of the smallish house, a better distance from the stage than either of us had been at previous concerts, and we could see everything perfectly.

Then I spotted another e-friend, Six, down front and trotted off to introduce myself. This turned out to be the rosette on the icing on my cake, as we ended up visiting not only after the show, but before and after the following night's performance as well. It's always dicey mixing cyberlife with real life, but we all got along great in person. Much more common ground than not. I now think of Six and the General as my home away from homegirls. I had hoped to see Lexi there, too, but didn't

The concert was fantastic. The meet and greet was fun, too. Click here for details.

After the meet and greet, the General and I bid Six farewell and hit the bricks in search of a nightcap. We ended up near Times Square at a little pub called the Film Society, where I drank, as I had promised myself I would, a Manhattan in Manhattan. We hoofed it back to the apartment, since it really wasn’t far, and spent far too much time comparing favorite web sites late into the night.

Tomorrow: The real, the surreal, and a toast to new friends

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