
Entry #25.3 / 17th July 2022
It took me a good ten minutes to put on the rollerblades, put my items into a locker, and slowly make my way.
Okay, I officially think these rollerblades are a bit too small, I thought as I attempted to wiggle my toes inside them. Despite this, though, I decided against getting a new pair—as I had limited time to do this, and I didn’t want to spend it trying to find the right shoes for this experience.
So, embracing the little bit of foot pain, I made my way onto the rink.
“Bloody hell,” I breathed out, my feet unstable enough that I had to reach and cling to the barriers around the rink. “Okay, maybe this is another thing to put on the list of bad choices.” That fleeting comment seemed to ignite stubborn motivation as I pushed onwards.
I lost count of how many times I fell. Whether backwards on my ass or forwards on my knees, each fall got more and more painful. And in response, I couldn’t stop laughing. And not even in my usual high, uneven pitch. It was a stomach-crunching, bone-wired laughter. Something that was an unstoppable force that couldn’t – and shouldn’t – be contained.
It mirrored something that a younger, naïve and purely gold-haired version of myself held once upon a time.
A laugh that sang of childhood happiness.
‘Up! Up! Up!’ The bright voice vibrated when I fell on my ass once more. ‘UP! UP! UP!’
Continuing to laugh, I managed to pull myself up and rollerblade onwards.
As I began to feel more confident about it, I raised my head more, taking in the scene before me. I saw adults and children within the rink—the children holding more confidence than any of us adults and the adults trying to match that confidence but failing miserably. But there was nothing bad, nothing negative, no cons. It was just… joyfulness—a childlike joyfulness that I had long forgotten what it felt like.
A joyfulness that you didn’t care what people thought about you or how ridiculous you appear. The childhood joyfulness of innocence.
As I stumbled once more, I couldn’t believe where I was—that I was in America, in Philadelphia, rollerblading. All those childhood daydreams that helped me escape the prison of my upbringing suddenly became a reality.
When that realization hit me, it opened the floodgates to all these wavering emotions, and I burst out into more laughter.
‘Knew you could do it!’
***
I spent a bit longer on the rollerblade rink than I should’ve, but it was well worth the hurry afterwards and the already forming bruises.
Despite my extremely limited time, I managed to get food and drink from a nearby Starbucks for the bus journey.
Ten minutes before it’s supposed to take off, it is not even at the station yet.
So, was all the hurry for nothing?
Once the bus arrived and I was able to get on board, I felt a wave of sadness hit me. I had such a good time in Philadelphia that I didn’t want to leave yet. There was so much to still do here as well—the Museum of Art, Rodin Museum… I didn’t have the time to do it all, and the disappointment in that fact was deflating.
Next time.
I smiled at the promise I made as the bus kicked into gear and began its hourly journey to NYC.
***
The journey back to NYC from Philadelphia was a lot less hectic and time-consuming than the journey from Washington, D.C. However, that was surprising because as soon as I hit the streets of NYC from the bus station, it was such a crowded time that it rivalled the Independence Weekend.
It was so busy that I had one anxious thought shouting through my brain.
I’m gunna get robbed.
I probably looked like a madwoman – pretty much sprinting all the way to Grand Central. But the crowds were freaking me out, and I needed to get out of the heart of it. And just like I thought and hoped, the crowds lessened the closer I got to Grand Central.
“Thank god…” I breathed out a few steps into Grand Central, bending slightly and my hands clasped against my knees.
‘On the bright side! You’re now getting so familiar with the New York City streets that you hardly looked at the ever-trusting Google Maps.’
Hurrah for small victories.
***
Despite the fact that it was so busy in the heart of NYC and, thus, would make Grand Central much less busy, I was surprised to find how much less busy it was. Well, it was still busy, but not as busy as the first weekend I came to NYC and certainly not as busy as Times Square.
With this, when I needed to get the train to Pleasantville, I got a slice of pizza and a drink from the canteen area of Grand Central.
As I ate, I was transported to a younger version of myself. Fifteen-year-old Rose, stuffing down a similar slice of pizza, taking in the mass beauty of Grand Central for the first time, and pointing out all the unique elements to Cornelia. Laughing and joking around with other kids as the teachers tried to speed up the eating process.
Smiling uncharacteristically widely, I threw my rubbish in the nearest bin and made my way to the train, which was patiently awaiting all its passengers. Once seated and music blaring in my ears, the train took off for Pleasantville.
And back to the world of Camp America.