When I get dressed up, I still look like something that just fell off the turnip truck. This was at its worst on our recent trip to New York City, which is a heck of a lot different from my small New England town. Besides how I looked and behaved, the trip was a disaster. My husband Bob was sick and I was my lunatic self.

When we got off the train at Penn Station, it felt like we were in one of those video arcade games that goes faster and faster as you try to dodge cars or terrorists. And Bob, feeling very flu-ish, had an attack of coughing.

Anxiously, I watched maniacal taxi drivers careening around curves, missing other cars by a hair. When we were about to get in a cab, I looked at the tiny back seat, saw the grate separating the passengers from the driver, and had the first full blown panic attack I’ve had in years. “I can’t do it,” I said to Bob, who responded with compassion. We started to walk to our hotel.

Other than the subway, you can’t get around New York without taking cabs. I had to face my fear. Bob, pointing a finger straight up in a John Travolta Saturday Night Fever pose, hailed one.

“Can I sit in front?” I asked the driver.

“If you have a disability,” he said.

“I’m neurotic.”

“Sorry.”

I forced myself inside and learned for the thousandth time that to do what you want, you don’t need to wait until you’re calm. Otherwise it may never happen. You can still be a nervous wreck and accomplish your goal at the same time.

New York City’s saving grace is the food. We found Reuben’s, the home of the original Reuben sandwich. They served it as a gigantic pie with layers of rye bread, Russian dressing, corned beef, sauerkraut and Swiss cheese. After Bob threw up, we hobbled to the hotel, a fancy Park Avenue Sheraton. We schlepped through the lobby. I had Reuben flotsam on my left shoe. People uncomfortably looked away.

Bob’s cold got worse. In bed I whispered, “Want to go back tomorrow?”

“No,” he said, sneezing. “You’ve talked about this trip for a year.”

I know my husband. He was doing this for my sake. “I really want to go home,” I said.

“Oh, I do too.” He breathed a stuffy sigh of relief.

Now, even when he’s sick, Bob is still suave. And as I’ve indicated, I’m a dork. At the station the next morning, I wandered around the food courts. Worried about thieves, I had my purse and my travel bag criss-crossed over my chest. I was wearing a giant winter coat of Bob’s, on which years ago I had Wearguard embroider as a joke, “BIG BOB.” 

I found him talking to a tall gorgeous woman who was standing about 6 inches away, laughing and tossing back her hair. She didn’t take her eyes off of him.

“They’ve got soft pretzels here!” I said, approaching them, pieces of pretzel blowing out of my mouth. I was limping from the weight of my bags. There was a big glob of mustard on my coat. They both turned to me. Bob smiled adoringly. The woman was aghast. “And Nathan’s!” I shouted. “Want a wiener?” Grinning with glee, I held up a hot dog. I had relish in my teeth. The woman slowly backed away, did an about-face and high-tailed it.

Nobody sat near us on the train ride home. Bob was blowing his nose and I was picking wiener bits off my chest.

I stared out the window as the train chugged along. The towering buildings of New York became oh-so-soothingly replaced with small gray shingled homes; the sidewalks changed to swaying beach grasses and the skylines turned to lovely seascapes.

Lulled by the tranquil rhythm, we fell asleep in each other’s weary arms.

And at least for now - these vagabond shoes  . . .  aren’t longing to stray.