On September 20 I wrote about my upcoming trip to New York—and we did it! It was a whirlwind tour, with17-year-old Bete, 14-year-old Benj, and their ancient tour guide (82-year-old me), covering as much ground as we could in seven days.

What struck me on this trip, as well as previous trips, was the kindness and friendliness of people we encountered.

This trip would not have been possible without the hospitality of my friend Martin Rosenthal, who put us up in his apartment at the far eastern end of Queens.

We flew out of Portland on Tuesday, 10/20, and changed planes in DC. I was having difficulty bringing up our boarding passes on my cell phone so I approached the gate agent, a woman in hijab. “Salaam alaikum,” I said.

“Alaikum salaam,” she replied, and asked if I had been in the Middle East.

I told her I’d stayed with a Muslim family in Indonesia, where they taught me to pray in Arabic, and then recited a couple of those prayers. She gave me a warm smile and printed out the passes for me.

Martin picked us up at La Guardia. For the whole trip he very generously drove us around when he could. Whenever he wasn’t available to drive us places, we took the bus from his apartment to the last stop on the F train and rode it into Manhattan. We spent a lot of time on the subway.

The morning after we arrived Martin drove us to the Bronx High School of Science, where the alumni association had asked me to address the students. About 100 youngsters filled the lecture room.

I told them about my first year at the school, about the daily round trip from Brooklyn (three hours on the subway), about abruptly losing all my junior high school friends and being thrown into the highly competitive atmosphere of Bronx Science. I told them I had been thinking of suicide—until my trigonometry teacher noticed my despondency, referred me for therapy, and saved my life. “And if any of you are having similar problems,” I said, “reach out. You are not alone.” That, I think, was the most important part of my talk.

Then I spoke about what it was like being gay before Stonewall, and what the Gay Liberation Front did to change the things. The students were all very attentive, and asked questions.

I told them what I always tell young people: study history. Learn from our successes and our mistakes. But we can’t tell you how to repair the world, anymore than our predecessors could tell us—you’ll have to figure it out yourselves.

Afterward the women from the alumni association gave me some souvenirs, all with school’s name imprinted on them. My favorite is the baseball cap.

From there Martin and the kids and I went to one of my childhood hangouts, the Bronx Zoo. As I wrote in the September 20 post, admission is free on Wednesdays if you reserve tickets in advance. However, you have to pay extra for certain exhibits. Bete and Benj wanted to see the Congo Gorilla Forest, so I shelled out the $28.

We old folks followed the kids around, from apes to zebras. After admiring Ringo the Rhino on a National Geographic special, I’d joked with Sylvia about wanting a pet like him, but abandoned that fantasy once I saw a couple of them in person—each the size of a small truck and weighing over two tons.

By the end of the day I was bushed. I’d been on my feet for four hours, trying to keep up with teenagers taller than I am. Martin, who is only 68, was doing better.

 On Thursday I took the kids to another favorite hangout, the Museum of Natural History. No freebies there—$67 to get in, and $30 for sandwiches in the cafeteria. We saw stuffed versions of some of the same animals we’d seen the day before, as well as the skeletons of some extinct varieties. I followed the young’uns for most of it, then took a break while they ran around the upper floors.

With plenty of daylight left we walked into Central Park and south to Times Square, then back north a little ways, huffing along for another two miles. The three of us would start at a corner and soon the kids would be half a block ahead of me while I tried to spot them through the crowds. If they came to a green light at the corner, they’d keep going; if it was red I’d generally be able to catch up with them before they started ambling forth again.

They loved Times Square—the flashing displays eight stories high, the people in costumes, the stores full of souvenirs that they browsed through but couldn’t afford.

On Friday I took them to Coney Island and the New York Aquarium. Since it wasn’t peak season, at the Aquarium we got away with a mere $87.85 for the three of us. We all fell in love with the sea otter, but despite its more manageable size, I couldn’t figure out how to keep one as a pet.

Then we strolled along the boardwalk, past the parachute jump and other rides, the roller coasters still running with passengers screaming in delight, while I shared my memories of summer days: a million people at the beach, the sand covered with blankets, Dad snoozing on one, and me threading my way between each family’s few square feet of territory until I got to the water.

Just before heading along the streets and back to the subway, I picked up a most precious souvenir: a few spoonfuls of fine white Coney Island sand.

On Saturday we took the Circle Line around Manhattan—$156 for the three of us. You’re not allowed to bring food on board but must purchase from their concession stand, so before boarding we picked up lunch at a deli and ate it on the pier.  

We sat on the upper deck, next to an elderly woman in a sari who didn’t speak English. Her son, next to her, was completely fluent—he had a job in Pennsylvania and had brought Mom over for a vacation. When we passed Miss Liberty, he said, “This country was built by immigrants.” I nodded agreement and told him about my family.

“But,” I added, “some people need to be deported: Trump, Vance, Musk, Hegseth. We should do it nicely, though. Build them a cruise ship. A rocket ship.” I pointed upward. “To Mars.”

He translated for his mother, she replied in Hindi, and they both laughed. “She wants to send [Prime Minister Narendra] Modi with them,” he explained.

As I wrote at the beginning, there are kind and friendly people all over. They just rarely reach the top.

On the way off the boat I noticed a sign that read:

New York is the most expensive city in the world.

False.

It’s tied for No. 1 with Singapore. Sunday was the event at the Stonewall National Monument Visitors Center. I’ll tell you about that in the next post.