The Outsiders

I took my first business trip last week. I joined 11 co-workers and we boarded a plane bound for Jacksonville, Florida. It was a three-day, two-night break from the cold, rainy weather plaguing New York the week prior.
This was my first trip as a “New Yorker,” and it was pretty funny. First of all, New Yorkers where a lot of black. In New York, you don’t really notice, but when you visit somewhere like Florida, where the general population is adorned in various shades of pastel, our look suddenly appears rather somber. We definitely stand out. People probably assumed we were either from New York or on our way to a funeral.
People’s reaction to “New York” is interesting as well. As a group, when a local asked us where we were from, the “New York” came from a representative like a short, staccato gunshot. People would retract immediately, put off from the “big city folk” in their fine town.
“Wheah ah yoah awfices,” they would ask with a smile, the vowels rounded with their southern cadence.
“New Yowak,” would be the reply, big as Manhattan itself. In the city, this would not seem out of place, but out of context it was like taking a bullhorn into a library. As a group our tendency was to intimidate and alienate.
We all took shuttles to the conference center directly from the airport and when the day was done, we had to figure out how to get back to the hotel. We stood in a group, looking at each other for the answer.
“They must have cabs,” Denise said, “let’s just flag one down.”
We waited a while to see the familiar yellow of a taxi service, but nothing turned up.
We started to head over to the city's lone monorail, when Michael suggested that we just walk. That's what he ended up doing. It was a healthy walk, but nothing a typical New Yorker couldn’t handle. New Yorkers are so accustomed to convenient public transportation, they become a bit lost when such a system doesn’t present itself.
When I checked into the hotel, the clerk asked for my office address, since that’s how the reservation was filed. I rattled off “535 5th Ave.”
“5th Avenue,” he said admiringly, “that must be an exciting street to work on!”
I smiled back at him; thrilled that I lived in such an iconic environment. Seeing New York through the local’s eyes made me feel like I lived on a movie set.
We did our best to live up to our reputation as brassy and rude. The second night, we all had dinner in a group and things got loud. In New York, the tendency to crescendo throughout the night is a necessity since wherever you’re enjoying dinner is bound to be crowded and voices naturally raise throughout the evening. In Jacksonville, however, it was just obnoxious.
“I would rather poke out my eyes than live in this hell hole,” someone in our group said in front of the waiter. I wanted to hide under the table.
The three days in Jacksonville were fine. The weather was beautiful, the people were friendly, the air was undoubtedly cleaner, but after the 72nd hour I was anxious to get back to feeling good in my black attire, talking a little louder, and returning to the faster pace of Manhattan. I was anxious to get back home.