On my way to Queens.,

Happiness has many nuances and in the most unexpected moments it is possible to make happy, without thinking, people who cross our path for various reasons. Our apartment became the place to build our future existential satisfaction. It was essential to have a place that would allow us to give and receive tranquility. The new home had a very nice large space with a special light and an exterior patio that gave it a particular charm despite being located below street level and not touching the clouds of Manhattan. There was a kitchen with cabinets, a stove, a fridge, and a small table with two chairs, but the remaining void had to be filled. We humans are afraid of physical and personal emptiness and spend our years yearning for a life enriched by emotional and spatial symmetry.

Speaking of happiness, Billy’s mother was the happiest person in the universe when she heard the news that her son’s friends had rented a remodeled basement in Queens. Mrs. García had been a poor woman when she was young and since we were not of her same social class, she assumed we were two women who were a little conceited. The sooner we got out of her house, the better. It probably bothered her that we spoke English a language that after thirty years she still did not know, or she resented that we invited the Garcia battalion to eat at the Burger King only once. Perhaps we were reminding her of her past and the difficulties she went through as an immigrant, and it seemed unfair to her that we had more privileges than she had in the same circumstances. I will never know exactly why she did not like us because the day we left her house was the last time I saw her. The only thing I can add is that our departure generated well-being for everyone. Her refusal to welcome us catalyzed our independence and taught us again that life likes to give lessons and may take a different turn no matter what plans we have.

Despite everything, the lady gave us a large blanket and two pillows before we left which she packed in three bags from a clothing store called Banana Republic; she hug us with a strong embrace of sincere happiness while his son went back and forth putting our baggage in his Wrangler and he snuck out a gallon of water, a liter of milk, a bottle of cooking oil, a box of cookies, a carton of eggs, a small bottle of Nescafé and some sugar and salt as supplies for our breakfast the next day. Billy put all the groceries in two cardboard boxes, surprising us again with his generosity and his willingness to take care of us in a huge city that could swallow us alive. Touring an unfamiliar city as tourists is easier than living in it permanently. We all tucked inside the Jeep with the «menage». A great smile of relief was drawn on the face of the matriarch Garcia when she saw us leaving, although I thought I had seen in her eyes a maternal flash that augured good luck in silence. She knew for sure what was waiting for us in the cement jungle.

At this point we had been in the Big Apple for four days and my friend and I had not yet called our parents to tell them that everything was going well. The first thing that our dear protector had warned us was that we could not use the phone in his house to make calls to Colombia. It was an established rule that applied for the whole family and guests of the Garcia’s residence to avoid astronomical numbers on the phone bill because at that time there were no special promotional plans to call abroad and any call outside of the United States will cost an arm and a leg.

At that time there were three possibilities to call Colombia. We could buy a phone card that came with a special international access number that was dialed from a landline, to get at least thirty quarter coins to make a short call from a pay phone or to go to an establishment that had telephone booths like those that existed in the past at the National Telecommunication Office to make long-distance calls. We opted for the latter option and Billy who knew every way exited from the main highway to enter the Jackson Heights neighborhood where a large majority of Hispanics lived. It looked like a faithful replica of the disorganization and chaos of downtown Bogotá or any other Latin American city. The neighborhood blew my mind because it was totally different from what we had seen in Manhattan and in the residential neighborhoods of Long Island. In Jackson Heights, it didn’t look like we were in New York, but it felt like we were in a busy commercial area in Colombia or India. What impressed me the most was the deafening noise that the metro was making when traveling on a structure of greenish metal located above the streets. The raucous sound of the train passing every fifteen minutes, the jammed traffic and the flow of people coming down the subway stairs to join the hundreds of passers-by was an unparalleled spectacle worthy of a film. The smell of food, the smoke from the tail pipes of the cars, the voices of the pedestrians, the sirens of the police cars and the ambulances, and the music coming from food kiosks and the automobiles with stereo equipment were part of an unforgettable experience. Jackson Heights was a little piece of the land we had left behind, which I did not like at all that day, but that later became the place I would visit from time to time if I felt melancholy and longed to get lost in the disorder and the typical traditions of my culture to reconnect with my homeland. Nothing like eating fritters, arepas with cheese, paisa tray with beans, rice and grounded meat topped with an egg and accompanied by pork rinds or fried plantains to be happy again.

As I waited in the booth for the operator to pass on the call to inform my family that we were sound and safe, time stopped for a moment, and I felt myself floating in a third dimension between progress and underdevelopment living together within a powerful country. It lasted only some seconds, but it was strange. At the end of the conversation, I warned my dad and the rest of the family not to wait for a call for a few days as we did not have a phone in the apartment. I would contact them again once we had a phone line to communicate with the outside world. When we finally arrived at our new home, Ana Maria, the owner, handed us the keys and offered us an iced tea with lemon. Once again, Billy helped us carry the luggage, boxes, and bags to our new home and after talking to us briefly he got ready to leave. He was exhausted from driving around and had a long trip home. When we said goodbye, we double kissed his cheek and gave him a hug so tight that we made him smile despite his tiredness. We set up an appointment to meet the next day at eleven in the morning to go shopping for furniture and food.

Around midnight Liliana and I were talking while we rested from the hustle of the day sitting in the kitchen chairs when we heard that someone was knocking on the door that connected the basement with the laundry. It was Ana María who brought us an inflatable mattress so we would not sleep on the floor. She conquered us with her beautiful detail of empathy. She said goodbye to us and left. We took a shower with hot water that made a strange noise when running, a noise that was also heard when opening the sink’s faucet and when discharging the toilet. We inflated the mattress with the cold air of the hair dryer, put our gift blanket as a sheet, accommodated the pillows and fell asleep in the blink of an eye. We woke up around nine in the morning thanks to a bright warm light coming in through the window and we realized we were lying on the bare floor. The mattress had deflated overnight. The air valve had a leak, and the inflatable double bed could not bear the weight of the dreams and illusions of two women newly arrived in Queens.