Driving Mr. McDermott VI: Re-starting (again)

For the first time in months, I spent most of my Saturday behind the wheel of a certain green Toyota Tercel, not much unlike this:

Yes, I re-started my driving lessons (again), a process I began nearly one year ago. Why do I think it’s acceptable to function on the scale of geologic time? Regardless, my hiatus is over—though it was not without its consequences: namely, forgetting how to drive. Fortunately, Mandy reminded me as I walked out the door that the gas is on the right, and the brake on the left. Sure, this got me down the block with my stalwart teacher, Walter, but what would happen at the next intersection—let alone, in traffic?



Well, I can proudly report that neither my passenger nor I was harmed in the afternoon of driving all over Hudson County. Left to my own designs as to route, I took us down familiar streets (and dead-ends) as I toured the old training ground, Liberty State Park, and its nearby waterfront neighborhoods (and industrial parks.) By the luxury condos of Port Liberté I regained my parallel parking prowess, without so much as incurring a dent, scratch, or scornful glance from the community security guard. Between his instructive remarks*, Walter entertained me with stories from a Manhattan movie set where he’d spent the better part of the week rubbing elbows with celebrities as a “background artist.” As he told me about a fellow extra’s ignorance of north Jersey’s cultural and recreational attractions, I learned that I myself knew nothing of the alleged Hoboken beach. And off we went—looking for sun, surf … or at the very least, sand.

After cruising the waterfront boulevard known as Frank Sinatra Drive (twice!), we consulted a Hoboken police captain in Walter’s cellphone contact list. He confirmed that we’d driven by the  boathouse—twice—that marks the beach and boat launch right next to the Maxwell Place condos (named after the iconic Maxwell House coffee plant that had stood on that site since the 1930s.) Within the Hoboken Cove Community Boathouse, Walter and I spied the stacks of kayaks launched for free lessons guided by the volunteers of this non-profit organization. If a kayak ride in the Hudson piques your interest as much as mine, you should check out their schedule—then get to Hoboken, get a paddle, and get in the water. We also discovered (or rather, read on the historical plaque outside the boathouse) that this was the original site of the New York Yacht Club, founded by Hobokenite John Cox Stevens—who would later build the ship America, sail it to England, and win the cup which now bears the vessel’s name.

Though the sun seemed to have departed behind some clouds, the sunbathers in the waterside had not. However, we found the beach empty, save for errant pieces of drift-wood. A man forced his way through the metal barriers blocking the entrance so his dog could frolic in the “surf.” Walter and I followed, decrying the state of the shoreline, though it was free of the litter typically found on New York beaches. Perhaps some Hoboken city official will glance at this blog and, upon learning of this local resident’s disappointment, will have something done about the municipal beach. Fear the power of the press!
 
Just after we pulled out from the narrow parking space along Sinatra Drive, Walter directed me on another mission, as we are wont to do (see also, the “Great Hot Dog Quest.”) I drove across and around Hoboken looking for a restaurant called “Leo’s” and its famous grub. Eventually, I pulled over so Walter could question a cute young woman read for a jog; regrettably, I remained in the car. Apparently, the place was quite close, and that “Leo’s Grandevous” was on Grand Street—of course! I took us around the block, parked, and Walter and I ran to the door only to discover that Leo’s was closed. Disappointing, yes—but we were not deterred; especially, since I had been on this driving exercise for some time, and it was now well past lunchtime. We drove up Washington Avenue, the main drag in Hoboken. Again, we searched for a specific eatery, guided by Walter’s mostly-reliable memory. Eventually we saw a bar on the corner that could have been the place, and went in. Maybe it was or maybe it wasn’t the right place, but we had a good meal outside as I celebrated a successful (i.e. ticket- and accident-free) day of driving and learned about the art and ease of conversation from one of its greatest practitioners.

Being both the student and designated driver, I drove up to Jersey City on a road familiar from my jogs in the area, and took us across town to Walter’s house. There, I learned that a dinner outing was in the works, and that I was invited to celebrate my new job over Chianti and pork-chops. But, I had to finish my lesson first. So, I took the Tercel back across Journal Square and ened the afternoon with a parallel parking job to be proud of.



*After I rolled though a stop sign, Walter told me the following anecdote about the “Jersey roll”:

A Jersey police officer pulls over a man who just drove through a stop sign. The cop asks the man if he saw the stop sign. The man says, “Yeah.” The cop asks him why he didn’t stop. Defensively, the man says, “Well, I did slow down—what’s da matta wit dat?”

The cop pulls the man from the car and begins to beat him with his baton. The man cries out, “Hey! What da hell are you doin’?” The cop replies, “Would you like me to stop, or just slow down?”