The Big Apple

Earlier this week, I had a bit of a meltdown about all things Manhattan. Brad took that as a sign that maybe we should get out of the City for a day (I have to say, I didn't really understand why people kept asking/suggesting/beg-ging we leave the City at least one weekend - got it now, folks - thanks.)

Most people had suggested we go to the beach, but we just never got around to it. And seeing as I'm from LA, Brad's from Miami, and P Diddy had accidentally left us off his White Party invite list, we decided to pass on the basis of great enough familiarity with all things sand and sea unless something truly spectacular was going on.

With fall approaching, many others had also suggested apple-picking. (Silence.) Yeah, I didn't really get it either, but found the prospect of dressing in theme and leaving the honking, swearing and defensive walking behind for a day to be very attractive. To Middletown, New York it is!

So this morning, we boarded the bus at the Port Authority Station for a very smooth and easy ride about 45 miles northwest of Manhattan. Everyone was happy; no one was singing badly, raping an instrument, or preaching their version of the gospel for money; and the only stop we made before our destination point actually woke me up with the smell of something familiar but just a little bit off (turns out it was an outlet mall). After a 1-1/2 hour ride and a 10-minute taxi, we landed at Soons Orchard.

Soons Orchard (which also houses a country store) is a delightful place where apples and pumpkins are pressed into everything, gardens shine brightly with flowers, and children frolic in the sunshine. The orchard is staffed by a friendly young woman who educates you on the varieties of apples available, and how to pick them. It's as pleasant and straightforward as it sounds. See a sign at the end of a row of trees? Those apples (named on the sign) are ripe for the pickin'. No sign? No picking. And caution tape, coincidentally, means the same thing here as it means everywhere else.

About 45 minutes into our eastern fall experience, we hear a familiar, squawking cacophony:

NY Lady - "What's wrong with these apples?!?"
Orchard Staffer - "What do you mean?"
NY Man - "These apples are no good, they're a mess!!"
Orchard Staffer - "Where did you pick them from?"
NY Lady - "Right over there!" (assume gesturing)
NY Man - "Yeah, right up there with all the apples!"
Orchard Staffer - "The row with the sign?"
NY Lady - "Near the sign! Gah, pfft, right up THERE!!!"
Orchard Staffer - "If you're pointing to that third row, there is no sign. Those apples are not ready for picking."
NY Man - "You told us we could pick these apples!"
Orchard Staffer - "I told you to pick the apples marked by the signs at the end of the rows - not all of them are ripe - those rows do not have signs, and therefore you are not supposed to pick them."
NY Lady - "Well, what are we supposed to do now?!"
NY Man - "This is ridiculous..."
Orchard Staffer - "That's why we mark the rows."
NY Lady - "Unbelievable! These apples stink!"
Orchard Staffer - "That's because they're not ready to be picked. Would you like another bag for..."
NY Man - "No! We want some good apples!"
Orchard Staffer - "Then you need to remain in the marked rows..."

(This went on for a good 5 minutes or so.)

God damned New Yorkers, here we go again - can't even pick apples without verbally assaulting someone.

But these antics weren't going to ruin my day. Screw that. We came to pick apples and buy pie and maybe some other superfluous apple-infused goodness, and damnit, we're filling up this bag and taking home AT LEAST a boxed pastry!!

Back in Manhattan, the apples still taste sweet.