"Rhythms of Fate in Sleepless Cities."

**2006**

Whether it was a concrete street in a metropolis or an uneasy seascape in Greece, travel helped me rediscover an appreciation for life's interconnected beauty. I knew I would need reminders of gratitude for the sheer experience and serendipity that New York City would offer.

Lady Liberty is illuminated by a reflection shaped by the vibrant energy of the counterculture—a light refracted through the gritty rhythms of Harlem and the spirit of New York's unconventional boroughs. Her metallic form absorbs and radiates the essence of possibility, revolution, and rebirth. She stands as a canvas where freedom meets the city's raw, untamed artistry. Pollution, often seen as decay, here becomes an unintentional artist—its haze-softening edges and its layers of grime adding texture, reflecting the restless heartbeat of the city. Against the gleaming harbor's first impression, New York emerges as a polluted landscape transformed into a living masterpiece—noisy, raw, and undeniably alive.

After years of begging my parents to visit, we were finally in New York. The idea of crowds and shattered dreams had lost their allure for them. They had visited many times in the late '70s, but I never got that opportunity, so I planned to immerse myself fully in this first experience. Some wishes come true if you have the patience to wait. One lesson I've learned is never to assume you know what will happen—fate can twist the path unexpectedly.

Times Square would be the cornerstone of our visit. We weren't just taking posed photos like every other tourist; our priority was to find something meaningful to create memories with. My flustered mom accidentally left our new $1,500 camcorder on an airport security scanner after a guard intimidated her. We needed a cost-effective replacement, and according to Dad's memory, some cheap electronic shops were nearby. Realizing we probably weren't going in the right direction, I bet him $20 that we would find a shop later that day.

Walking in circles while avoiding mounds of wind-swept trash bags and browsing tiny shops had become tiresome. We began strolling up Fifty-fifth Street, where luxurious apartment buildings were located. I glanced to the left and spotted a short, well-muscled, handsome young man smoking a cigarette alongside another gentleman who could best be described as a mountain of a man. There was something familiar about him as if I had seen that smile before.

It hit me: it was Usher! He was unmistakable, just steps away, filling his lungs with the same toxins that kill countless ordinary people every year. He was the world-famous R&B singer Usher Raymond and even more attractive in person.

As the realization set in, I knew I had to get my parents to stop and talk to him. When would I ever have a chance like this again? My mother even had a long-standing crush on him.

"Mom, Mom, look, it's Usher!" At first, my shout startled her; she was focused on watching for speeding vehicles and keeping pace with my dad. I resorted to tugging at her sleeve.

"Mom, it's Usher! Stop!"

She wiped her neck and looked around, trying to humour me. "I don't see any billboards, sweetheart. Come on."

I couldn't understand how she didn't see him; he was right in front of her face and had started laughing at our bickering.

"What do you mean, billboard? He's right over there with that guy; that's him!"

Finally, she turned and inspected him from head to toe.

My dad looked on, perplexed as to why we had stopped.

"Him? No way, that's not him—he's too plain."

He stepped out from under the awning, laughing to the point of nearly choking.

"Yes, she's right, ma'am. It's me."

My Mom looked on the verge of collapse when Usher shook her hand. I was also shocked that the hottest singer and dancer, Michael Jackson, was within touching distance of me. Still, I kept my eyes squarely trained on the hulking bodyguard leering at us from behind him, a man who could break my neck with one good squeeze if I even tried anything.

That's when Tata strolled up, briefly breaking the spell with some small talk. "These two are huge fans of yours. I'm guessing this is your place? Real fancy."

My dad had never cared much about anyone's social clout, always saying, "When a celebrity poops, it's not likely to be any cleaner or fresher smelling than a no-name schmo."

"Yep, I have a place in this building, and I'm about to do a performance and make some talk show appearances. How about you guys? Where are you headed?"

Usher was so friendly that it immediately put my mind at ease.

"By the way, don't pay much attention to that dude; he doesn't bite unless I need him to. Hang on a minute; I'll be right back."

He ducked inside, looking for something to sign for his autograph.

Suddenly, my dad interrupted:

"Hey, Usher, sir? Can you tell us which is the quickest way to Times Square? Mirela here has never been, and my wife and I are lost as hell. It's been a while since we've been here..."

I was thankful that Usher didn't roll his eyes.

He answered, "Um, just keep heading straight; you should be there in no time."

Then he looked at me with a slight half-smile. "How'd you recognize me anyway?"

I wanted him to think I was cool, so I racked my brain for a spontaneous response. "Your tattoo," I said, pointing at his arm. His eyes followed my movement, almost as if he had forgotten he even got the ink done. There was a tribal serpent extending down his upper left bicep. My clever response impressed even the bodyguard, who had been doing his best to send us on our way as quickly as possible. I regretted that we never got a picture with him since my mom had left our camera in our hotel room.

Usher grinned as if he had been mentally bested and looked at my mother, who hadn't said much.

"Ma'am, you've got a cheeky and bright one there. Better keep an eye on her—she will be trouble; just watch."

I had to give him credit for it. I have an uncanny ability to figure out how to survive just when people have counted me out. I believe I inherited this trait from my dad. His passing in June 2017 made me hold on to all the strong, unique qualities he instilled. I try to use them to my advantage simply to keep going. His booming presence leaves a void that nothing will ever fill. However, that trip to New York will always stand out in my memory as a marker of our bond.

He hated musicals and never understood why people would break into song during normal conversation. Still, he sat through "Chicago," starring Rita Wilson as Roxie Hart, at the Ambassador Theatre without complaining because I loved it. Other highlights of the trip included being on a ferry and searching for the best coffee at midnight, with remnants of our earlier bet blending with the whimsy typical of my journeys.

Amidst the neon chaos of Times Square, we encountered a remarkably easygoing homeless man. His candid sign read, "Why lie? I need a beer." Although I didn't endorse his choice, his honesty and self-awareness struck a chord with me. Charmed by his openness, I shared a portion of my bet money—a small acknowledgment that, at that moment, truth carried its own reward. If only more people embraced such authenticity, the world might sparkle a bit brighter.

Ultimately, that trip was unforgettable, and I received far more meaningful gifts than just a simple "I ❤️ NYC" T-shirt.

Stealing is widely considered to be wrong. I don't think much about the Ten Commandments, but there must be a reason they opted to include it. Some situations are not so easily defined. On our family van trip across Canada, I was exposed to one example of when it is excusable and another that should rightfully earn a person a swift kick in the butt with steel-toed boots.

*2008*

We had stopped in a lesser-known hamlet in Alberta called Dead Man's Flats or Dead Man's Head to the locals. We were passing through while visiting the famed Lake Louise Resort with our friends, who we'd been our dinner companions on our Caribbean cruise the year before. There are two possible sources for the unsettling moniker: The first by way of a 1904 murder at a dairy farm on the flats of the Bow River. A man named Francois Marret stood trial in Calgary for killing his brother Jean, whose body he had disposed of by the water's edge. He was soon acquitted based on a successful plea of insanity. A second story was about a small group of First Nations people illegally trapping beavers when they noticed a warden approaching. They devised a plan to play dead for his benefit by smearing themselves in beaver blood so that they could escape when the warden went for help.

The most common explanation comes from a 1954 report of a man who was found shot dead in a nearby cabin. We had left our hotel for an impromptu lunch trip. Waiting at the checkout, I saw a blond, spiky-haired skater kid fidgeting awkwardly by the front freezers. He was holding his board with one hand and stuffing a ham sandwich into his baggy studded pants with the other. Even though my folks seemed oblivious, I noticed a large, muscled man eyeing his movements intently. This was not going to end well. The man then turned away and tapped the kid on the shoulder.

Man:" Uh, excuse me, kid, what's that you got there, and where do you think you are going with it?"

He pointed a disgusted finger at the package, now bulging from the crook of the kid's underwear.

The kid shifted around on his heel. I could see the saliva drying in his mouth. Even when it's none of your business, there are times when you just can't help yourself.

Kid: "Ah, c'mon, man, it's just a damn sandwich. No one counts 'em anyway, and I bet some family will soon buy enough for it to even out. You be chill, and I'll be chill, okay?"

Man: "There'd be nothing left in here if everyone was allowed to be that slippery. Listen, I'm a cop. But relax, I can't do anything about this because I'm off duty, and let's face it. It's not worth the taxpayer dollars. You're lucky."

The boy stammered and nearly fell.

Kid: "I didn't mean anything by it, I swear. Dude, I'm just hungry as hell and short on cash right now. Sorry, I'll put it back. No harm."

He reached over to open the lid before the cop grabbed his hand to stop him. "Whoa, whoa, what exactly do you think you're doing with that? Considering where it's been, would anyone want to eat it now?. Just take it and go."

Here's the revised version with a deeper focus on karma and the fear of not receiving help in return:

The kid dashed past him in a puff of smoke, and I knew he was telling the truth. Later, Mom laughed at the story but scolded me for not pointing out the situation sooner—she would have gladly bought the boy a sandwich. She had a soft spot for the broke and downtrodden, a trait I inherited along with her open heart. But that same open heart made it sting even more when we found ourselves victims of similar desperation. It was a bitter reminder, dredging up cologne-soaked memories of the Austrian hotel room hijacking nearly two years earlier.

If I had known how soon we'd be targeted again, I would have made my parents buy the boy a steak. Not helping him didn't just leave me feeling guilty—it left me afraid. Afraid that when I was in a similar situation, no one would step up for me. Karma felt like a scale I had tipped the wrong way, and the weight of that imbalance settled heavily in my chest. It was as if my inaction had written a future where the kindness I withheld would be withheld from me.

Coming back from touring the West Coast, the final stop we made was Quebec City. It was as close as I had been to my artist's dream of Paris. Walking the cobblestone pathways by the waterway, I sat in the middle of the main tourist street, Rue du Petit-Champlain, as I posed for a coloured charcoal portrait. For the first time in a very long spell, the fishbowl effect that has run in constant tandem with my "special needs" status did not seem so bad.

After completing the picture, we decided to go for another spin around the highly crowded area. My huge duffle bag was full of everything of note (including my wallet and ID) and hung swinging like a pendulum at the back of my chair. My Mom and I had been taking photos, getting distracted by the full scope of our surroundings, when she saw that a skinny, hook-nosed woman with dishevelled graying hair was trying to pull a classic theft maneuver. Her bony fingers wrapped around a fifty-dollar bill, but she bent under my bag when she noticed my mother tracking her. This was so that she could pretend to be a helpful person, just trying to assist me in retrieving something I had dropped. My Mom met her dead ice blue eyes with her own steely gaze.

"Oh yeah, how do you suppose she lost it through a closed zipper then?" Seconds later, you could practically see the dust as the woman hightailed off the scene. Mom tried to grab her but missed.

Dad's intriguing theory that the grifting woman was an apparition, a mystery that Mom and I moulded, had me pondering if the universe operates under mathematical logic. The simplicity of one plus one equals two is easily grasped without physically engaging with the numbers. However, we steadfastly reject the notion of something grander than ourselves, safeguarding our egos from potential bruises. Our inherent desire for control is often overlooked, entwined with clarity, which serves as a grounding tether. The crux of this battle appears to be the pursuit of peace, a journey I'm not prepared to end, as I'm not ready to welcome the prospect of being dead or mundane, but there's nothing inherently wrong with either once earned.

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**Author’s Note**

Memory is a fickle architect, reconstructing past experiences with an odd mix of precision and embellishment—layering nostalgia over hard facts like graffiti on a city wall. *Rhythms of Fate in the Sleepless City* captures a slice of that architecture—part travelogue, part family chronicle, part meditation on chance encounters that leave a lasting imprint.

New York in 2006 wasn’t just a destination; it was a proving ground, a place where the mythology of the city met the reality of its streets. This piece is a love letter to that first experience, to the way fate threads itself through the seemingly mundane moments—losing a camera, taking a wrong turn, bumping into an R&B legend on a cigarette break. More than that, it’s a tribute to my father, whose presence still echoes in the rhythms of my travels, his laughter hidden in the folds of memory like a song you don’t realize you’ve been humming.

But this story is about more than one city. It’s about the way we collect experiences, the way people—both famous and unknown—leave traces on our lives. It’s about how some things, like my dad’s irreverent humor and my mother’s flustered charm, remain constants even when everything else is in flux. And, of course, it’s about the small, ridiculous, magical moments that remind us to look up, pay attention, and take the unexpected detour.

This essay falls under the subheading *A Sassy Sojourn.* The *Sassy Sojourns* are a part of *From Where I Sit*, serving as travel story interludes between the main thirteen or so essays.

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To those who have ever gotten lost in a city, won a bet they weren’t meant to, or found meaning in a stranger’s honesty—this one’s for you.