Seeking Sanctuary
Running to refuge at the Cloisters
By Cat McCarrey
Since moving to the East Coast, visits to New York City have become commonplace. But these aren’t the happy-go-lucky visits of my youth—my days aren’t spent museum-hopping, my nights aren’t spent in theaters. Now I spend my time in Inwood, the godforsaken northernmost tip of Manhattan, visiting my brother-in-law and his family.
With a scant three years of marriage under my belt, I’m in no position to act the expert on family-blending. But I do feel qualified to make one assertion—it’s hard. I’d witnessed three older siblings dance the in-law polka, with variations in success. Luckily I eased my way into the McCarrey household with mostly great success, but the East Coast brother and his little family proved more difficult. Nate*, Lauren* and their brood of three (plus her silent father occupying a shadowy corner of one bedroom) were prickly. They said things I didn’t understand, valued name and status in a way that confused and nearly-sickened me, made sacrifices for things I wasn’t impressed by—like enrolling their oldest in a multi-thousand-dollar-a-year preschool.
When Taylor and I visit, the two-bedroom apartment swells to an occupancy rate of eight. Eight people, sitting on one orange couch. Eight people, jostling around a galley kitchen and a bathroom with a toilet seemingly created for Santa’s elves and Santa’s elves alone. Eight people who resisted adventure and actively fought going outside, thanks to three children under the age of six and the accompanying assemblage of strollers, diaper bags, scooters-helmets-tiny shoes-snacks-what have you.
After two hours in that space, rugs and toys and lack of space start eating you.
When that happens, all I want is to escape and to be alone. Directly across the street sits Fort Tryon Park. There is typical greenery and fields, tree-lined paths leading into wilderness. But there’s an unexpected incline, a deceptively towering hill the average passerby would not notice.
And perched on top are the Cloisters.
An offshoot of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Cloisters calm my frustrated mind. When I tire of watching the clown car of New York living, it’s there. When I weary of the endless pretension and posturing of the East Coast kin, I can sprint up flights of stone stairs into a medieval sanctuary. The Cloisters stand above the rest of Washington Heights, unseen from the streets and sidewalks, but it sees everything. I sprinted up to gain personal ground, to cement myself in a world that started spinning in the in-laws home. On the high ground, I get perspective. I get my peace.
*names have been changed to protect the easily-identified.
