From a Journalism Major’s String Book: – The New York Dispatch of a Rookie in Dress Shoes

Before the Garratyverse, before the novel-length narratives and thematic intricacies, there was a young columnist—23 years old, notebook in hand—stepping into the bustle of New York City with wide eyes and a press badge. My second semester at Catalyst gave me the opportunity of a lifetime: to attend the College Press Convention in the heart of Manhattan. What follows isn’t a polished travelogue or a journalistic exposé. It’s a reflection—part discovery, part sensory overload—written with the voice of someone still figuring out what it meant to write with purpose, wonder, and the occasional jolt of static electricity.

N.Y. Dream Trip

(Catalyst, April 3, 1986)

Alex Diaz-Granados, Columnist

A few words about New York City, if I may.

First, it’s “gigantic,” “monumental” and “grandiose.” If you’ve never been there, you can’t imagine how small an individual can feel when walking among the skycrapers of Manhattan.

If you have been there, you know that the above description is a heck of an understatement.

Let me start out right now by saying that my trip was not a tourist excursion. I went to New York as a college journalist to attend the eighth annual College Press Convention, sponsored by College Media Advisers and the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. My “media” advisor had told me, “If you go, it will be to learn and work.”

Nor did I go alone. Three of my colleagues – the editor, managing editor and the present opinions editor – not to mention our faculty adviser, went along as well.

Well, I went to some of the seminars and short courses at the convention, of course, and I learned some valuable lessons about my chosen career, but I also got to explore a bit of the core of the Big Apple.

For instance, on our second night there, Denise, Jennie, Katrinka, and I took two or three subway rides from our hotel to the Brooklyn Bridge, which we then crossed on foot. Actually, they walked across – I more or less slipped across, hanging onto Katrinka’s husband, Pete.

Two days later, after studying the program of convention sessions and finding nothing of interest, I went out of the hotel to see a few sights with Pete and his six-year-old son.

We crossed Manhattan via the subway and walked to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’d always wanted to go there to see some of the world’s great works of art, and I was treated to hundreds of them, ranging from ancient Egyptian artifacts to the oil paintings of Winslow Homer.

Three hours later, we crossed a small section of Central Park and entered the American Museum of Natural History. There, for the very first time, I gazed at the skeletons of the great dinosaurs. For me, it was a childhood dream come true.

I suppose I could go on and on, but I will just leave you with a few items that impressed me about New York City:

• People can get around in New York City much easier than in South Florida, partially because Manhattan is narrow and confined, and partly because the rapid transportation system truly is rapid. Catching a bus here is an adventure in itself. In New York it’s hard to avoid; there’s a bus everywhere you look.
• It’s expensive. A tiny bit of microwaved pseudo-pizza at the Doral Inn Hotel costs – ready? $3.95. Add a 15 percent tip and you’re nearly broke. As Tom Brokaw said in his keynote address at the convention: “If you’ve been in Manhattan for 24 hours, you’re already short of cash.
• And if you think that’s shocking, just try the static electricity. I must have been zapped a zillion times – if I touched a doorknob, or pressed an elevator button, zap!

Author’s Note (2025)
I was 23, wearing dress shoes in the rain, and still learning how to walk with confidence—literally and figuratively. When I wrote this for Catalyst in the spring of 1986, I hadn’t yet found my voice as a storyteller. But I knew New York City had a story to tell me, and I was eager to listen.

This column reflects a moment in time: a young journalist trying not to slip (on the Brooklyn Bridge or in print), discovering both art and awe in the shadow of skyscrapers, and learning the hard way that hotel pizza costs a small fortune. Looking back now, I smile at the clumsy shoes, the awe-struck museum visits, and the quiet pride that came with seeing my byline in print.

I haven’t forgotten that version of myself. In many ways, he still walks with me—maybe in more sensible shoes.