Last week on Ft. Washington Ave. I was nearly run down by a four year old squealing with joy: Butterfly! Butterfly! Butterfly! she said. Her stubby legs pumped at top speed, making her pig tails jump up and down on either side of her head. The lilacs were blooming. The sky was crystal clear. And there was no reason not to be overjoyed by the prospect of butterflies. Her parents followed behind, smiling and indulgent. Such displays of exuberance are unfairly reserved for the very young. I wanted to throw my arms in the air and run alongside the girl, rejoicing over earth's power to renew itself each spring.
Several days later, I passed the same girl and her mother. The girl had used string to attach two floppy paper plates to her back. They were decorated with wavy crayon lines and cut on one side to make a straight edge next to her shoulder blades. The mother reached for the girl's hand and said gently, Come on Butterfly. The girl skipped along, her wings fluttering behind her.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Mother's Day in Central Park
New York 1 forecast rainstorms for this year's Mother's Day, but the mothers would have none of it. They must have talked to the Big Guy and told him what's what. Weather-wise, this was the best day yet. In Central Park, Pooch and I tried to dodge the obstacle course of families picnicking, roller blading, waiting for the carousel, and eating icecream bars. A line fifty people long waited to rent row boats near the Boat House. In between having meltdowns, kids frolicked on the green grass of Sheep's Meadow. And if you hadn't thought ahead and packed your own food (like Mom does), you had a long wait on your hands at the Rickshaw Dumpling truck.
People came at us from all directions. After an hour of frantically trying not to become road kill, Pooch and I decided to be antisocial and ducked into The Ramble. There the crowd thinned, but barely. We duly became lost (no matter how long I live in this city, I never learn my way around The Ramble). Pooch rubbed noses with a St. Bernard, then got confused when, trying to greet him in the usual dog manner, stood in shadow beneath the huge dog's belly. Finally we found our way to the West Side, where we emerged to find a new barrage of families. But the funny thing was, despite the discomfort of the crowds, most people were smiling and polite. These people must be from out of town, I thought. Or maybe, on this Mother's Day, people had remembered a mother's frequent refrain: mind your manners. Which is a gift to all of us.
People came at us from all directions. After an hour of frantically trying not to become road kill, Pooch and I decided to be antisocial and ducked into The Ramble. There the crowd thinned, but barely. We duly became lost (no matter how long I live in this city, I never learn my way around The Ramble). Pooch rubbed noses with a St. Bernard, then got confused when, trying to greet him in the usual dog manner, stood in shadow beneath the huge dog's belly. Finally we found our way to the West Side, where we emerged to find a new barrage of families. But the funny thing was, despite the discomfort of the crowds, most people were smiling and polite. These people must be from out of town, I thought. Or maybe, on this Mother's Day, people had remembered a mother's frequent refrain: mind your manners. Which is a gift to all of us.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Oh, New York. I Heart You.
Today I tied a pink bow around Pooch's neck. Suddenly people in the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue were calling him a her. Boys can wear pink too, I said, just look at the man in drag over there. I pointed. That's way more than pink. The man stood six feet plus in platforms, and wore fishnet stockings, a bustier, thick fake eyelashes, and a fluorescent pink wig. Others had also gone overboard. In front of St. Patrick's Cathedral, a woman posed while balancing on her head an elaborate seven foot headress made of sprays of violets, lilacs, and blue flowers whose species has not yet evolved. There were little girls with angelic golden curls beneath bonnets decorated with green grass, pink and yellow baskets, and chocolate Easter eggs. A man wearing a top hat and tails accompanied a woman in an elegant green satin 1940s dress. She struck a pose in a broad brimmed hat covered with a froth of toile and multicolored flowers.
And of course there were the dogs. There was a pooch in a top hat with coat and tails (note: the average, every day pooch is lower case in this blog). There was a golden retriever in a pink skirt and pink bunny ears. There was one of those yippy little runts of dogs (I can't keep their names in mind, there's probably a psychological term for it), dressed in a tutu with a pink ribbon. Three little girls in Easter frocks stood round, oohing and aahing. Everyone loves a well dressed pooch.
The Upper Case Pooch and I paraded from St. Pat's to The Plaza. The day had turned warm and humid. The sky was clear blue for once, and Central Park was irresistible. Days of rain had turned the grass electric green. The trees had burst into pink blossom, and the tulips stood with perfect posture, awaiting admiration. The Easter Parade had spilled along the path leading to the zoo, where people rested on park benches and forgot to remove their bunny ears.
It seemed like all of the greater metropolitan New York area had converged on Manhattan. There were crowds at the carousel, where I stopped to buy refreshments. Most people were happy today, but there's always a few curmudgeons in a crowd. The hot dog man said, what can I get you. I tried to say, "Diii-et CCo" but was interrupted by a man with a European accent, barging in front of me and ordering water. The hot dog man, unfazed, pulled out the Diet Coke, slammed it down hard to make his point and said, Diet Coke for you, and then pulled out the water for the SOB. It was a small triumph for me, and even though the hot dog man inflated the cost ($3!), I take small triumphs when I can get them. I sauntered away, flamboyantly opening my Diet Coke while the European man argued with the hot dog man over the price of water.
Pooch and I found a bench near the road that on weekdays rings the park in a necklace of exhaust (it's closed to car traffic on Sundays; that's when it becomes a necklace of weekend warriors). As I fed him popcorn, a pedicab rolled by blasting "Empire State of Mind" by Alicia Keys: Noise is always loud, there are sirens all around, and the streets are mean... Concrete jungle where dreams are made of... There's nothing you can't do...Now you're in New York... These streets will make you feel brand new...Big lights will inspire you...Let's hear it for New York, New York, New Yooooork!
It's days like these that erase the occasional discouragement a New Yorker feels. The hot dog seller who doesn't need to, but is kind in his own manner. The drag queens in the Easter Parade, and other New Yorkers (though not all-- there is an entrenched stodgy component to this city) who have the guts to be noncomformist. And the blue sky that defines the color and occasionally makes an appearance.
And of course there were the dogs. There was a pooch in a top hat with coat and tails (note: the average, every day pooch is lower case in this blog). There was a golden retriever in a pink skirt and pink bunny ears. There was one of those yippy little runts of dogs (I can't keep their names in mind, there's probably a psychological term for it), dressed in a tutu with a pink ribbon. Three little girls in Easter frocks stood round, oohing and aahing. Everyone loves a well dressed pooch.
The Upper Case Pooch and I paraded from St. Pat's to The Plaza. The day had turned warm and humid. The sky was clear blue for once, and Central Park was irresistible. Days of rain had turned the grass electric green. The trees had burst into pink blossom, and the tulips stood with perfect posture, awaiting admiration. The Easter Parade had spilled along the path leading to the zoo, where people rested on park benches and forgot to remove their bunny ears.
It seemed like all of the greater metropolitan New York area had converged on Manhattan. There were crowds at the carousel, where I stopped to buy refreshments. Most people were happy today, but there's always a few curmudgeons in a crowd. The hot dog man said, what can I get you. I tried to say, "Diii-et CCo" but was interrupted by a man with a European accent, barging in front of me and ordering water. The hot dog man, unfazed, pulled out the Diet Coke, slammed it down hard to make his point and said, Diet Coke for you, and then pulled out the water for the SOB. It was a small triumph for me, and even though the hot dog man inflated the cost ($3!), I take small triumphs when I can get them. I sauntered away, flamboyantly opening my Diet Coke while the European man argued with the hot dog man over the price of water.
Pooch and I found a bench near the road that on weekdays rings the park in a necklace of exhaust (it's closed to car traffic on Sundays; that's when it becomes a necklace of weekend warriors). As I fed him popcorn, a pedicab rolled by blasting "Empire State of Mind" by Alicia Keys: Noise is always loud, there are sirens all around, and the streets are mean... Concrete jungle where dreams are made of... There's nothing you can't do...Now you're in New York... These streets will make you feel brand new...Big lights will inspire you...Let's hear it for New York, New York, New Yooooork!
It's days like these that erase the occasional discouragement a New Yorker feels. The hot dog seller who doesn't need to, but is kind in his own manner. The drag queens in the Easter Parade, and other New Yorkers (though not all-- there is an entrenched stodgy component to this city) who have the guts to be noncomformist. And the blue sky that defines the color and occasionally makes an appearance.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Spring Eaves Dropping
"You know what I want," she said, "I want beer and dinner." She was white-haired and alone. She sat at the table directly across from me. The waiter had placed his hand on her shoulder and listened to her like he would to his grandmother. He knew her. He brought the beer in a lady-like wine glass. She took a sip, then looked at me and said, "I'm Joan. What's your name?" Veronica, I replied. "Where you from?" she asked. Los Angeles, I said. "I went to Glendale College. I wrote for the college paper. I worked at Webb department store. Do you know it? Probably before your time." I shook my head no, I didn't know it, it was indeed before my time. She continued, "I had a friend from that Norwegian town up north. What was the name?" Solvang, I said. "Yes, Solvang!" She grew excited and dropped her fork. The waiter swooped down to pick it up. Just then thunder exploded outside the restaurant. A few people got to their feet to take a look. She said, "I hope you don't have far to go. I'm just one building away." Not far, I replied, I will run if I need to.
But I needn't have run. The thunder was nature reminding us of her power. The day had been beautiful, the first real day of spring when one still needs a light coat despite the blue sky gracing us with her presence. Poochini and I had spent the afternoon in Central Park, where all of Manhattan had turned out. Especially the French part (Manhattan being an outpost of Europe, as we know). The language of luuuuuv was everywhere. People were saying s'il vous plait at the Bethesda Fountain, French kissing at the Boat House Cafe (where I fed Pooch French fries), and smoking in a very Frenchie way at the new food court in Tavern on the Green's former garden, whose exclusivity has been superceded by food on wheels: Pera (a Turkish food truck), The Chinese Dumpling Truck, a soup truck, and an Italian gelato truck (the economic downturn has done wonders for democratizing food in Central Park). The wall of people had over-stimulated poor Pooch, who walked across Sheep's Meadow in paroxysms of nervous coughing. Despite the seizure-like quality of his affliction, I think the outing was good for him. His nose forgot to run. Now, after five hours of wandering, he is lying nearly comatose on his little dog bed, the corners of his mouth upturned in a smile of contentment.
But I needed more of an outing. Maybe it was the sun, but something in me was missing California tonight. When I miss California, I eat Mexican food. So I headed to the Mexican restaurant down the street, which is where I met Beer and Dinner Joan. There are many women like her in my area. Unlike the Central Park crowd, not many speak French. In my neighborhood, they speak Spanish, Russian, Yiddish, and Hebrew. The woman who runs the neighborhood drug store is from Riverside, not far from where I grew up. She came to be on Broadway, and stayed when that didn't work out. There are others. For instance, my neighbor Mrs. Katz, who has Alzheimer's and is obsessed with the layout of my apartment (yours is bigger than mine). There is the old German Jewish woman one floor down from me, who always has her hair done just so, still wears make up, and is completely (snap snap) Put-Together. When she says hi, I do a double take. Her accent reminds me of Dad. Then there was the old Russian lady who lived above me, and whose bumps in the night disappeared a few months ago. She has been replaced by a young woman whose bumps carry on throughout the day. I can't say that I like the replacement. The older neighbors have better stories. Their bumps are less vindictive. As if, after so many years of life's ups and downs, they've learned to go easy on their neighbors.
But I needn't have run. The thunder was nature reminding us of her power. The day had been beautiful, the first real day of spring when one still needs a light coat despite the blue sky gracing us with her presence. Poochini and I had spent the afternoon in Central Park, where all of Manhattan had turned out. Especially the French part (Manhattan being an outpost of Europe, as we know). The language of luuuuuv was everywhere. People were saying s'il vous plait at the Bethesda Fountain, French kissing at the Boat House Cafe (where I fed Pooch French fries), and smoking in a very Frenchie way at the new food court in Tavern on the Green's former garden, whose exclusivity has been superceded by food on wheels: Pera (a Turkish food truck), The Chinese Dumpling Truck, a soup truck, and an Italian gelato truck (the economic downturn has done wonders for democratizing food in Central Park). The wall of people had over-stimulated poor Pooch, who walked across Sheep's Meadow in paroxysms of nervous coughing. Despite the seizure-like quality of his affliction, I think the outing was good for him. His nose forgot to run. Now, after five hours of wandering, he is lying nearly comatose on his little dog bed, the corners of his mouth upturned in a smile of contentment.
But I needed more of an outing. Maybe it was the sun, but something in me was missing California tonight. When I miss California, I eat Mexican food. So I headed to the Mexican restaurant down the street, which is where I met Beer and Dinner Joan. There are many women like her in my area. Unlike the Central Park crowd, not many speak French. In my neighborhood, they speak Spanish, Russian, Yiddish, and Hebrew. The woman who runs the neighborhood drug store is from Riverside, not far from where I grew up. She came to be on Broadway, and stayed when that didn't work out. There are others. For instance, my neighbor Mrs. Katz, who has Alzheimer's and is obsessed with the layout of my apartment (yours is bigger than mine). There is the old German Jewish woman one floor down from me, who always has her hair done just so, still wears make up, and is completely (snap snap) Put-Together. When she says hi, I do a double take. Her accent reminds me of Dad. Then there was the old Russian lady who lived above me, and whose bumps in the night disappeared a few months ago. She has been replaced by a young woman whose bumps carry on throughout the day. I can't say that I like the replacement. The older neighbors have better stories. Their bumps are less vindictive. As if, after so many years of life's ups and downs, they've learned to go easy on their neighbors.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Twilight Walk
This blog is staying in The Heights. For three months I've been having an affair with Brooklyn, attempting to leave The Heights for a coop on the other side of the tracks. For three months I've been trying to convince myself that it's the right thing to do. But sometimes the right thing falls through, and you pick up the pieces and move on. And sometimes the right thing turns out to be dead wrong. Suffice it to say that the deal fell through, and I'm nursing bruised feelings toward a coop board that wasted $1000 of my hard earned cash. It seemed like the place held the key to lower housing costs, more financial security, and freedom to write. Even though I met all the requirements, the coop board turned me down without explanation in a curt "sorry for the inconvenience" rejection letter.
So tonight, Poochini and I walked at twilight through the Heather Garden. Despite the lingering chill, spring is trying valiantly to arrive. The daffodils have reached their zenith, though tonight they stood muted in evening's faded light. My favorite tree has burst into white, frothy blossoms overnight. The hyacinths have scented the evening air with sweet honey. And the forsythia blazed fluorescent yellow in the twilight. The evening was warm enough to sit on the Linden Terrace, and so we did. Poochini lay in my lap like a baby. I rubbed his belly and tried to let my disappointment flow into the night air. It almost worked. After all, it's hard to leave Ft. Tryon Park during spring. Tomorrow, we start our search again with the trusty neighborhood real estate broker Louis (who knows my name and greets me on the street). Besides, who would want to read about Brooklyn? That's been done. And anway, that's where all the wannabe writers live.
So tonight, Poochini and I walked at twilight through the Heather Garden. Despite the lingering chill, spring is trying valiantly to arrive. The daffodils have reached their zenith, though tonight they stood muted in evening's faded light. My favorite tree has burst into white, frothy blossoms overnight. The hyacinths have scented the evening air with sweet honey. And the forsythia blazed fluorescent yellow in the twilight. The evening was warm enough to sit on the Linden Terrace, and so we did. Poochini lay in my lap like a baby. I rubbed his belly and tried to let my disappointment flow into the night air. It almost worked. After all, it's hard to leave Ft. Tryon Park during spring. Tomorrow, we start our search again with the trusty neighborhood real estate broker Louis (who knows my name and greets me on the street). Besides, who would want to read about Brooklyn? That's been done. And anway, that's where all the wannabe writers live.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Incident at 96th Street: The Third Rail
Today while I was returning from a practica at Dardo Galletto studios, the A train arrived just as I reached the platform. I thanked my lucky stars for having a short wait. Together with a herd of other New Yorkers I boarded the already full train. I was soon cursing those same lucky stars. Full trains and crowded platforms mean one thing: the train is experiencing delays. We sat on the platform for twenty minutes. The conductor remained mute. He made no announcements explaining the delay, no repeated promises offering hope that the train would soon be on its way.
Finally, the doors tentatively closed. They slapped open and closed five more times before they made a final, successful attempt. The train sputtered to life, chugging slowly beneath the Upper West Side. Around 96th street, it stalled again. Then it inched past the subway platform at 96th street. Someone muttered something about a body bag. I was wearing earplugs (the decibel level in the New York City subway system is above the level deemed safe in some factories). I pretended not to hear, imagined that the man referred to some other body bag, somewhere else, at some other time. I had my back to the subway platform. I didn't try to look. Everyone in the train remained silent. No one crooned necks, no one played a peeping tom to someone else's tragedy. There has been too much bad news lately, in the Middle East, in Japan, with the economy, hell, we might as well throw in China while we're at it. Personally, I have been dealing with a coop board whose recalcitrance has got me questioning my faith in others.
After 96th street the train made speedy progress to 168th St., where a woman boarded, sat across from me, and asked, how long have you been on this train? I replied, forever. I paused to consider whether I should fill in the gap, and then did, someone said there was a body bag. That broke the silence. The woman next to me (who had boarded at 125th St.), added, someone jumped, or was pushed, onto the tracks. I was on the C train. They made us get off and go upstairs while they turned off the electricity [the third rail carries very high, usually lethal voltage], and retrieved the body. The woman across from me, shocked and seeking communion in her distress, looked me directly in the eye. Sometimes words fail me. I stuttered. I leaned forward, distracted. As I did so, an item fell out of the plastic bag I held on my lap. A man standing near me bent over and picked it up. Without saying a word, he tapped me on the arm with it, returning it to me. I had not realized the loss.
That brought back the silence. Such is life in New York City: the tragedies and triumphs of life lived in the open, the fleeting, subterranean sense of community.
Resources for those affected by this, and similar, events:
Samaritans of New York: For those in crisis, for friends and family affected by the suicide of a loved one, and to increase awareness about this issue:
www.samaritansnyc.org
Samaritans 24-hr crisis hotline: 212-673-3000
For those in crisis, or needing more information about suicide and related issues:
LIFENET: 1-800-LIFENET
http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/cis/cis_lifenet.shtml
To find a counselor or therapist:
www.findcounseling.com
To find a suicide or crisis hotline in your state:
www.suicidehotlines.com
National Suicide Hotlines:
1-800-SUICIDE, or 1-800-273-TALK
Finally, the doors tentatively closed. They slapped open and closed five more times before they made a final, successful attempt. The train sputtered to life, chugging slowly beneath the Upper West Side. Around 96th street, it stalled again. Then it inched past the subway platform at 96th street. Someone muttered something about a body bag. I was wearing earplugs (the decibel level in the New York City subway system is above the level deemed safe in some factories). I pretended not to hear, imagined that the man referred to some other body bag, somewhere else, at some other time. I had my back to the subway platform. I didn't try to look. Everyone in the train remained silent. No one crooned necks, no one played a peeping tom to someone else's tragedy. There has been too much bad news lately, in the Middle East, in Japan, with the economy, hell, we might as well throw in China while we're at it. Personally, I have been dealing with a coop board whose recalcitrance has got me questioning my faith in others.
After 96th street the train made speedy progress to 168th St., where a woman boarded, sat across from me, and asked, how long have you been on this train? I replied, forever. I paused to consider whether I should fill in the gap, and then did, someone said there was a body bag. That broke the silence. The woman next to me (who had boarded at 125th St.), added, someone jumped, or was pushed, onto the tracks. I was on the C train. They made us get off and go upstairs while they turned off the electricity [the third rail carries very high, usually lethal voltage], and retrieved the body. The woman across from me, shocked and seeking communion in her distress, looked me directly in the eye. Sometimes words fail me. I stuttered. I leaned forward, distracted. As I did so, an item fell out of the plastic bag I held on my lap. A man standing near me bent over and picked it up. Without saying a word, he tapped me on the arm with it, returning it to me. I had not realized the loss.
That brought back the silence. Such is life in New York City: the tragedies and triumphs of life lived in the open, the fleeting, subterranean sense of community.
Resources for those affected by this, and similar, events:
Samaritans of New York: For those in crisis, for friends and family affected by the suicide of a loved one, and to increase awareness about this issue:
www.samaritansnyc.org
Samaritans 24-hr crisis hotline: 212-673-3000
For those in crisis, or needing more information about suicide and related issues:
LIFENET: 1-800-LIFENET
http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/cis/cis_lifenet.shtml
To find a counselor or therapist:
www.findcounseling.com
To find a suicide or crisis hotline in your state:
www.suicidehotlines.com
National Suicide Hotlines:
1-800-SUICIDE, or 1-800-273-TALK
Monday, March 7, 2011
Rainy Day Central Park: Best Chicken Noodle Soup in NYC
Today the sky hung low, enveloping New York in a mantle of gray. It was as if the entire city had become smaller, its sounds muted by the clouds. Winter’s bitter teeth no longer tore at the air, though the wind drove raindrops under umbrellas. I decided not to care. I had woken with a cold sore, stomach upset, and an aching head. I wanted to wander. Pooch and I climbed into the car and headed to Central Park. Except for a few hardy souls who smiled in mutual complicity, we had the place to ourselves. Most of the hot dog vendors had gone. The family gospel choir, four children and their father who set up shop inside the arches of the Bethesday arcarde, were there. But they were sheltering from the rain and not singing.
Pooch and I headed to The Boat House. Here's an insider's secret: The Boat House (not the fancy, over-priced section, but the snack bar part), has the best chicken noodle soup in the city. It's made fresh, with big chunks of moist chicken, firm noodles, and thickly cut carrots, celery, and onions. I bought a cup and sat under the small overhang of the bar in the outdoor portion of The Boat House. I delighted in breaking a small rule: in fair weather, Pooch is not allowed in this part of The Boat House. I fed him potato chips while I ate my soup. I gazed at the pond, speckled with raindrops. Live piano music escaped from inside the cafe, harmonizing with the patter of rain on the roof. Birds had spattered the area of the bar where we sat, and uncaring smokers had scattered cigarettes. I decided not to care about either. I had the place and the view to myself.
Some days call for breaking rules and not caring. Especially if a view and the best chicken noodle soup in the city are involved.
Pooch and I headed to The Boat House. Here's an insider's secret: The Boat House (not the fancy, over-priced section, but the snack bar part), has the best chicken noodle soup in the city. It's made fresh, with big chunks of moist chicken, firm noodles, and thickly cut carrots, celery, and onions. I bought a cup and sat under the small overhang of the bar in the outdoor portion of The Boat House. I delighted in breaking a small rule: in fair weather, Pooch is not allowed in this part of The Boat House. I fed him potato chips while I ate my soup. I gazed at the pond, speckled with raindrops. Live piano music escaped from inside the cafe, harmonizing with the patter of rain on the roof. Birds had spattered the area of the bar where we sat, and uncaring smokers had scattered cigarettes. I decided not to care about either. I had the place and the view to myself.
Some days call for breaking rules and not caring. Especially if a view and the best chicken noodle soup in the city are involved.
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