As a matter of fact, New York is a helluva town.
I grew up on Long Island about an hour outside Manhattan. Going into The City was always a big deal, whether it was a fourth-grade field trip to the Museum of Natural History, or a jaunt into The Village to meet a friend for lunch and do some hanging out.
I might walk and talk fast, but I don't really consider myself a New Yorker. I'm not as fluent with the five boroughs as I should be; I have a vague recollection of which subway lines will take me to various friends' neighborhoods, and I know not to pay more than $45 + tip for a ride in from the airport, but that's about it.
The ride in from JFK was pretty quiet -- cab drivers in other parts of the world are far chattier than the reticent souls behind the wheel in NYC. Getting in, I immediately noticed (and was thankful) that they've done away with those annoying recorded greetings from New Yorkers of Note:
Heya -- this is Curtis Sliwa -- I might be crazy enough to wear a silly red beret on my vigilante street patrols and I've got into some beefs with the Gotti crime family, but I'm not so crazy that I don't wear a seat belt! Buckle up, youse!"
The ones by Dr. Ruth and Larry King were enough to make you want to ride the subway, trust me.
We arrived at our hotel with just two backpacks. I can't imagine what they thought of us at the check-in desk, and I wasn't all that interested. I'd planned to spend our three days in New York catching up with old friends and visiting family; instead, I was facing a marathon of shopping to replace items that were, for all I knew, still enjoying the fine views and fresh air at Zurich International. Thanks to the events of the previous 24, I had acquired the "I don't give a ..." attitude affected by so many Gothamites.
I called family to check in and let them know that we were back in America, however briefly. I also fielded (tardily) emails from good friends Michael and Elena, letting them know that I was indeed alive and in town so we could firm up some plans. And bonus -- Abby and Aaron -- who'd moved to Boston just days earlier from Tennessee, were driving down to spend some time with us.
I didn't shake the lost luggage blues, but our hotel was at 42nd and 8th, which meant there was a big, shiny Duane Reed drugstore down the block and open at every hour to meet any craving. That's something we didn't see in Europe or Asia -- open-all-night Everything Stores. Need some AAA batteries at 0345? No problem. Cordless electric clippers? Sure thing. How about some cashews, ibuprofen and maybe a magazine? Done.
I haven't spent much time in New York since Rudy G. decided that Times Square should be no edgier than Branson, MO. Don't get me wrong -- I appreciate family-friendly spots like Vegas for what they are, but 42nd St. feels more like the New York-New York Hotel & Casino than its old self. It's been "mallified," and with a vengeance.
I guess that's an improvement over the block made famous in films like "Midnight Cowboy" and "Taxi Driver," but one could scarcely hear the beat of dancing feet over the racket emanating from the ESPN Zone Sports Bar. Also, I think it's just plain wrong that they've closed the Howard Johnson restaurant, but hey, money talks.
The morning after we arrived, I rinsed out my shirt and headed out to meet Elena for lunch. Liz eyed me quizzically when I put on the still-soggy shirt, but as I said, "If a black guy in a wet shirt is the most interesting sight on 8th Avenue today, this city has changed a lot more than I thought."
I was dry by the time I'd walked the nine blocks from my hotel to the restaurant. Elena and I had a fine lunch (thanks again, E!), and then it was back to the hotel so we could issue a BOLO to American Airlines regarding our luggage -- and take care of some shopping.
That evening, we met Michael and his wife Judy (she's great) for dinner at a fantastic Cuban joint downtown before heading over to a quiet bar where Michael has some pull. Once there, we took over the back room, joined by a slew of college friends. This is why I love going to NYC -- to see people. At Michael's wedding last summer, he put me at a table with this crew, and I'm still grateful.
Other than my family, my college friends are the folks who've known me the longest -- about half my life at this point. It's good to check in with them from time to time; they can see how I have (and haven't) changed, and vice versa. The many mojitos I ingested that evening have since worn off, so I can say this without sounding maudlin: I love my New York friends.
(They're cool Easterners, so they don't express sentiments like that, but I've been living in California for 10 years, and we Golden Staters aren't afraid to gush every now and then.)
It was a Thursday, so things broke up before too late. We're all getting older -- spouses, kids and morning meetings are entirely valid reasons to cut short an evening in your mid-thirties. I was very glad to receive a personal invitation to Reed and Meredith's wedding next June. Mazel tov, kids!
Michael walked us over to an affiliated bar, Milk & Honey, my favorite watering hole in North America. It has rules of conduct for patrons and bartenders I'm not embarrassed to call "mixologists." These guys are expert at what they do, and emanate authentic charm and wit without being obsequious.
Walking between bars, I noticed the shafts of light that soar where the World Trade Center once loomed, lit to mark the anniversary of the disaster. We said our goodbyes to Michael in the early hours. I hope to see him and Judy again soon.
Abby and Aaron rolled into Brooklyn late that night and crashed at Elena's -- we met up with them the next afternoon in the midst of the retail equivalent of an Ironman triathlon to ensure we'd have clothes for Jamaica and Honduras. I'd gone to a Sprint store to get a new SIM card for the Treo, so we were able to direct A, A, and E to meet us at an Old Navy store in midtown.
They were sucked into our retail vortex as we swirled around midtown, all the time offering suggestions and cracking jokes that lightened my mood and took the hassle out of our hustle. The five of us had an excellent time, ending up in our hotel room, where Liz and I opened a bottle of duty-free port.
I left them upstairs to go meet my brother Vincent in the lobby for a few drinks before he returned to home and hearth in Westchester. Unfortunately, my sister-in-law Jennifer had her hands full at home, so she wasn't able to join us. I'm looking forward to coming back soon so I can see her and my nephews.
Liz, Elena, Abby and Aaron fled the hotel room while I shared some brotherly time with Vin. I met up with them before we headed to a Mexican place in Brooklyn, where I annoyed a borough-born waitress with my caveman Spanish. Afterwards, we decamped for a small get-together at Leif & Uma's, a lovely couple Elena introduced me to last year.
We stayed there until quite late, long enough to sing "Happy Birthday" to a certain beautiful woman with green eyes and a well-stamped passport. Echoing the previous evening, we hugged and were hugged in return before scoring a cab back to Times Square.
The only upside I see from having your luggage misplaced is that packing is not nearly as time-consuming. When all you have is a sports duffle with two T-shirts, some boxer briefs, and a pair of khaki shorts, you can get out of a hotel room with celerity.
I don't think we slept, as we had an early flight to Montego Bay. In the cab on the way to the airport, my mind went where it usually goes when I'm leaving New York: why don't I live there? I do love the city, I enjoy my friends very much, and it'd be as good a place as any to pursue my long-term goals (i.e., writing for dollars).
One day, I'll put that conflict to rest. Until then, I will always look forward to visiting my New York friends and family, and I'll learn to deal with the ambivalence that attends each departure.
Posted by Walter at September 26, 2005 12:45 AM