The Incongruous City

Mrs L sees and hears it on the streets of Manhattan

 

Wednesday, August 19

Mr. L and I walked the new Highline with our kids a couple times this summer. What a fantastic idea, to turn the old elevated railway into a meandering park, with natural (or at least natural-LOOKING) plants and flowers, and wonderful vantage points, and tunnels and benches, and impromptu concerts on fire escape balconies. A little bit of everything, just like the city itself.

Friday, July 31

I was crossing a street in the East Village and I saw a man coming toward me with a cat. On a leash. On his head. The cat was sitting very happily on his owner’s head, and I stopped a moment to watch as they walked down the street. Usually weird animal moments happen on the streets without notice, but this guy and his Cat on the Head were getting a lot of attention from passers-by, and they both looked happy to receive it.

Wednesday, June 10

I was in an elegant restaurant, sitting near an elderly, well-dressed couple and could not help overhearing this comment from the woman to her male companion: "Well, the MOST adventurous people in MY college were the nymphomaniacs who became lesbians." The man merely nodded in silent understanding. I’m not making this up.

Monday, June 1

The last day of May was spectacular. It was in the mid 70’s, clear, blue and bright. At 4 in the afternoon, Mr. L and I went to a performance at St. Ann’s in Brooklyn of Cynthia Hopkins’  "The Success of Failure (Or the Failure of Success)", directed by our friend D.J. Mendel. It was wild, dark, inspiring and quite brave. Afterwards, we walked back to Manhattan over the Brooklyn Bridge, along with a few hundred other people out enjoying the gorgeous spring day. Mr. L was taken by a fancy in the middle of the bridge and stopped to kiss me, with the skyline and the East River as backdrop. We got in a taxi and went to one of our favorite old-time French bistros, and a jazz combo was playing when we walked in. The door of the restaurant was open to the breeze and the light was scattering across the hundred-year-old floorboards. After dinner, we walked out into a beautiful fading sky, and walked the ten blocks home. It was kind of a perfect day, one which makes you happy to live in New York, where there is art, architecture, history, rivers, French cuisine, jazz music, antique buildings and romance at every turn.

Sunday, May 3

Overheard walking down the sidewalk: "I SLEEPWALK faster than you."
(Okay, my husband said it to me. But he’s abnormal. I am a very fast walker. It’s just that he’s a lot taller and his strides are inhuman.)

Monday, April 13

I was so sad to read in the New York Times today that the venerable Joseph Patelson Music House is closing. I first went in there at least 25 years ago to buy piano scores. I went in a decade ago to buy Italian Arias. I went in last year to buy ‘Piano the Second Time Around’ and ‘Bach for Beginners’ so I could practice my abysmal piano skills. Patelson is a legendary store for musicians of all kinds, and it is another victim of the internet. Why go into Patelson when you can buy sheet music directly from the publisher online? Why? Because there was so much pleasure in going through the hand-lettered bins and racks, softly shuffling across the old hardwood floors, looking across the street to Carnegie Hall through the gorgeous old carriage house windows, and accepting the sales clerks occasional bad humor with equanimity. I was not a regular customer of Patelson, but I appreciated it deeply and thought, like so many other things, that it would always be there.
Goodbye to another era.

Friday, February 13

A story from my son’s piano teacher: she asked her students to become ‘metronomes’, and to do an informal survey of beats and rhythms in the city.  One of her students listened intently and then said, with some disappointment, ‘But—I thought Metronomes were gnomes who lived in the subway."

Saturday, January 24, 2009

In my nearly eighteen years of living in New York City, I’ve never seen this until today: a stark naked man walking down Seventh Avenue. It was twenty degrees, and he did not have a single stitch of clothing on. Nothing. Nada. He was young, probably in his mid-twenties, and didn’t look too crazy. It was puzzling.

He stopped at the corner of Seventh Avenue and 23rd Street and stood waving his arms and yelling. A street vendor who had a table of scarves for sale at that corner quickly brought one over to him and tried to convince him to tie it around his waist, but it didn’t really do the job. Within a few minutes, a paddy wagon pulled up and three of New York’s finest jumped out, two female officers and one male. The women averted their eyes, and the male officer cuffed the poor guy. While the police officer was holding the naked man up against the van, he made a cell phone call, and apparently got permission to buy a large scarf from the street vendor, which he did, and then wrapped around the guy before guiding him into the van.

A crowd had gathered by this time, and a couple of people got out cameras to take pictures. The female officers shooed them away, and the naked guy, at that point quiet and subdued, started shaking with the cold. I felt very bad for him. What drives a young man to take off all his clothes and walk down the avenue in the dead of winter? And what would happen to him once they got him to the precinct?

Friday, December 5

We have a friend who recently moved from Tennessee to New York, and we had him over for dinner a few nights ago. We were listening to him describe the pros and cons of moving to New York, and  the enormous transition he is currently navigating.  He mused about how long he might stay in the city.  After listening quietly for a few minutes, my nine-year-old son finally interjected with some stridency, "But… are you going to get your green card??"
I’ve always maintained that Manhattan is indeed an island off the coast of America, but I didn’t realize how fully my son had integrated that notion.

Wednesday, November 5

I live in Chelsea, about twenty blocks straight south of Times Square, and I could hear the roars from my bedroom window at about 11 pm election night, when Obama was declared President-elect.  The celebration here in Chelsea, and all around the city, went on until the wee hours.  There was literally Dancing In The Streets.  There was a group in the East Village who gathered spontaneously to sing "The Star-Spangled Banner".  American flags went up all over.  Personally, we posted a little handmade sign in the window, next to the pumpkin decorations, that said "Yes, We Did!"
What an exciting moment.

Wednesday, October 29

We had our first real cold day in the city yesterday and it was fun to see everyone break out their winter duds.  I have made an informal observation over the years about who really dresses for the weather, and who rebels against appropriate cold-weather garb.  If I want to know how cold it is, and how to dress, I look out my window and watch passers-by for a few minutes to get my cue. Just opening the door and sticking my hand out never works, because once I’m out for a few minutes it is always colder than I thought.  Okay, here comes a young, straight man, wearing a hoodie.  No, can’t trust him.   I’ll freeze to death.  Teenage girl in a mini-skirt and Ugg boots with only a scarf for warmth?   Are you kidding?  I’ll have pneumonia by 4 pm.  Pizza delivery guy?  Shirtsleeves.  Right, he just ran out of the restaurant and didn’t bother putting a jacket on.  No reliable information there.   Okay, here comes the exact right person for my weather info:  a mom pushing a stroller.  She AND the baby have on coat, scarf, gloves and a hat.  Thank you, Mom!   I’ll be toasty all day.

Wednesday, October 22

Because the euro is so strong and the dollar so weak, the city is overrun with foreign tourists right now, all laden down with shopping bags.  I see plenty of signs in store windows that say ‘Euros accepted’.  I even saw one sign that said, ‘Euros ONLY’.  I won’t mention any names.  You know who you are, nice antique store.  My daughter and I were in Bloomingdales last month, going up the escalator and as we got off, we saw a tall, striking young woman with a thick Brooklyn accent hawking perfume where people were getting on and off the escalator.  No one paid any attention to her, so she amped up the volume and, in full Brooklynese, said, "BONJOUR!  CA VA!  BONJOUR, PEOPLE!"

Wenesday, October 8

I stepped into an elevator which was full of seven or eight African-American women, all leaning over a stroller and cooing at an adorable, pudgy-cheeked, wide-eyed African-American baby, who looked to be about 2 years old.

Her mother kept saying gently, "Tell them your name. Tell them your name," but the baby would not comply. The elevator door opened and all the ladies started to walk out and suddenly the baby bellowed, in a voice loud enough to fill a ball park, "MY NAME IS BARACK OBAMA!" Everyone broke into peals of laughter. I leaned over and said to the baby, ‘So, you’re going to be president!" and she bellowed back, "YES!"

Tuesday, October 7

I know it’s summer when the old guy in the building next door parks his plastic lawn chair on the sidewalk in front of his apartment building sometime after lunch, and sits there for the entire afternoon watching the traffic and the passersby as if he is watching the waves and boats from the seashore. And I know it’s Fall when he stops bringing his plastic chaise outdoors and he becomes just another sidewalk surfer, head down and jacket zipped all the way up as he trudges down the street. It’s Fall.

Tuesday, September 23

a memory:  when my son was three years old, he went to the library with a group of kids and two other moms.  One of the moms was showing the kids the globe of the world and pointing out different countries.  She asked my son, a native New Yorker who has never lived above 23rd Street, "Do you know what country you live in?"  He stuck out his chest proudly. "I live in the country of DOWNTOWN!"  he said. Still true.

Saturday, September 13

A car alarm directly across the street from my living room window went off for forty-five minutes before I called 311, the city services hotline. First, however, I taped a note to the window of the car saying, ‘YOUR CAR ALARM IS STUCK! PEOPLE LIVE IN THIS NEIGHBORHOOD!’. Within 10 minutes of calling 311, a squad car was there, and one of New York’s finest was writing a ticket. I walked across the street. "Hi, I’m the one who called." The officer looked up. "Are you also the one who wrote the nice note taped to the window?" "Yes, I am!" I said. "But I did restrain myself from throwing eggs." The officer told me to call 311 again and have the car towed, since they couldn’t turn it off. I went inside and told my daughter what he said. "But mommy," she said, ‘If you have their car towed, you’ll ruin their day." True. I didn’t call 311 back. The alarm stopped about ten minutes later.

Friday, September 12

JRC 1932-2003
with love always

Tuesday, September 9

September 11th: I sang at the memorial service at the World Trade Center site on the fourth anniversary of the attacks, September 11, 2005. The request had come from the Mayor’s office, and even the choice of song was specified. I sang "Danny Boy", a somewhat difficult song in the best of circumstances, but actually physically painful in the midst of a sea of grieving survivor’s families on that warm day three years ago. I will never forget it, and I will never forget that day four years earlier, how I watched the towers burn from the middle of Greenwich Street. My initial reaction, which still holds: No one should have to experience this, ever. Anywhere.

God bless the whole world, no exceptions.

Thursday, Sept 4

My husband, Mr. L, who is no fan of dog owners in the city (it’s a long and sordid history) went outside to take out the trash and saw a dog owner, a middle-aged woman, walking away from the nice pile her pooch had just left on the sidewalk in front of our house.  Mr. L, being as polite as he could manage under the circumstances of living in a city of about 100 million dogs and sidewalks that we all share, said, ‘Ma’am!  You forgot to clean up after your dog!"  The woman turned around and screeched at him, "YOU SHOULD PROVIDE BAGGIES" and turned and ran quickly away. I am not making this up.

Sunday, August 31

coming out of the subway on 14th St. and 1st Avenue, I hear a Hispanic lady talking to herself and she slowly climbed the stairs.  I only understand a few words of Spanish, but I could swear she was saying ‘Ocho Dios… Ocho Dios…’. Doesn’t that mean Eight Gods?  I was dying to know which Eight Gods she was praying to, or listening to, or checking up on.  I must know.  The Eight Gods of Harlem?  The Eight Gods of Washington Heights?  The Eight Gods of the Lower East Side?  The Eight Gods of Mothers Everywhere?

Wednesday, August 27

I was having one of those days, and one of those phone calls.  I was in a taxi, in an intense conversation about what seemed an insurmountable problem.  I started crying into the phone.  A few blocks went by, and a hand came through the window between me and the driver, with a tissue. I took the tissue and the driver said, sweetly, ‘Calm yourself, dear.’  
What a great city.

Tuesday, August 26

I got in a taxi on Broadway and 58th Street, going to 7th Ave. and 23rd Street, a straight shot downtown through Times Square.  When I told the driver my destination, he said, "Do you want me to take the Queensboro Bridge?"  "What? No, I’m going to SEVENTH AVENUE and 23rd STREET," I said, thinking he had completely misunderstood me.  "Oh," he said. "You want me to take the Lincoln Tunnel?"  His eyes twinkled in the rear-view mirror.  I smiled.  "No, no, just take the TIMES SQUARE BRIDGE", I said.  The driver broke into guffaws. "All the years I make this joke, you are the first person to make a good joke back."  He shook his head and looked at me in the mirror. "You are funnier than me."  "I don’t think so," I said. "So what do tourists say when you make your joke to them?" I asked.  "Aw, they always ruin the joke.  They always say, ‘I don’t care which way you take me’".  All the way downtown he was shaking his head and chuckling to himself. Several times he said, "You’re funnier than me."  Several times I answered, "I don’t think so."

Monday, August 25

walking down 8th Avenue, a pushcart guy stands in front of his cart with arms outstretched and says, to no one in particular, ‘You don’t think from 2 o’clock in the morning until now is EARLY?!’
I’m still thinking about this.

Monday, August 25

A memory:  When I first moved to Manhattan, in 1991, there was a great, legendary dive of a restaurant called Shopsins at the corner of Bedford and Morton Streets in the West Village.  A family ran it, and they had about a hundred unbelievably delicious soups on the menu.  Mr. Shopsin, the owner and chef, was notoriously bad-tempered and all manner of epithets and abuse came out of the kitchen.  His wife took the orders, and his behaviour, with equanimity. She would let you go behind the counter and pour your own coffee after she’d seen you come in a couple of times, but she absolutely would not give up the coveted front table, which sat right in the window, for less than a party of four, even if the entire restaurant was empty.  One day I took two of my daughters in for lunch and we ordered.  My youngest asked for french fries.  Mrs. Shopsin rolled her eyes and sighed and tapped her pencil against the pad.  She shook her head.  "Don’t piss him off," she said.  We forgot about the french fries.

a memory, 1992:  I got into a taxi in Soho late at night, raining, and when I got in the taxi the driver crossed himself, floored the gas and ran straight into a parked car.

Monday, August 18th

A well-dressed guy comes up to me on the corner and starts in on an articulate, detailed and compelling story about how he is a designer who got locked out of his apartment and he needs ten dollars to….. "Wait a minute,"  I said.  "This sounds really familiar. Oh, I know!  You came up to me on this same corner two years ago and told me the same story!" He abruptly turned and walked away.

Friday, August 14th

I saw a white stretch limo pull up to the Barneys Warehouse Sale on W. 17th Street. Whatever they saved on that Prada jacket was spent on the gas for the stretch. Don’t you think?

Tuesday, August 12th

I was in a taxi, stopped at 8th Avenue and 50th Street, when I saw a woman walking across the street flossing her teeth as she walked.  She was holding a long, white piece of dental floss and just happily going at it as she talked to her companion and made her way to the corner.  "OH my God.  Do you see that?" I said to the taxi driver.  He looked up and saw her and held up his hands.  ‘AW, don’t show me that, don’t show me that!"  He turned around and looked at me seriously.  "Once about five years ago I was on the train, and a man standing next to me took out a q-tip and started cleaning his ears.  I’ve never gone on the subway since."  We both shook our heads in disgust and the light changed.