NYC 2: Start Spreading the News
Aug. 5th, 2010 05:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947Start spreading the news,
I’m leaving today.
I want to be a part of it,
New York, New York.
(New York, New York: Fred Ebb and John Kander)
“Which way do we go?” asked Kathy, watching passengers scurry in both directions along the shiny corridor.
“Ummm, let’s follow them,” I replied, nodding at three young girls wearing colorful knit caps that covered their ears, and long, bright, checkered scarves that dangled to the waists of their tight blue jeans. “They look like students”.
We trailed behind as they passed through a bank of turnstiles under an exit sign marked 116 Street Station/Columbia University, and then disappeared up a flight of stairs. We soon emerged into the sparkling glare of the most brilliant morning we’d experienced in New York. A blast of frigid air quickly greeted us, giving testimony to the accuracy of the Times weather forecast which called for temperatures in the low 20’s, but a wind chill that promised to make it feel like 0 degrees. While burrowing my nose deeper into my scarf, I still managed to spy a wide, blue banner on the side of a building, with the name Miller Theater - Columbia University lettered in white.
“Kathy,” I called, in a muffled voice. “I think it’s this way”. I tried sounding confident, because I really didn’t know where “it” was, or what “it” looked like.
Columbia University was a mark on a map next to a subway station and streets. I didn’t know what it looked like or how to enter. We were on a wide, unmarked city street, lined with multi-storied, grey and brownstone buildings, offices, and apartments. The street had the same compact and vertical downtown look that you saw everywhere in New York. I imagined that Columbia would be one of those archaic, urban, metropolitan universities that were constructed with a scarcity of contiguous land and space – the two most prized commodities in New York. The campus probably looked like George Washington University in Washington D.C., a loose amalgamation of brick and mortar halls, offices, and dorms scattered throughout the city, with no central meeting ground. Walking toward the banner, we saw that the building was actually the front of the Columbia School of the Arts, which housed the Miller Theater. Next to it was a high barred fence with a guard kiosk that looked like the fortress entrance in the Guns of Navarrone movie. The only hint of academia was the addition of two large, marble pillars, with Greek statues on pedestals. We entered the wide gate and walked along a shadowed passageway, between two looming, brick buildings. Breaking free of the chilly shadows, at the corner of the buildings, we were suddenly greeted by an exuberant expanse of bright sunshine and colorful open space.
Decorated with wide ribbons of sparkling red and white walkways, and large, green tracts of seemingly endless grass, the vast central Quadrangle was bordered on all sides by gleaming examples of classical, scholastic, and modern architecture. At first, I was entranced by the sheer scope and beauty of this Elysian vista, and then forgotten memories began popping in my mind. I knew this place! I’d seen it filled with students and protesters in countless photos, newspapers, magazines, posters, and on movie and television screens throughout my college days. This was the mythic home of student civil disobedience, a hub of the civil rights struggle, and the flashpoint of the student anti-war movement and the college strikes of the late 60’s. While the University of California in Berkeley ushered in the rights of free speech at college campuses, it was on this Quad, on these steps, and in front of these buildings that they were iconically depicted in actions, print, and pictures. However, I never made the connection between Columbia and this campus, and I certainly never expected anyplace in the city of New York to look like this! This emerald isle in the middle of Morningside Heights was beautiful!
I stood lost in those nostalgic thoughts of long ago days, when another blast of frigid air brought me back to reality, and reminded me that bright, sunny days didn’t mitigate the freezing temperatures of New York in December – especially on these heights. Asking Kathy to pose for some quick photos on the steps of Low Memorial Library, we suddenly heard the faint musical tinkling of her cell phone.
“Hold on,” Kathy said, clumsily digging it out of the folds of her overcoat with her gloves. She looked at the front plate for a moment, and then announced, “It’s Mike. Look, I’ll take this, but you go on. I’ll get back with you in a bit”.
Kathy moved out of the wind, toward the shelter of Kent Hall, and I climbed the steps of the library to take pictures of the Alma Mater sculpture, and other parts of the campus. The call from her brother Mike, a lawyer working in Manhattan, wasn’t unexpected. Kathy had informed him of our trip weeks ago, and we were planning to visit him on Wednesday at his law offices over Grand Central Station. A few more buffets of chilly winds convinced me that I had my quota of open-air photos, and I walked rapidly to join Kathy, who had finished her conversation.
“What did he want?” I asked innocently.
“To change our plans,” she snapped. “Oh, I didn’t mean that,” she reconsidered. “He called hoping that we could see him today, because he’s finishing up early and won’t be coming into the city tomorrow. He’d like to catch the last train to Connecticut and get an early start on his vacation”.
“Hmm, that presents a problem with Jonaya’s mom coming in from New Jersey,” I pointed out. “Can we manage meeting both of them on the same day? I’m not even sure which train Judy’s taking or when she’s arriving.”
“Well, what did you expect me to do?” Kathy replied in frustration. “I told him I’d call back. What did you want me to tell him?”
I held back the rising bile of a snarky retort and took a breath instead. This was the first discordant note on our trip. Until that moment on the windswept commons of Morningside Heights, everything had gone as we wanted, planned, or improvised.
“You know,” I said instead, “this is going to be fine. This will work out. We need to see both Judy and Mike today, and we’ll make it work. Did Mike say what times were good for him?”
“He said he could wait as long as 7 o’clock,” Kathy replied. “Then he needed to catch the last train to Connecticut”.
“Okay,” I shivered. “Well, we have all morning to figure something out. In the meantime, let’s find the Student Union or someplace warm and sit down.” I sounded more confident than I felt, but I couldn’t believe that this unexpected turn would lead to some upsetting family disaster.
Visiting relatives is the bane of all travelers hoping to have an enjoyable time in a new city. Relaxed and flexible sightseeing is meant to be fun and enjoyable, but scheduling family visits can be an arduous obligation that can highjack a trip’s itinerary. Instead of spending free time exploring a city, one loses time with family reunions, contrived family tours, and dinner parties. Anticipating this, Kathy and I hoped to only visit two critical individuals on this trip – her younger brother, Mike, and Judy, the mother of Toñito’s fiancé, Jonaya. Mike lived in Connecticut, and Kathy had originally arranged to visit him on Wednesday while touring Grand Central Station. I had spoken to Judy that morning, and agreed to meet at Penn Station later in the afternoon. We had never met Jonaya’s sole living parent, and only knew that she lived and worked in New Jersey. Mike’s call had suddenly narrowed the window of opportunity to meet both parties comfortably, especially since we didn’t know when Judy was arriving at Penn Station. She was supposed to notify us by cell phone when she was on her way.
“The Times Square Station is our transition point between Penn Station and Grand Central Station,” I announced, believing that by mastering the public transportation route I was controlling the situation.
“Do you still want to go see the Union Theological Seminary?” Kathy asked, sitting next to me and gazing at the outstretched map. “It looks like it’s just up the street on Broadway.”
“I don’t really trust the scale on these maps,” I replied. “We could end up walking for miles, and it’s really cold outside. No, I say we finish up here, shop for souvenirs in the Bookstore, and head to Penn Station. We can explore that part of town while waiting to receive Judy’s phone call”.
“I agree,” Kathy said, sipping her tea. “But let’s stop at the hotel first. We need to pick up Judy’s gift and I want some warmer clothes”.
The rest of the morning went smoothly. We found the Student Bookstore at the bottom of Lerner Hall and then retraced our steps to the 116th Street Subway Station. Riding back to the hotel on the Red Line, I was beginning to feel warm and confident.
“Do you know our stop?” Kathy warned, watching me pocket my concierge map.
“Yeah, we get off at Columbus Circle. It’s easy,” I replied, leaning back in my seat. So easy in fact that fate stepped in to remind me of the penalty for hubris. Not bothering to double-check the street numbers as we rode along, I didn’t realize that 59th Street was another name for the Columbus Station stop.
“Aah, Kath,” I said quietly, watching the doors hiss close, as the tile sign reading Columbus Circle roll past. “I think we missed our stop.”
Jonaya’s mother called once we had doubled-back to our stop and returned to the Essex House. She was catching the train from New Jersey and would arrive at Penn Station around 3 o’clock. For the first time since receiving Mike’s call we relaxed. It looked like we had plenty of time to meet Judy’s train, have lunch somewhere, and then proceed to Grand Central Station for our rendezvous with Mike. However, a new panic emerged when we walked into Penn Station.
I always thought that Penn Station was the ornate and monumental train station pictured in the movie, The Glenn Miller Story, and commemorated in his song, Pennsylvania 65000 (containing the famous lyrics, “You leave Pennsylvania Station ‘bout a quarter to four, read a magazine, and then you’re in Baltimore”). I was wrong on all counts. Those lyrics are from the song, Chattanooga Choo Choo, and Pennsylvania Station was nothing like I expected. It was certainly massive, but in a claustrophobic, ant farm kind of way. Penn Station was a riotous and confusing place. It’s low ceiling, multi-leveled corridors, stairways, and plazas were jam packed with people, vendors, and wave after wave of rushing commuters. I learned later through Wikipedia, that it is the terminus point of the American Northeast Corridor, an electrified rail line system that runs south to Washington D.C., and north to Boston. Amtrak operates the intercity trains that go through this hub, while the commuter rail lines are owned by the Long Island Rail Road (LIRR) and New Jersey Transit (NJT). The station also services six New York City subway routes. It is the busiest passenger transportation facility in the United States, and by far the busiest train station in North America. Grand Central Station may have the magnificent name, but it is third-rate in the number of passengers it services daily. Kathy and I shook our heads, and stared up in slack-jawed bewilderment at the blizzard of track numbers, destination names, and times listed on innumerable Arrival/Departure boards mounted on walls.
“We need to ask somebody,” Kathy finally said, turning to me with a glazed look in her eye. “I have no clue where to go”.
A security guard eventually directed us upstairs to the New Jersey Transit office, where I asked a ticket agent where we could meet the 3:30 train. To my surprise, she said she didn’t know because trains from New Jersey came in at all times and on different tracks. I reported this confusing bit of information to Kathy and resigned myself to staying alert to recognize a woman we had never seen before. During this nerve-racking wait, I noticed one amusing phenomenon. Over a period of time a growing crowd of people would assemble, standing about and looking up at the departure monitors. Suddenly, and without warning, they would all stampede in one direction. As they rushed by I could hear individuals calling out, “Track 7, track 7, it’s leaving from track 7”. This bizarre sight was repeated two more times while we waited there. Eventually (and while I had wandered off looking for another waiting area) Judy called again, saying she had arrived and was waiting for us at the subway exit to Madison Square Garden. We hurried to that exit, quickly went up a flight of stairs, and halted when we heard a husky call out, “Tony, Kathy, Kathy, Tony,”…. Judy had found us.
We crossed 7th Avenue and found a restaurant inside the Pennsylvania Hotel. There we talked for about 90 minutes, getting to know each other better, and sharing stories and insights into our children. After saying goodbye to Judy in front of the hotel, Kathy briefly considered taking a cab to Grand Central Station, assuming it would be the quickest way. However, one look at the mile long waiting line at the taxi stand convinced her that my subway route would be faster. We returned to Penn Station, climbed aboard the train to Times Square, and in a flash caught the connecting shuttle to 42nd Street. In less than 20 minutes we were standing under the vaulted ceiling of Grand Central Station. Compared to Penn Station, this terminal was an airy breeze. The hallways were vast and open, with gorgeous chandeliers, beveled windows, and sweeping stairs. Kathy had visited Mike in New York before, so, after promising me that we would return to the hall so I could take pictures, she led the way through the spacious concourse toward the Met Life Building. In the lobby we approached the security officers who checked our ID’s against the visitors list and issued us temporary badges with our digitized photos. Mike’s office was on the 48th Floor, overlooking Park Avenue. The view from his office window was a panoramic, uptown vista of the city, with the Hudson River on the left and the East River on the right. He took us on a short scenic tour of the city from different offices and lobbies and then we headed downstairs for drinks at Grand Central. Michael Jordan’s bar was full so we settled for an Italian tavern nearby. Looking out over the vast concourse, Kathy and Mike chatted about family and kids, while waves of people moved through below. After exchanging news and information for about an hour, Mike left to catch the 7 o’clock train to Fairfield and we wandered about the lobby terminal absorbing the sights and taking pictures.
“My goodness,” I said, collapsing into a vacant subway seat, “this day went remarkably well.”
“I would never have predicted it this morning,” Kathy agreed, sitting next to me. “Everything worked out perfectly.
We finally met Judy and had plenty of time with Mike before he caught the last train home. Now we just need to dress for dinner and make out 9:30 reservation.”
“Does everyone eat dinner this late?” I asked, checking my watch. “I can’t imagine anyone else being in the restaurant at that hour.”
“9:30 is a very civilized time to eat in New York,” Kathy explained. “Plus, it gives us plenty of time to get back to the hotel, shower, and dress. You can even mix a cocktail for us while we relax”.
“The best thing about Marea is its location. It’s so close, we won’t have to wear all this arctic gear,” I said, unwrapping my scarf and pointing at the thick layers of clothes I was wearing. “I’m wearing a blazer and regular shoes tonight. What kind of restaurant is it, anyway?”
“I think it specializes in Italian seafood cuisine. The concierge said it was new, but very good”.
“Well, we’ve been pretty lucky so far,” I added.
A big challenge we faced on our four-day visit to a new city was food. Where does one go for dinner and drinks, especially in a metropolis with such a storied culinary reputation? The system we used was pretty basic: we asked the advice of people who were familiar with the better restaurants, we researched the available literature and the Internet, and we were observant and lucky. Kathy was really good at all these things, and I complemented her. She immediately got the ball rolling by emailing her brother Mike about our visit and asking him to recommend some good eating-places near the Essex House on Central Park South. He quickly gave us a range of locales and menu prices, and his mentioning of P.J. Clarke, near Lincoln Center, was the reason we ate there on our first night. Kathy was also great at picking the brains of the hotel concierge for ideas and reservations, and searching the hotel maps and magazines for possible restaurants. I was good at observing our surroundings as we walked or traveled through the city, and taking note of the closest, or interesting places to dine and drink. In fact, on Sunday night, while walking back to the hotel from Lincoln Center, I spotted Rosa Mexicano, a Mexican restaurant, at which we dined the following Monday. Although we had to wait for a while in the bar, we met a pair of interesting Colombians who were entertaining a guest from Mexico. The Mexican meal more than made up for the delay, and later we caught a taxi to the famous Algonquin Hotel, where we had a nightcap at its Blue Bar. Another fortuitous occasion was walking past Marea, on Central Park South, on our way to Columbia University that same morning, and deciding to make a reservation for dinner that night.
Lightly dressed for a change, we entered the mutedly lighted, amber-colored lobby of Marea, and were greeted by a crush of over-coated and fur-bearing men and women, crowding the entrance. The restaurant was packed (so much for my thought that no one ate at 9:30)! A host and hostess were speaking to the guests, listing reservations, and predicting the seating times, as a more elegantly dressed maitre d´ (or owner) peered over their shoulders, giving them advice. We gave the hostess our name as a tall, skinny man, in a very expensive suit, pushed passed us demanding to be recognized. He had no reservation, but was insistent that his identify, or that of his party, should be reason enough for the maitre d´ to seat them immediately. As the hostess blushed at the rudeness, the maitre d´ never changed his serene expression or his calm voice. He verified our reservation, told the tall man that he would see what could be done for him, and instructed the hostess to seat us near the oyster bar. The oyster bar was away from the crowding in the main dining room, and looked like an elegant lounge, with tables and cushioned seats lining a shell incrusted, marble wall. I ordered a martini from the elegantly dressed and efficient waitress, and we listened to her dining suggestions, while inspecting the menu. We probably should have gone with the recommended “Four Course Prix Fixe” meal of “Crudo, Ostriche, or Antipasto/Pasta/Pesce or Carne/ Dolce,” but instead made our own individual selections. Each course came with a eloquent presentation by a smartly dressed server, and a detailed description of the plate and its preparation. We had a delicious appetizer of scampi, and then I selected a pasta dish called Fusilli, with red wine braised octopus and bone marrow. The server explained that the chef, Michael White, cooked the mirepoix (combinations) in a big pot with baby octopus, Sangiovese, and tomato purée. He then simmered it until tender and the sauce becomes thick with flavor. The result is mixed with a serious amount of seared bone marrow and twirls of house-made fusili. The marrow emulsifies and acts as butter in the sauce. It was delicious! Kathy and I slowly and deliberately savored our meals, and kept smiling at each other over our culinary discovery.
We finished the day’s adventures by debriefing over nightcaps at the bar in Nino’s Tuscany, a restaurant half block from our hotel. There we reviewed the events and actions of the day, and congratulated ourselves with a toast. We had survived the frigid weather, successfully traveled in an unfamiliar city under pressing time constraints, enjoyed the company of family and friends, and still managed to relax and eat a marvelous meal in an unexpectedly fine restaurant. All that and it was still only our second full day in Manhattan!
Two more days would follow with excursions to the Metropolitan Museum, Times Square, the Empire State Building, and Greenwich Village. A light, morning snowstorm, that covered Central Park in a frosting of white, capped off our trip on the day we departed. It was a glorious way to say goodbye to an impressive city, and a remarkable adventure.
If you are interested in seeing the complete photo album of our trip to Manhattan, check my Flickr account at: 2009-12-27 to 31: New York.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-29 09:08 pm (UTC)My best to Kathy,
TRH
TRAVEL WRITER!
Date: 2010-10-01 05:49 am (UTC)\Tony