dedalus_1947 | Entries tagged with manhattan

Is this the little girl I carried?
Is this the little boy at play?
I don’t remember getting older,
When did they?
When did she get to be a beauty?
When did he grow to be so tall?
Wasn’t it yesterday when they were small?

Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset,
Swiftly flow the days.
Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers
Blooming even as we gaze.
Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset,
Swiftly fly the years.
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears.
(Sunrise Sunset: Bock & Harnick – 1964)

When do a father and mother realize that they have reached the tipping point of parenthood – that pivotal moment when their children are actually more knowledgeable and capable than they? Is there a certain age one reaches, or is it about diminishing mental capacities? Brain farts must certainly be one indicator, or perhaps the number of times you walk into a room and forget what brought you there. Maybe it is about getting older. I suppose I’ve always KNOWN that my two children, Tony and Teresa, had grown up and caught up to us. I’d watched them leave home for college, graduate, begin careers, marry, begin families, and buy their own homes. But it wasn’t until Kathy and I traveled with “Prisa” to New York City that it really hit me. It was there that I felt our roles had switched – the child was guiding the parent! You see, in the space of five months I have experienced that moment with both of our children in very different locales, Dublin and New York. Strange that it would take two cities, so far away from our homes in Los Angeles, to illicit a sense of a paradigm shift in our relations with our children.

The idea of traveling to New York with our daughter grew from a phone call she made to us on the night of last year's Golden Globe Awards. At the conclusion of the show on television, Prisa called us with news that the actor Jeff Daniels was starring in the new Aaron Sorkin Broadway production of Harper Lee’s classic novel To Kill a Mockingbird. After the phone call, Kathy tossed up the idea of taking Prisa to New York as a Christmas present. The more we talked and laughed about the idea, the more we realized that traveling to New York with our baby girl to see a new Broadway play was absurdly brilliant. That same evening we called her back with our proposition.

You need to understand that there is a special relationship between To Kill a Mockingbird and our daughter. It was the first novel I was ever able to convince Prisa to read. I did it by telling her that the central female character of the story, Scout, reminded me of her. I coaxed her into first seeing the movie version with Gregory Peck, and then tempted her into read the novel by saying that the book offered further tales and more information about the precocious tomboy, Scout. To date, I believe To Kill a Mockingbird is the only novel that Prisa read at my recommendation – and she loved it. I’m secretly convinced that she felt that Harper Lee was describing her and her relationship with her brother Tony in the story, and the book planted the seed of Prisa’s budding love of literature and the skill of writing. So the prospect of taking her to see a new production of the novel was an opportunity Kathy and I did not want to miss.

There was an assumption being made in that last sentence – that Kathy and I were taking our daughter to New York. It implies that we were in control and Prisa was coming as our guest. Now Kathy and I had been in New York City nine years earlier celebrating her 60^th birthday. We had explored the city together, walking Uptown and Downtown, strolling through Central Park, and masterfully utilizing the subway to travel to the Bronx, the Battery, Wall Street, Columbia University, and Grand Central Station. We were confident in our sense of direction and remembered the street names and numbers we traveled. All of those abilities deserted us on the first day, the minute we stepped outside the Hilton Midtown Hotel on 6^th Avenue. Even following the directions to Rockefeller Center, given by the hotel clerk, proved difficult. It wasn’t until Prisa stepped in, reading the Google map directions on her cell phone, which we found confusing, that we reached our destination. Over the two days Prisa stayed with us, I can only imagine her shaking her head in amusement over our directionless antics, and our wishy-washy decision-making. The second day in Manhattan, after visiting the 9-11 Memorial Museum at the World Trade Center and walking over to the Brookfield Place shopping mall on West Street to look for a place to eat lunch, I was overwhelmed by the size and seeming confusion of the food court. Once again Prisa took over, guiding us to an empty table overlooking the Hudson River and the New Jersey shore, and telling us to sit there until she had scouted the various offerings and came back with recommendations. Later, after taking a carriage ride through Central Park together, I imagined that she felt a great sense of relief at safely depositing her two parents back at the hotel, and went off to explore Manhattan on her own.

Traveling to New York to see a new Broadway play was a dream come true for me, and having Prisa there to share the experience made the whole evening magical. Yet, even while walking to Broadway, through Times Square, on our last evening together, we were totally dependant on Prisa’s guidance and directions to find The Blue Fin Restaurant for dinner and the Shubert Theatre for the play. Despite the fine meal, the great play, and the fabulous conversation before and after the play, I could not dispel a nagging sense of uselessness, and the feeling that an oceanic tidal shift in our relationship with our children had occurred.

I had felt a hint of this shifting landscape in Ireland, four months earlier, when Kathy and I met up with Toñito and his wife Nikki in Dublin for dinner. Kathy had been planning our return trip to Ireland for a year, and we were surprised to learn that Tony and Nikki had decided to visit Scotland and Ireland at about the same time in September. I believe it was Kathy who first floated the prospect of trying to meet up in Dublin, if our timelines and itineraries matched up. At first, I dismissed the idea as a fanciful wish and assumed Tony and Nikki would concentrate on their plans and around their own schedule and interests. So I was surprised when Toñito called Kathy sometime in August asking for the specific dates we would be in Ireland to see if he could coordinate a reunion. After much discussion with his mother, it was decided that he would try to meet us for dinner on our last night in Dublin, October 1. Even through Kathy never got a clear picture of Tony and Nikki’s specific travel plans in Scotland, she fixed on the idea of our reunion and believed it would take place. I, on the other hand, must confess of being a pessimist about nebulous plans actually working out, and throughout our travels in Ireland, whenever I asked Kathy for specific information about Tony’s itinerary and received a shrug with an “I’m not sure” response, my dubiousness multiplied. I tried dismissing the nagging suspicion that this reunion would never actually take place, and concentrated on enjoying my trip through Ireland with Kathleen.

You have to realize that Toñito was a sweet boy growing up. He was always thoughtful and considerate to his sister and us throughout his childhood, youth, and young adulthood. He shared his toys and sporting equipment with Teresa, included her in all his games and computer activities, and spent countless hours reading to her, and listening to her early attempts. He remembers birthdays and holidays, and always makes a point of attending family functions, celebrations, and weddings. But as often happens in the lives of maturing men and adults, new relationships, responsibilities, and personal interests and habits begin to dominate and take precedence. Tony follows his own schedule and pursues his own way of doing things. I suspected that Toñito would do what I would have done in his place while traveling with Nikki in Scotland – while always having the intention of making the reunion on October 1^st, the dictates of time, travel, and hardship would determine if he ever actually made it. I had experienced first hand the trials of train and automobile driving in Ireland, so I could imagine that the difficulties of crossing the Irish Sea and traveling into Dublin on a specific afternoon and evening would cause him to give up. It is what I would do.

On our last day in Dublin, Kathy and I did some last minute separate sightseeing, packing, and waited for Toñito and Nikki to notify us of their arrival in Ireland. We waited and waited, with Kathy never doubting, and stoutly putting up with my pessimistic vibes and comments, as I got hungry and then sleepy after two cocktails. At about 8 o’clock Tony finally called to tell Kathleen that they had arrived at a seaside bed and breakfast to the north of Dublin and planned on driving into the city. Kathy advised them to forgo the driving and instead taking the DART electric train to a station close to our hotel. Although it seemed to me that her suggestions were only complicating things further, Tony agreed and said he would meet us there. At about 9 o’clock we walked to Pearse Station, keeping a look out for Tony and Nikki on the multiple elevated tracks. As one, and then two trains arrived, Kathy said in an excited voice, “There he is!” and I too spotted the tall standing figure through the window of the train. Tony and Nikki had made it after all.

There is something special about meeting up and dining with loved ones, and close family members and friends in a distant or foreign city, far from home. The unlikelihood of such a reunion gives it a magical air and a timeless feeling. Watching Toñito descending on the station elevator changed the ambiance and tone of the evening for me. By overcoming time, distance, and hardships, Tony had achieved what I considered impossible for myself. At the nearby Kennedy’s Restaurant and Bar we laughed and talked together all evening. Tony and Nikki recounted their travels in Scotland and sought our suggestions about possible sites in Dublin. I smiled happily throughout the evening, listening to the talk and descriptions, but was a bit surprised at Tony’s response when I voiced my doubts about this reunion actually taking place. He laughed kindly as he put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Of course we were going to make it tonight, Dad! I wouldn’t miss celebrating your birthday in Ireland.”

So on two happy and magical evenings, in two faraway cities, spending private time with our son and daughter made me feel a little nostalgic of times long past. I loved the fact that we were together, talking about our travels through Dublin and New York, and the new theatrical adaptation of To Kill a Mockingbird. We discussed, agreed and disagreed about things, and spent much of the time laughing and smiling, but there was also a bitter sweet aura of time having passed us by – that Kathy and I were no longer as capable and able as we once were. We weren’t the primary caretakers. Over time, Toñito and Prisa had gently usurped that title. They had families, careers, homes, and futures, and they organized and managed their time based on changing demands and responsibilities. They were now the grownups, and were far more capable of traveling, negotiating new cities, and making quick decisions than Kathy or I. I suppose this sad realization would have come to us eventually, but I’m glad it happened when it did – in the company of our children, in two special places.

They erected a beacon to guide their children
And their children’s children,
And the countless myriad
Who should inhabit the earth in other ages.
(Abraham Lincoln: Bloomington Speech – 1852)

On this first observance of Patriot Day
We remember and honor those who perished
In the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001.
We will not forget the events of that terrible morning
Nor will we forget how Americans responded
In New York, at the Pentagon,
And in the skies over Pennsylvania
With heroism and selflessness;
With compassion and courage;
And with prayer and hope.
(Presidential Proclamation: George W. Bush – 2002)

I never thought I’d attend a 9/11 Memorial Concert. I usually ignore all the citywide events, and the concerts, memorials, and specials on TV and radio. I was stunned by the scenes and events of that day in September in 2001, and never felt the need to relive it. I was the principal of Van Nuys Middle School on the day the Twin Towers fell in New York, and the father of a family on that day when life in America changed forever. Nothing would ever be the same again. We would never participate in public events such as sports, entertainment, airplane travel, or large venue happenings in quite the same way. Our national lives changed in the way a personal life changes after the death of a very close friend or family member. Everything is different the next day, the next month, and the next year, until the difference becomes the norm and we don’t feel the strangeness anymore. So when I first received my brother Eddie’s invitation on Facebook to attend a performance of a Patriot Day Concert on September 11^th, I smiled, thought it was nice, and put it out of my head. It wasn’t until he called a few weeks later to ask if I could help him with the event that I took it seriously. Eddie was assisting his wife, Tamsen, who was the concertmaster of the event, and needed family reinforcements, so I agreed to help. For me, the event was not about national sentiment, but rather, about family need and support.

I’ve heard and read how many Americans claim to remember everything that happened on September 11^th, 2001. I don’t. The day was a kaleidoscope of events, emotions, and scenes. I only remember:

Kathy waking me up and saying there was something wrong happening on TV.

Hearing conflicting reports on the television newscast about a high-rise fire in the Twin Tower Building in New York, or of an airplane accident in that city.

Feeling annoyed and worried about the lack of factual information, and the seemingly wild speculations being offered by the announcers. The school year had just begun, and chaotic or panic inducing misinformation would be difficult to manage without well-established procedures and plans already in place.

Seeing smoke rising from one of the twin towers on TV and believing it was simply a high-rise fire.

Hearing the report that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon.

Seeing the tape of a second plane crashing into another tower.

Showering for work and wondering what was going on in New York and Washington D.C.

Driving to school and hearing that all airline flights were cancelled and airborne planes ordered to land.

Hearing the concern, anxiety, and fear in the voices of teachers and staff as they reported to work in the main office.

Standing out in front of the school where parents could see me, and where children could question me as they arrived at school: “Is there school today, Mr. Delgado? What’s happening, Mr. Delgado? Are we safe? Are we being attacked, Mr. Delgado?”

The clearest memory of that morning was when I greeted Stephen, a sandy-haired, 8^th grader who was also a student-office worker in the Main Office.
“Are we going to have regular classes today, Mr. Delgado”, he asked? “My mom is really worried”.
“Yes,” I assured him, “we’re having regular classes today, Stephen. As the Main Office gets more information about what’s going on, we’ll pass it on to the teachers, who will discuss it with you.”
“Okay”, he said, relieved. “I’ll tell my mom everything is fine.”
About 5 minutes later, I saw Stephen’s mother approaching me on the sidewalk at a fast pace.
“I know you told Stephen that everything is fine,” she began, breathlessly, “but I’m still worried. I’m not sure this is the safest place to be right now. I think I should have him home with me today.” Stephen’s mother also happened to be the PTA president, so I knew her question and concerns mirrored that of other parents, and that her actions and opinions could have a ripple effect on the feelings and actions of other parents and families.
“Linda”, I began, in the calmest and most confident tone I could muster, “your son is in the safest place he could be right now. He is in a structured and secure location that he knows, surrounded by friends and teachers who know him, care for him, and will protect him. He’s safer here than being alone at home, watching TV, or calling his friends to find out if they are at school. Believe me, Linda, especially today, this is the best place for Stephen and all our children.” I managed to calm her down and convince her that day, and she decided to let Stephen remain in school. Many months later, on Graduation Day in June, she brought that conversation to my attention again and presented me with a gift. I thanked her, but added that I was only doing my job.

Eddie and Tamsen’s Patriot Day Concert began with a salute to the service providers of the nation, those “first-responders” whose dedication to duty and service we rely on so much. They were represented by members of the Monrovia fire, police, and emergency health providers, who, garbed in their respective uniforms, suits, and equipment, carried in a memorial wreath to honor their fallen brethren who had responded to the calls for help on that fateful day. Two original works by Dr. David Stern, a local composer, teacher, and musician, comprised the first part of the program before intermission. The first piece was called, Lincoln Speaks of Liberty: “All Men Are Created Equal”, followed by his most performed orchestral work, written in response to the attack on New York, called We Stand for Freedom: In Memoriam, September 11^th, 2001.

Lincoln’s timeless words, as narrated by my brother Eddie (Eduardo) seemed to establish the theme of the concert:

“The Fathers of the Republic said to the whole world: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’.
This was their majestic interpretation of the economy of the Universe.
This was their lofty, and wise, and noble understanding of the justice of the Creator to His creatures…
They erected a beacon to guide their children and their children’s children, and the countless myriad who should inhabit the earth in other ages…”

Eddie ended his narrative with this last admonishment from Lincoln:

“They established these great self-evident truths, so that when in the distant future some man, some faction, some interest, should set up the doctrine that none but rich men, or none but white men, were entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, their posterity might look up again to the Declaration of Independence and take courage to renew the battle which their fathers began so that truth, and justice, and mercy, and all the humane and Christian virtues might not be extinguished from the land…”

Dr. Stern’s second orchestral piece redirected our attention to the 3000 American men and women who died on September 11.

The second part of the concert was more traditional in its selection of Dvorak’s New World Symphony 9, and it concluded with an uplifting rendition of Stars and Stripes Forever by John Phillip Sousa. Ending with a Sousa March was to be expected, but my curiosity over how Anton Dvorak’s symphony worked in conjunction with Stern’s early pieces prompted me to do a Wikipedia search when I got home. I learned that Dvorak wrote this popular symphony while director of the National Conservatory of Music of America in 1893, and that he was supposedly inspired by the hope and opportunities provided by America’s freedom and its “wide open spaces”. The symphony became sufficiently representative of America that Neil Armstrong took a recording of the New World Symphony to the Moon during the Apollo 11 mission in 1969.

Eddie and Tamsen’s Patriot Day Concert was not what I expected. I had feared a militant music celebration, filled with rousing wartime appeals for patriotism and sacrifice. Instead, what I saw and heard was a salute to the best of American values, American ideals, and American service. The main message of the concert was encapsulated in Lincoln’s words, that Patriots Day renews our belief and faith that “truth, and justice, and mercy, and all the humane and Christian virtues might not be extinguished from the land”. These are our values, our beliefs, and the basis of our way of life.

In We Stand For Freedom, David Stern reminded us that the people who died on 9/11 were ordinary Americans doing their jobs, providing their services, and living their lives. The music didn’t portray them as heroic figures, but simply as men and women who were martyred because they represented a way of life whose values and beliefs another group saw as a threat to their own. Many Americans, in referring to these victims use the phrase, “lest we forget”. I always took that phrase as a call for “justice”, which for some people is code for vengeance. I suppose that’s why I avoided going to these concerts, believing they would be vehicles to stoke the flames of revenge. But, there was no hint of anger, or a desire for retaliation in Dr. Stern’s music, or in Dvorak’s symphony – just sounds of loss and sadness, ending with a flourish of American hope. Hope that the pain and trauma of this tragedy would eventually diminish to a bearable level so we could continue forward. As President George W. Bush expressed it in his original proclamation, “Americans have fought back against terror by choosing to overcome evil with good. By loving their neighbor, as they would like to be loved”.

Start 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)

A trip can be a vacation, and a vacation can be a trip, but the activities of each can be very different. While lying on the glistening beaches, and lounging on the white, patio deck chairs of Ventura, reading countless books, stories, and novels, I was struck by how different this trip was to our December visit to New York (see NYC 1: A Helluva Town). One is so tranquil and relaxing, while the other was active and exciting. That momentary reflection brought up a series of images from our adventure in Manhattan, and reminded me of my failure to finish the story of the trip. Since I’d promised myself to do no writing while in Ventura, I suppressed the urge to begin composing. Instead I concentrated on reading the works of Flannery O’Connor and vowed to finish the New York story when I got home. The following is Part 2 of our New York trip:

Fumbling with my gloves and trying to locate my reading glasses and pocket map, the subway train jolted into motion and I watched the station sign glide away. It was mercifully warm on the train. The heat and proximity of other bodies were finally erasing the frigid memories of the arctic-like winds that whipped up 8^th Avenue and swirled around Columbus Circle. Sitting in the closely packed train, I was starting to get some feeling back into my fingers and face. Balancing the glasses on my nose, I checked the station stops on the map as we rumbled along the No. 1, Red Line traveling uptown toward the Bronx. Street number by street number rolled by at each successive station stop, and I alerted Kathy when we approached 116^th Street. We carefully began the long and elaborate rite of adjusting scarves, gloves, and earmuffs so we would be ready to exit quickly and confront the ensuing cold. This would be the furthest northern excursion on our Manhattan trip, and I was still a little unsure of myself on the subway. When the train screeched to a halt, we bumped our way out the door with the crowd, and surveyed the well-lit, tiled corridor that ran both ways along the tunneled track.
“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.

Holding a cup of steaming tea, Kathy returned to the cafeteria table heaped with our undone overcoats, scarves, hats, and camera case. I was staring intently at our convenient concierge city map with its colored grid of train lines and subway stops.
“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 116^th 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 59^th 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 48^th 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.

New York, New York, a helluva town.
The Bronx is up, and the Battery’s down.
The people ride in a hole in the groun’.
New York, New York, it’s a helluval town!
(Original lyrics of "New York, New York" – Bernstein, Comden, and Green, sung by Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra in the movie, On The Town)

Kathy and I flew home on New Year’s Eve after spending one of the most enjoyable trips in my life in New York City. This was my first visit to Manhattan, and Kathy had been urging me to go for years. Now I understand why! New York matched all the romanticized depictions I’d seen in photographs, movies, and on television all my life. The problem is - how do I write about it? How do I write about five days and four nights in this world famous metropolis they call “the Big Apple”? Do I tell you WHERE we went, WHAT we saw, and HOW we felt? Some people might find that engaging, but I think it would take too long and become a monotonous slideshow of locales (we went here, here, and here; saw this, this, and that, and felt challenged, amazed, and delighted). So how can I keep this account concise, interesting, and not too long? Hmm, perhaps by dividing it into two parts and starting with why it took me so long to go to New York.

I could never understand when friends and colleagues told me how they planned to retire AND TRAVEL. I never got that! Travel has never been a GOAL in itself for me - it was always a means of getting to a particular location TO DO SOMETHING else. I traveled to Mexico City to go to summer school, San Antonio to complete Air Force basic training, San Francisco for a second honeymoon (as well as birthdays and conferences), Portland to attend my nephew Tim’s wedding, Washington D.C. to see my son’s college plays (as well as Billy’s graduation and Kevin’s wedding), Savannah for Eddie’s graduation, Chicago to see my nephew Jeff’s (ill-fated) Broadway-bound musical, and Seattle to visit my cousin Raul. Even the road-trips I took with my high school friends to Big Sur, Monterey, Sacramento, Lone Pine, Mammoth, Death Valley, and Ensenada, were rough and tumble experiences, manly adventures meant to reunite us so we could play cards, tell stories, be silly, and spin dreams. So every time Kathy mentioned Ireland, Italy, or Spain as places we had to go and see, I would always ask WHY? I knew it was the wrong answer the moment I saw the light fade from her eyes and her smile disappeared, but I couldn’t help myself. Even I knew that I was hung up on an unreasonable inhibition (fear of traveling for the sake of traveling), because I always ENJOYED the places I visited. I loved exploring new cities, testing myself on their unique public transportation systems, walking, sightseeing, and discovering historical sites and cultural locations. Kathy knew, and I knew, that I would inevitably enjoy Ireland, Spain, Italy, or New York, if I ever got there. But I couldn’t overcome my deep-seated phobia of traveling for the sake of traveling by willpower alone - I needed A REASON. Luckily, an opportunity presented itself this year that offered a strategy around my inhibition and a solution to a bigger problem.

Kathy was turning 60 in December, and she was having considerable difficulty dealing with that date and number. Last summer, without giving me any suggestions or ideas, she announced that she did not want a big party (surprise or planned), but expected something special for her birthday. Suddenly her birthday became an overwhelming burden of finding the right present and a way to celebrate without making it a big deal. In puzzling out this dilemma, I happened to remember Kathy’s wry observation that I tended to buy gifts for others that I secretly wanted for myself (especially in the genres of electronics, art and literature). It struck me that if I reversed this egocentric tendency I might discover the perfect gift. Kathy loved to plan and book trips, and travel, and I hated to go without a reason – so what if her birthday and gift became my reason? Eureka, I’d found it! That night I told her that I wanted to take her anywhere in the United States for her birthday. All she had to do was choose the location. She chose New York and my problems were solved (along with a trip that subconsciously I suspected I might enjoy).

In evaluating this trip, the main reason it worked so well was my travel agent/traveling companion. Kathy was a marvel! She booked us into the Essex House, on Central Park South overlooking the Park, with a view of the Upper East Side skyline; and scheduled the stay between two storms. Our sojourn occurred during the five most beautiful days in December (clear and cold on Sunday, and snowing on the Thursday we left). She was also the perfect guide and partner in a city that was new to me, but familiar to her. Kathy had been to New York on three previous occasions, so she had a conceptual layout of the city’s grid and its sights. All I knew was the line from the musical On the Town: “the Bronx is up and the Battery’s down”. A photographic tour of our trip can best be seen in my Flickr album (see 2010-12-27 to 31: New York City). But how Kathy and I handled unexpected situations in New York showed how much in sync we were during the trip, and why we managed to enjoy it privately and in tandem. We adapted and improvised whenever we were confronted with deadlines and obstacles. We also accommodated our personal preferences and sought spontaneous discoveries.

Through our jobs and experiences, Kathy and I have learned that no detailed plan of action (“with all the ducks in a row”) ever comes off as conceived. So, rather than preparing a fixed and tight itinerary of where to go, what to see, and what to do on this trip (which many people expected us to do), we simply generated a mental list of ideas, wishes, and possibilities that sounded interesting (For example, we opted not to pre-purchase Broadway show tickets, but decided to wait until we arrived and settled in). Our initial overarching idea was the possibility of catching 5:30 mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral on 5th Avenue on the evening we arrived. This sounded like such an illusionary, romantic idea (dependent on so many variables), that it captured my imagination at once. It also added a heightened awareness to our arrival time, the means of transportation to the hotel, and our check-in time.

We flew Virgin America Airlines, and it was delightful. Everything on the plane looked new and efficient. We had individual viewing screens and free wireless fidelity (Wi-Fi) was available on the flight. Not only could we check our email and other Internet sites on my laptop, but I could also monitor the plane’s exact location across the United States on a GPS map on my monitor. The trip was uneventful, aided by a strong tailwind that got us to JFK International Airport in a speedy four-hour flight, at 3:00 P.M. I assumed we had plenty of time to recover our baggage, get a cab, reach the Essex House, and catch mass at St. Patrick’s – until I experienced midtown traffic in New York. Catching a cab at the airport was no problem, and the initial drive along the Long Island Expressway was sufficiently steady to give me time to take photographs along the way. I quickly stopped worrying about being taken for a tourist, and became resolved to take as many interesting pictures as I could. The cabbie even got into the swing of things by alerting me to a fabulous shot of the Manhattan Downtown skyline at sunset. However, all our momentum stopped once we crossed the river and traversed the Queens Midtown tunnel into New York. I finally understood why New Yorkers, when pressed for time, would abandon their taxis and walk. The clock was ticking, and we weren’t moving – despite our incredible cartographic proximity to Central Park. The only thing that saved us from fixating and worrying about the traffic, time, and our likely disappointment in not catching mass, was my belief that Mass was a preference, not a requirement. The gridlock conditions gave me plenty of time to study the people, faces, scenery, and local pubs as we inched along the streets. Kathy pointed out avenues, plazas, and famous locations, and I was comforted by the knowledge that if we arrived too late for Mass, we would simply do something else – no big deal. But we did arrive on time. At 4:30 we found ourselves across the street from the Essex House, on Central Park South. The cabbie entertained the idea of a U-turn for a mil-a-second and then announced that he would go around Columbus Circle to be on the right side. We were appreciative of the idea, but said no thanks. It was faster to settle the bill and roll our luggage across 59th Street at a crosswalk than to keep driving.

We registered and settled into our 34th floor room by 5 o’clock. The views from our windows were unbelievable. I could see Central Park, the Ice Rink, and the Upper East Side of New York from one, and Midtown East from the other. The concierge assured us that St. Patrick’s was only a quick walk away and we set out, well bundled in layers of clothing to shield us from the temperatures that were swiftly descending with the sun. I naively expected no further delays, until we came to the first big crosswalk on 58th Street and 5th Avenue. There was a wall of humanity pressed at each corner, with more people stacked behind. How could so many bodies fit on a sidewalk! When the lights changed the pedestrian intersection became a battleground of colliding infantry, charging across the street. Somehow they merged, and citizens found pathways to the other side. It was incredible. I had never seen so many people in one small place. This scene repeated itself at every intersection, until we came to a complete halt and no one moved – pedestrian gridlock. How was it possible? After about 10 minutes of sidestepping and backtracking we came upon the crime scene that caused the delay. An ambulance was departing and police were just beginning to take down the yellow caution tape they had strung across the street and sidewalk. Welcome to New York on a Sunday evening.

My irritation at the jostling and bumping I received, and impatience with the delays, were dispelled by my fascination at watching Kathy glide through the offending traffic. Kathy’s typically cautious style of walking disappeared on the sidewalks of New York. I simply followed her speeding wake as she maneuvered the uneven curbs, switch-backed from one side of the street to the other, and skimmed the edges of the streets to speed our progress down 5th Avenue. Suddenly we found ourselves in front of a steep cement staircase, towering above us.
“This is it,” Kathy announced proudly. “This is St. Patrick’s Cathedral!”
The ascending stairs was crowded with people standing and waiting, or pointing. “Did we miss Mass?” I asked, confused by the number of people outside the building.
“No,” she replied, remarkably sure of herself. “It should just be starting now. Let’s go in”.
The church was packed. Not only were the pews filled to capacity, but the narrow aisles were crammed with tourists streaming to the front of the altar in one line, and then retreating back in another. We squeezed into a slight gap in a pew and took stock of our surroundings. St. Patrick’s is an awesome American Cathedral. Its towering pillars, high, vaulted ceilings, and gleaming, suspended chandeliers gave the grey walls an alabaster glow. The holly green and scarlet red of Christmas wreaths and decorations punctuated the view, acting as a reminder of the ending Advent Season, and the wintry temperatures outside. We peeled off our gloves, coats, and scarves, and soon relaxed into the rhythmic comfort of the Catholic liturgy and the priest’s soothing homily. After communion, I almost forgot that I was in a strange city.

Upon exiting the Cathedral and walking along 50th Street, I thought I was acclimatizing myself to the throngs of people on the sidewalks until we reached Rockefeller Center.
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed, when I saw what lay ahead. There was a wide, oceanic expanse of covered, bobbing heads, and bundled, jostling torsos from one end of the plaza to the horizon beyond. There was little room to maneuver or advance. The only sense of space was in the open sky above that was arrayed in front-lit, towering buildings, cascading holiday lights, and gleaming, Christmas trees. I felt a momentary wave of claustrophobia and then dismissed it. You had to love it! If I had known of the biting cold, the pressing crowds, and the frustrating inability to move in this part of town, I doubt that I would have come. But I was here now, and might never return again. I wanted to remember and enjoy this moment. I asked Kathy to pose with the famous Rockefeller Christmas tree in the background, and took her picture. The happy smiles and festive excitement of the people around us seemed to inspire Kathy, and she again surged forward to explore Rockefeller Center, searching the lower levels for the ice rink and restaurant. I traveled in her path-finding wake until weariness slowed me down and I began sending telepathic messages to stop. Kathy must have heard, because when we suddenly broke free of the masses of people descending up us, she made her way back to 50th Street and paused.
“Do these people ever stop coming?” I asked rhetorically. Since Kathy seemed to be channeling the attitude and behaviors of a native, I thought she might have a guess.
“I think Rockefeller Center is a tourist magnet at this time of year,” she said. “Once we get off this street it should get better. What do you want to do?”
We had never discussed our plans after Mass, so this question took me by surprise.
“I don’t know. All I can think of right now are the pubs we passed on the way to the hotel. Do you think we could find one, and sit for awhile.”
“I was thinking the same thing!” Kathy announced, happily. “Let’s get off 50th Street and start looking”.
We passed Radio City Music Hall, and then traveled uptown on 6th Avenue. Although the numbers weren’t as bad as on 5th Avenue, groups of pedestrians continued streaming down on us. By the time we reached 54th Street, I flippantly suggested that we turn right, away from the relentless current of people.
Kathy paused for a moment weighing my idea, and then said, “Okay”. I knew this was a major concession, because Kathy hates moving away from her destination. The Essex House lay uptown and westward, and we would be going backwards. But the Old Dutch Masters of Washington Irving’s time must have been with us, because after walking about 50 yards we saw the welcome sign of “Connolly’s Pub and Restaurant.” It was perfect. We settled ourselves at the bar, ordered drinks from Dennis the Irish bartender, and toasted our arrival in New York. In no time at all, Kathy introduced herself to the owner and Dennis, the Irish bartender, and confessed that we were having a drink after Mass. They laughed (in the lilting way that only Irish Catholics can), and asked us if we had used that line on our parents, without ever going to Mass. I admitted having done so– and was surprised to discover that Kathy had too, only she had been smart enough to pick up a Sunday bulletin to show her parents if they asked for proof.

NYC: Connolly’s Restaurant & Pub, by Skyliner72 – Flickr.com

The evening continued in this improvisational style. When we got back to the hotel and unpacked, dinner became our next brainstorming topic. I recalled a restaurant that Kathy’s brother Mike had recommended in an email as being close to our hotel and reasonably priced. When we checked with the concierge, he gave us a hotel map and agreed that P.J. Clarke's was good and very convenient. Of course, I hadn’t yet learned that in wintry New York, “close and convenient” actually means at the outer edges of comfort and tolerance, and hotel maps are notoriously imprecise. After 30 minutes of shivering explorations of Central Park South and the West Side along Broadway we discovered P.J. Clarke's at Lincoln Center. This pretty much set the pattern of our dining for the rest of the trip. We would pay attention to restaurants we passed in transit, tossing around ideas and inspirations at the hotel, and make last minute reservations. P.J. Clarke's was a great start. We had front row views of the Lincoln Center Music Plaza across the street, and later checked out a plethora of restaurants and tourist sights on our walk home after dinner. We spotted the Mexican restaurant, Rosa Mexicano (where we ate the following day) on our way back to Columbus Circle, and then found ourselves at Time Warner Plaza and Jazz at Lincoln Center. After exploring the Time Warner Building, we ended the evening by walking down 58th Street and having a nightcap at the Oak Room, the famous bar in the Plaza Hotel.

The next day, while having chai and coffee at a Starbuck’s on 6th Avenue, Kathy pressed, “Now what do you REALLY want to do in New York?”
“Generally,” I said, “what we’re doing now - exploring Manhattan as we go along. There are two things I definitely want to do today, ride on the subway and see the Statue of Liberty off Battery Park”.
“That sounds great,” Kathy announced. “That’s what we’ll do first. The rest of the day will take care of itself.”
That’s how we started our first morning in New York. Each day would begin the same way. Kathy or I would state a personal preference over coffee and tea, and then we’d fit it in through the course of the day. I wanted to see the Dakota and Columbia University and Kathy wanted to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was also curious about Times Square, Greenwich Village, and Central Park, and Kathy wanted to relax and languidly have a cup of tea in the lobby of the Essex House while gazing out at Central Park. We were usually so exhausted by the time we returned to the hotel in the evenings, that dinner and a nightcap was all we could manage.

Getting to Battery Park was easy, but negotiating the New York Subway system was a challenge. The subway system in New York is ancient and doesn’t employ the modern and redundant signs and universally accepted directional symbols that one finds in the metros of Washington D.C. or in western cities. In those places, you can always find a map, diagram, or instructions to guide you. New York may not be as obvious, but the subway system is certainly not hostile. It was not the dirty, grimy, and graffiti-ridden operation portrayed in the movies of the late 80’s and 90’s. With Kathy and I working in tandem, and by taking some precautions, I got the hang of it right away. I bought two unlimited 7-day Metro passes because the recharging machines weren’t as simple or convenient as in Washington or Chicago, and I hated looking like a fool in front of those automatic dispensers. Plus if I made a traveling mistake with a train or station, I could exit at the next stop and get right back on in the correct car or direction, without worrying about fares. Kathy agreed and then interpreted the uptown, downtown language of the signs in the multiple-tracked and confusing Columbus Circle Station (we had been standing in the wrong boarding location until Kathy correctly decoded the signs). The subway system became easier every day, and, other than walking, was our preferred means of travel in the city. Cabs were a frustration, unless you caught them late at night, early in the morning, or at a popular hotel entrance.

High noon at Battery Park proved as scenic and awesome as I suspected, but the buffeting wind and chilly breezes were freezing. Standing at the southernmost point of Manhattan in winter, with the Hudson Bay and its rivers on both sides, was a numbing and inspiring spectacle. We gazed out at the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and the New Jersey and Brooklyn shores, and took photographs. As encroaching hypothermia made speech and movement more and more difficult, Kathy asked, “Whurr da ya wanna go?”
“Sumplaze wurm” I managed through immobile lips.
“Me doo,” she said. “Lez go dezway.” She headed north, toward the nearest buildings and windbreaks. I had no clue where she was going, but I didn’t care as long as it was away from the stupefying cold and frigid winds coming off the Bay. I refused to take off my gloves to open and read a map. We walked by the U.S. Custom House and crossed Battery Park Place, staying as close to the buildings as possible. It was there that I noticed a large group of people assembled around a statue on a median street divider.
“Werr en da Funanshul Desdrick!” I mouthed, when the significance of the iconic charging bull made its way through my benumbed mental synapses. But even seeing how the milling crowds used the gigantic, shiny, bronzed bull as an ideal photographic prop, didn’t entice me away from the protection of the buildings. Only when I followed Kathy into a warm and cozy drugstore on Broadway in search of travel sundries and lotions did blood start flowing to our frozen extremities, allowing touch and sensitivity to return to our lips, fingers, and toes. When we left the store, it was to find a pub or tavern to catch a warm noontime meal. Paradoxically, this deliberate search for sustenance produced one sightseeing discovery after another. We made our way up Broadway, down a glamorous looking alley, and found ourselves on Broad Street. We wandered along the grey, glimmering edifices that seemed to telescope into the heavens, and suddenly we were on Wall Street. In quick succession we saw the entrance façade of the New York Stock Exchange, Nassau Street, and the monolithic front steps of Federal Hall with the beckoning statue of George Washington in front. We stared up at the Trump Building and Bankers Trust Company Building, and realized we were in the gilded courtyard of the rich and powerful, all dressed-up for Christmas and the New Year. The only redeeming image near this vast bastion of corporate wealth was the dark, looming presence of Trinity Church’s tall steeple, squeezed between the towering megaliths on Wall Street. After taking my quota of fiscal photos, we retreated back to Broad Street and found Bobby Vann’s Steakhouse, stopping in the bar for our own version of a stockbroker’s lunch - a Cosmopolitan and a Black and Tan, followed by a delicious French Onion soup.

Wall Street Bull, by Grateful Ghoul – Flickr.com

During our warm, extended lunch we developed our plans for the afternoon. Together we would see Trinity Church and then subway back to Columbus Circle, where I would go exploring the Dakota and Central Park on my own, and Kathy would return to the hotel and relax. Trinity Church affected me on many levels. A glowing Nativity crèche reminded us of the Advent of the Messiah and his promise of Peace, and the antiquity of the church reflected New York’s gigantic footprint on American History. New York was the nation’s first capitol and George Washington was sworn in at the nearby Federal Hall (ergo the significance of his statue on the steps). After that first Inauguration, Washington attended the Episcopalian Thanksgiving services at Trinity’s parish chapel, St. Paul’s. But it was the cemetery that gave me pause to think. Leaving the darkened interior of the church, guided only by the ethereal light emanating from the illuminated altar and stained glass windows, I was momentarily blinded by the outside light. As my eyes adjusted to the piercing sunlight, and the reflected sparkle of the surrounding glass facades, buildings, and towers, I saw that I was in a 250-year-old graveyard. This resting place of William Bradford, the leader of the Pilgrims of Plymouth Colony, Alexander Hamilton, and Albert Gallatin, two of the nation’s first Secretaries of the Treasury, was ironically located in the middle of the Financial District, under the very shadow of the American Stock Exchange. I chuckled to myself as I photographed the weathered and fading tombstones, decorated with Christmas wreaths. What was the lesson here, I wondered to myself, and who was supposed to learn it?

Kathy and I split up at Columbus Circle, and I walked alone along Central Park West, taking pictures of the park and buildings until I came to 72nd Street. I had deliberately avoided visiting Ground Zero, the former site of the World Trade Center and the target of the terrorist attack on September 11, 2001. I still recalled the morning of that willful act of violence and destruction, and how it confused and disturbed the students and teachers of Shangri-la Middle School. I did not want to relive the sensations of that morning, or the questions it generated about mankind and our ability to find reasons and motives to justify murder on a grand scale. Yet I felt compelled to see the spot where a single madman had snuffed out the light and life of a transcendent artist, musician, and dreamer – John Lennon. The gables and deep roofs of the Dakota gave this building overlooking Central Park a brooding and ominous look. I solemnly joined the lines and groups of pilgrims, young and old, who explored and photographed the Dakota, the section of Central Park called Strawberry Fields, and the memorial Imagine mosaic on a nearby pathway. John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and the Beatles had been a significant part of my adolescence and youth during the 1960’s, and it was reassuring to see that their music and appeal continued to attract and influence succeeding generations. Sir James Paul McCartney, the other half of the famous song writing team, was knighted in 1997, but John, by his tragic death in 1980, became immortal. Perhaps that was why I had come to this place and not Ground Zero. John’s mindless murder had the paradoxical effect of giving his songs and their message of Love, Peace, and Brotherhood an impetus that would make them last forever. Calculated acts of hate and terror only generated momentary (but deep-seated) fears. I preferred to imagine that one day the policies of our nation would not be guided by acts of war and terror, but work constructively for peace and harmony. That would be something.

I walked through Central Park and along 5th Avenue back to the hotel. There I spotted Kathy sitting by the lobby window of the Essex House, finishing the New York Times crossword puzzle for Monday. I watched her there for a long time as she sipped her tea, looking languidly at the steady flow of traffic and pedestrians along Central Park South. She looked quite at home in New York and I was glad to be there to share it with her.

To be continued………

If you are interested in the complete photo album of our trip to Manhattan, check my Flickr account at: 2009-12-27 to 31: New York City.

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The Dedalus Log

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