New York

The Big Apple. I made it. It had been some years since I’d seen that fabled skyline from JFK and promised myself that I’d have to come back one day, and now I had.

I was fortunate to have arrived early, as well. I was supposed to fly from New Orleans to Washington to New York, arriving after 8 pm, but I was somehow bumped from American to Delta and now had a direct flight, arriving two hours early. That afforded me the time to do something.

But what? I asked the concierge. He suggested a Broadway show. He probably suggested that to everyone when asked. We were in the Entertainment District, after all. We were in Times Square, after all. The theatres were minutes’ walk away, seconds in a dash, depending on the crowds that were forever gathered under the blinding neon and LCDs that turned night into day every night. I had the concierge book me a ticket for “Billy Elliott,” showered and changed and had just enough time to grab a slice and a coke at Joe’s Pizzeria (again, the concierge’s suggestion) right across the street before racing to the theatre and sitting minutes before curtain. That’s a New York minute, in the classic sense.
Maybe not if you prescribe to this more modern definition of a New York minute: the interval between a Manhattan traffic light turning green and the guy behind you honking his horn (so said Johnny Carson).

It was latish when “Billy Elliott” ended, too late for me to go exploring an unfamiliar city, anyway, so I went back to the hotel and settled into the bar for a nightcap before going to bed. I did not get to bed early. In fact I went to bed fairly late, somewhere in the vicinity of 2 am. I met some people at the bar that night and had a Euro pal moment, most notably with June, a Korean Californian my age in NYC on business. We and a trio of friends from the Midwest sat up talking for hours until mutually breaking for the night. I never saw the trio again; I did see June every day.

The next day I rose slowly. I was a little late getting about my day, but what did I expect after staying up all hours? The weather matched my mood: overcast, a slight sleet washing the high-rises and streets wet, if not clean.

I discovered a quintessential diner a few blocks from my hotel. Ample food, super speedy service, dirt cheap; what else could you ask for? “What to do?” I wondered while I ate, glancing at my trusty guide. I thought I might see 5^th Avenue and then make my way to Central Park, weather permitting.

I found myself opposite St. Patrick’s Cathedral and upon entering, found that Mass was in progress, so I found a pew and sat down. Tall, intricately carved, neo-gothic, it’s a sight to behold. It may be dwarfed by those buildings around it, but within, its height boggles the mind, its span wider than any church I’d yet seen, its central arch supported by massive pillars that require televisions set throughout for the devout to see the alter and priests. An organ played hymns. A choir sang. The gathered sang and kneeled and rose in unison, lined up for communion and were instructed to “go in peace, to Love and Serve the Lord.”

I walked over to Rockefeller Center, stood in Art Carney’s place where he once marvelled his fictional grandson with the magic of Christmas, with a little help from Coca-Cola, then found myself shopping for a while, waiting for the weather to improve. It did. The clouds had already begun to break as I emerged from Mass.

I unraveled the subway, making my way to Central Park, basking in and dappled by the now brilliant sun. I circled the southern fifth of the Park, enjoying the paths and bridges and its stately trees before emerging and strolling up 7th Avenue to Carnegie Hall, stopping to admire the statuary littered around the Columbus Circle while I was at it. I got there without much practicing (there’s a joke in there, if you know it). It was closed. But the box office was open, selling tickets for the upcoming season. When I mentioned how far I’d come, expressing disappointment that I’d just missed performances and guided tours by a week, the box said rather cheerily, “You’ll just have to come back, then.” I don’t think she had much skill at geography.

I applied the ticket I bought online for “At the Heights” that evening. I queued up for the box office to collect it. They couldn’t seem to understand why I didn’t have my ticket.

“We sent the ticket to you by mail,” they said. What did that matter? I thought. I had ID and the credit card I’d purchased the ticket with. Print me a new one.

I was more diplomatic than that. I did point out the fact that I had my ID and credit card with me for them to validate. “It arrived after I left home, I explained. “I’ve been gone a week.”

The two stars were absent from the performance. Holidays, go figure. I did see their chief understudies play the leads (the actors who normally played the main supporting roles), thinking that I probably saw a better performance because of it. They’d risen up through Broadway to get their parts. Unlike the two leads, who were American Idol winners with no prior theatrical experience.

I was exhausted from a day of walking when I returned to the hotel and I was a little old for clubbing, in my mind, anyway, so I found a seat at the bar and my bartender from the night before, indeed, my bartender for my entire stay, asked me if I wanted the usual. The usual? I wasn’t aware that I had a usual. I did have a few Glenmorangie scotches the night before, but I’d had a few imported beers too, I remembered. I’d asked him what scotch he recommended the night before, not being a scotch drinker but game to try one, and he had told me that nothing stronger than Coors Light ever passed his lips, but said that “this” scotch seemed to please most scotch drinkers. I found it odd meeting a bartender who didn’t like mixed drinks or malts, every bartender I ever knew partook, if only to speak on what they were serving. Not so him. But he was right. It was light and smooth and had pleased me the night before, so I suppose the Glenmorangie was my usual in his eyes.

I nodded. He poured. And June resolved in the seat next to me, her day of meetings complete. We did not stay up late that night. We’d both suffered enough from our excess the night before. We did discover an easy report between us, and said as much. She’d backpacked too, even if she’d traded her flannels and jeans and Doc Martens in for a power suit in years past, so she was well acquainted with the Euro pal phenomenon. We made a date for dinner the next night before we both begged each other’s forgiveness, each repairing to our rooms for the much-needed rest we’d denied ourselves the night before.