New York, New York

You have to love a city whose denizens consider traffic lights suggestions.

Immediately upon arrival our redcap, even though he saw my friend and I walking and talking together, decided that we had arrived separately.  As I watched her being encased in a separate cab and about to drive away, I informed the redcap that we were traveling together. A Laurel and Hardy moment ensued as we jumped out of one cab, collected luggage from another cab and then fled together through the rush hour traffic to our cozy boutique hotel.

Since the UN assembly was gathering this week and our hotel was down the road from Trump Tower, police were everywhere. They stood, in groups of three and four, on each street corner, having been pulled into the city from all the boroughs: Staten Island, Bronx, Brooklyn; we could tell from whence they came by their accents. To add to their NYPD Blue glamor, they were all wearing kevlar jackets. We felt very safe, chatting with them while waiting to cross a road. For all the bad mouthing that police receive, we found them to be patient and gracious, probably because we were little old ladies who reminded them of their grandmothers and they were collecting time and a half.

We spent our first evening listening to the haunting strings of Yo Yo Ma playing Mahler and Bach at Carnegie Hall.  Shakespeare was right: music does soothe the savage breast.

The next day was spent in retail therapy, walking past luxe shops, polished buildings and worming our way into venues in which we had no business breathing the same air. When we passed a lustrous black building with the written word Baccarat over the shiny brass trimmed doors I had to ask what it was all about. Yes, Baccarat crystal had taken on an entirely new identity. No longer merely a crystal hollowware company, this was an entire building. Fifteen foot long crystal fingers lined the windows. The security guard must have been bored, or amused by the rubes who had the temerity to walk into his building, because he invited us to view the private restaurant and bar on the second floor. The chandeliers in the main lobby were exquisite. I expected the elevator to have a chandelier and was vaguely disappointed that it did not. The bar likewise was festooned with chandeliers; the entire wall was covered with Baccarat crystal bar glasses. Sardonically, I wondered if there was enough heat generated by the sun’s prisms through the crystal to start a fire on an errant napkin.

We headed to Little Italy and the Feast of San Gennaro. Mulberry Street was lined with vendors hawking every food from pizza to cannoli. We sampled the authentic NY pizza, and finished with too many glorious pastries at Ferraro Bakery.  Later, while dining at Carmine’s restaurant, I needed to find the ladies room, which was upstairs. On the stairs in front of me a guy was holding a colorful drink, and being photographed by his buddy so I snuck up behind him and planted a kiss on his cheek. I photobombed the guy. Both men laughed and the photographer said he was sending the pic to the guy’s wife.

The next day, before a visit to the theater to see Anastasia, we had lunch at the Algonquin Hotel where the famous “round table” of writers (Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker, Dash Hammett, Alexander Woollcott, etc) sat each day. Would that their ghosts would infuse me with their talents; alas, we were only infused with pretty good wine and food.  Anastasia was a delight; the sets and costumes were simply beautiful, evoking Tsarist Russia’s most glamorous era (okay, Russia wasn’t perfect, but it certainly was glamorous). Emboldened by liquor from Sardis (at which we skipped out on the tab, but that’s another story; I sent a check later), we moseyed over to the box office to see if we could get seats to Hello Dolly, which we did do. Sometimes the anticipation is greater than the participation, as it was in this case. The show was a disappointment. Nonetheless, we compared and contrasted the two shows as we walked back to our hotel, saying hello to all the police along the way.

The Morgan Library was just a couple of blocks away, so one morning we stopped in to visit the old books and the rooms. This guy had serious bucks, and spent them well, as represented by the decor and craftsmanship on the floors, walls and ceilings. We contrasted the Library with the natural beauty of sunny Central Park, through which we walked, sometimes leisurely around the pond, listening to a saxophonist play As Time Goes By, other times hurriedly to get past the selfie sticks and gawkers at strawberry fields.

And then it was time to go home. We hurried to Penn Station and, with the help of a redcap, found our train. We took the train home, a most elegant and peaceful way to travel. I love train travel today as much as I did when I was a young child. It still fills me with joy and happy memories, as did this last trip to the Big Apple.