NYC can choose to be either flat out boring, over crowded and malodorious or it can decide to unwrap and become magical. This trip was the latter. Alighting from Penn Station in the early afternoon we hailed a cab. Legend has it that NYC is strewn with mythical beings in the form of cab drivers. These divine entities have seen all the worldly good and evil, yet have retained the ability to be patiently amused by man’s folly. Just such a deity picked us up. While he navigated expertly through the throng of honking cars, we bemoaned the lack of good, or even bad, Mexican food in our county, to which he responded knowingly with the name and address of the best Mexican restaurant in NYC, and which happened to be a few blocks away from our hotel. We dropped our bags in the lobby and immediately headed to the chosen venue. Upon arrival, we were told that, ordinarily, the restaurant was not open for lunch, but today was an exception because of a holiday party that had booked half the room. I took this as another sign that NYC had rolled out the welcome mat. And the food was spectacular; Mexican mana (as was the price, but hey, this is NYC, so forget about it).
Later that evening, we headed to the oh so famous Monkey Bar. Apparently this bar is the place where the local swells hang out. The famous, the not so famous, the wanna be famous and us, who couldn’t care less about any of it other than the bartender’s drinks have a generous pour and it happens to be immediately adjacent to our hotel. Where were these glorious and glamorous people coming from at this late hour on a weeknight. We agreed that it must have had to do with holidays celebrations. One party ended, another had begun, seemingly right here before our very eyes. The maitre d’ was shooing people away at the door; the Bar was that popular. And there we sat, a couple of old folk, privately enjoying the show. Glad that we weren’t young anymore but equally grateful that when we were that young we had been there and done that; quietly appreciating not to have missed out on any of it. Glad too, that it was someone else’s turn to be quick and witty and pretty and smart.
The next day opened sunny and bright. We headed to the MOMA for our dose of culture. Serault, Van Gogh, Matisse, were all right where we had left them, albeit they had been moved around the rooms and the floors. We talked about walking to the Guggenheim but on the way we were sidetracked by the bright store windows. It was Christmas. Everything was shiny. The bows on the buildings beckoned, as did the inventory. I have learned, after many years of shopping with men, that shopping is much more enjoyable when a man can be entertained with eye candy, so I would leave him sitting in a chair by the cosmetics counters where all the pretty young girls go to make themselves even more pretty. Looking still is legal these days and the parade still is endless.
The day, however, turned cold and windy and snow began to fall at alarming speeds and angles. We hurried back to our hotel, all the while fighting the snow that kept blowing into our eyes and side stepping around other people who found themselves hurrying to safety from the same storm. We agreed that hearty Korean BBQ was required to warm the cockles of our stomachs, so off we went at the only reservation time available to us: 4:30 pm. Evidently the place was booked solid and this was the only time open. We arrived to find a completely empty restaurant, not that we minded. It meant that we would have great service. Waiters hovered over the open BBQ flames while we overate with gusto. By the time we left, though, the other seats and the waiting area were packed. It dawned on us then that other people worked for a living. They left the office at 5 or 6 pm, ergo the place would be full shortly thereafter.
In any event, we were done, happily returning to the hotel and the private lounge on the second floor that served their patrons free wine and munchies. We talked, we drank, we watched the foul outdoor weather from our warm window perch and admired the Christmas decorations everywhere. Another thing to admire about NYC. No one cares about the political climate when it comes to Christmas. Christmas is Christmas; trees, garlands, baubles, tinsel were everywhere. Christmas music poured out of every speaker far and wide. People sang, yelled, called out Merry Christmas to each other. New Yorkers are not to be intimidated.
Our last night in town saw us attending a production of Jersey Boys. While Scott and I had seen the show in LA and then Las Vegas we still loved the opportunity to hear the music, the retelling of the Four Seasons’ story and the sotto voce singing along with their big hits. The play was performed at a new venue. While we sat chatting, waiting for the show to begin, I realized that the atmosphere was different. Old theaters have an aura of history, a soul, a smell of greasepaint left over from many many productions. New theaters are just new. Clean air, clean seats, fresh paint, even stellar sound and lighting doesn’t make up for the romance of ghosts of long ago.
And then, as quickly as we arrived, it was time to leave. We waited patiently at the station for our train. While seated, we watched as a policeman walked through with his dog, presumably sniffing for drugs or other illegal paraphernalia. When the dog sauntered by us and our luggage it didn’t even slow down; hurt my feelings.
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