I love New York?
So what was it like to be back in the big city, Maya, you ask me. Was it good for you? Was it?
Well, I reply, it didn’t start out too good. I got in at 3 pm on a Sunday, and all my peeps were far and away - bro was in New Rochelle attending an Orthodox Jewish wedding, sisters were in Boston checking out bride-to-be’s new abode, husband was sleeping soundly in HK, and my dial-a-car car was nowhere to be found.
Luckily, I continue, that was a temporary setback. I caught a cab and guessed the directions, and within the hour I was safely deposited in my brother’s sunny Brooklyn apartment, accessed easily using the key he left taped to the wall in the main lobby. After a quick shower I caught the Manhattan-bound N train to meet up with Rickey and wander randomly around the city. How did it feel, you ask, to be back there? City’s acquired the status of myth in your mind.
Well the first thing I noticed, kiddo, was that it’s pretty filthy. The streets are dirty, the subway is grimy and, it bein’ nigh on summertime, close on bein’ smelly too. The second thing is that I was hungry and jetlagged and cranky, and my friend was late, and there was a strange new store in Union Square where Toys ‘r’ us used to be.
In time I collected my friend and we met my sisters in Chinatown in, of all places, a Shanghainese dumpling restaurant. I had only half finished my substandard dumplings when we were unceremoniously ushered out by the unhelpful waistaff who wanted to close the place early. So by the time we’d clumped over to Bowery to hail a cab back to Brooklyn, sisters’ weekend luggage in tow, I was well and truly deserving of the appellation “Mrs. Grumpus.”
The next day dawned and I was up with the lunch bell, with sister #3’s leg draped across my midsection. Bro had come home to have lunch with his sisters, and then just like that the 5 K kids were together again, just like old times. Very very old times. A bit later, I went back to Manhattan with my sister - who was single … that week, and saw the city in the clear cold light of day
and gosh darned if I didn’t fall in love all over again. Walking up the subway stairs, and then past Pearl Paint and those little stalls on the edge of Chinatown, I cursed the voices in my head that made me wear my high-heeled maryjanes. But as my sister and I crossed Canal street into Soho, I forgot the dull ache in my ankles and lower back as I took in the quirky (sorry, Mickey) charms of those cobbled streets. The shopper in me was begging to be let out as I passed one boutique after another, and someone must have been reading my mind because as soon as Mona and I were perched on the railing outside Cendrillon waiting to be let in, a European guy walked over and asked how to get to the Soho Prada. To my surprise, my sister gave him precise and accurate directions.
That night we dressed Mona in a strange costume and took her out for a bit of fun. Since it was Monday night, the choice clubs in the Meatpacking district (which was the new hopping place, according to a local) were closed so we went into the first place that was open. Lord help the ladies, it was a dive, a cheezefest decorated in tinsel, glitter, Mexican hats, and Elvis photos. But the decor matched our feather boas,
and the folk were friendly, happily donning masks and boas, posing for photographs, and profuse with congratulations for the bride-to-be. Awash in alcohol and good cheer, I finally was glad to be back.
When Mickey got in on Wednesday afternoon, he was snappish about the city. “That distinctive smell,” he said, “that combination of horseshit, vomit and urine. Yup. I’m definitely back in New York City.” Then he found what he tells me is the worst coffee in New York. Sorry, Rolls Royce guy.
The next day we had lunch at the Cuban place near his old office - where we had an enormous $17 lunch of rice, beans, plantains, and chicken. “Eating all that food was one of the worst decisions I ever made,” groaned Mickey as we walked uptown to his old neighborhood. Once there we took some photos from a coffee shop (my own personal worst cup of coffee ever in the whole world) in the building that robbed him of his Central Park view.
In between wedding-related duties, we managed to catch up with old friends over food and drink and peace signs,
and it was at that point, in another dive in my old neighborhood, that Grumpus decided he was having a good time.