This, I suppose, may be counted as a true diary entry…
Yesterday I returned from a brief two-day trip to New York City with my son. For me, it was absolute perfection.
Elihu and I had made no plans ahead of time, save to visit with our friends. That in itself was the real reason for our excursion; the four of us enjoyed two wonderful dinners followed by long, unrushed and deeply engaging conversation. I awoke in the middle of the first night to the sounds of the street ten stories below and enjoyed a dreamlike and reflective moment of being there again, in a place so different, yet a place where I felt so at home. It restored my spirit for me to be again with our friends, for me to be again with my son.
When Elihu and I arrived in Manhattan mid afternoon on the first day (I’d met him at his dorm in the morning and we’d taken the train south to the city), we walked through densely populated sidewalks to visit two brass stores near the station. The first place was cold and stiff. Elihu was able to try out instruments, but under careful watch, and he was closely timed. When we inquired about the ‘other’ brass shop in the neighborhood, the manager flat-out lied to us, saying it had gone out of business. We decided to walk the few blocks anyway, taking our chances. The shop was still there. It was a true mom and pop store in the midst of the city. It was funky and full of amazing instruments – and lots of soul. A shop cat slept in the chair, and the proprietor himself was at the bench doing repairs. Elihu tried out pocket trumpets, mellophones and tubas at his leisure. We left having made a new friend in the owner.
On our second and only complete day in the city, my son and I walked through a few neighborhoods in the vicinity of Little Italy, afterward going uptown to visit the iconic Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. In Chinatown we stopped several times in search of some hot tea and an opportunity for Elihu to speak Mandarin, but as it turns out, most of the population there speaks only Cantonese. Not the same at all, and so we didn’t have the ‘in’ we’d thought we would at the local places.
Nearby Katz’s seemed a natural choice for lunch, but we were quite surprised to see a block-long line (in keeping with the ‘Disney-esque’ and touristy character of this current NYC), so we passed in favor of a Middle Eastern place across the street where Elihu surprised me with his ability to chat rather easily in Turkish with folks at a neighboring table. (His ear for languages and his ability to jump in and try them out is truly impressive.)
The two of us enjoyed that sort of ‘knowing’ that only good friends share; we exchanged smiles at many snippets of overheard conversations. Passing Rockefeller Center, we burst out laughing when we heard a guy with a thick New York accent remark as if completely surprised, “That’s a friggin’ big tree!” We heard Tony Pots n Pans playing the grooviest stuff ever on his junk drums and a street guy enthusiastically calling out “Feliz Navidad” in well-timed intervals while a trio of hot young women danced… We witnessed so many beautiful moments the likes of which can’t really happen in any other place. Our brief visit was a delight.
On the second morning I took my final look at the loft I’d known for so many years, and I said my goodbye to our friends and then to Elihu. On the street, I took a last photo of the building, blew a kiss, then headed to the subway uptown. At Port Authority I got on a Greyhound bus. The window seat was comfy, the day was gray. Elihu and I exchanged some texts, and I learned that he was on his plane at Newark, and they were about to taxi. Soon he would be at his father’s home in the Midwest.
I read a book, checking the map every so often to see our progress. I marveled over the stone walls running up and down hills through the woods we passed, I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the Catskills to the west. In just a few hours the bus arrived in Albany, where I forgot all about my Lyft app and accepted the offer of a hustling cabbie for a ride back to my car at the train station across the Hudson River. As I got onto the Northway it began to snow, and when I arrived at the Hillhouse, a dusting of white covered the ground.
A few hours later mom and I went to dinner at a friend’s gorgeous historic home deep in the Greenfield woods. A fire burned in dining room’s hearth and the long table was beautifully decorated with an elegant red and white table runner, red glass plates and antique crystal stemware. Candles flickered in the windows. We arrived shortly after the guests were all seated, so it was a surprise when the hostess received us with a champagne toast of greeting, all of the glasses raised to us. I sat at the table, looking at all these folks from my small town whom I’ve known for many years now, and I marveled at my amazing fortune. From city to country in one day – from one loving reception to another. Amazing, really. For a woman who often laments her plight in life, I can’t argue that my life is a good one.
On this Christmas Day, I know very well how lucky I am. I don’t always feel as if I am – but I always know that I am. I saw a lot of poverty in New York City. I saw homeless people sleeping in awful places, I saw unwell people in dire circumstances. For every moment of joy I experienced, I witnessed another person’s tragedy. And I cannot begin to make sense of it. There is no sense to be made. This is an unfair and unjust world. And I don’t think it will ever change. But what I do think is that we can kind and helpful to other humans. That is the only certain way in which we can improve things. Help as we’re able, encourage as we’re able.
Although I don’t personally hold any religious beliefs about this holiday, what I do believe is that this is a time when people’s hope for a better life supersedes all else. When all people – housed and unhoused, well and infirmed – choose to feel a sense of hope and possibility.
Merry Christmas to all, and may hope continue to live in your heart.
PS: It was 37 years ago today that I went on my first date with Elihu’s father. Who could ever have guessed how that one night would change my whole life? I am sometimes sorrowful things didn’t go as expected, but mostly I am grateful. What a strange world this is indeed.
The Hillhouse 