There’s No Cure Like Travel

Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen

I arrived at my temporary shelter in the five hundred block of West Fiftieth Street around six in the evening.  It was an unimpressive brick building that faced a high school, but you can’t expect much from your first New York apartment.  I pressed the button for apartment 2-A and waited.  I pressed it again and was answered by a harried voice.

A screeching buzz sounded indicating the door was unlocked.  I opened it and was halfway up the stairs with my luggage when a man who looked somewhat like John Tuturro in “Barton Fink” appeared.  “Did someone call you?”

The words “This cannot be good” went through my head as I had visions of myself sleeping in Central Park.  My studio apartment was part of what had been a larger apartment at one time; my room and my neighbor’s were entered by a common room filled with bags of clothing, furniture, and a very prominent, very broken mattress.

I walked through it in a haze and entered my room.  Jacob, the harried man, explained that the previous tenants had trashed the room: They broke the bed, ripped the wireless router out of the wall, stole the remote, smoked in the room that was non-smoking, and possibly (based on the condition of the carpet) mud-wrestled during their stay.

I gave Jacob the balance of my rent along with a huge cleaning deposit, and stood alone after he left.  Once he was gone, the room suddenly seemed worse and I decided I would be sending an e-mail to his boss telling him I was not pleased.  I washed my face, eyeing the three towels left behind in the room with suspicion.

I made a few phone calls to let people know I had arrived safe and somewhat sound, and got the hell out.  I had planned to have dinner at a pizzeria nearby but what I needed immediately was a sense of familiarity and comfort; I walked the mile or so to Café Edison.

Café Edison is where I had my first meal in New York and I thought repeating that event might help.  The matzo soup was not as good this time—it had too much orzo in it and not enough broth—but it was still a comfort and helped me see things clearer.  I decided that after my less-than-stellar arrival, the rest of the trip could only get better.

I walked around the Times Square area and made my way to my beloved Bryant Park.  There were several hundred people there; why were all these people in my park?  It has a very different vibe in the spring than it did the autumn I spent many blissful hours there.

The outdoor café, indoor grill, and most of the tables and chairs littered around the park were packed with professionals enjoying after-work drinks, moneyed foreign tourists eating dinner before moving on to the clubs and pubs, and the young and beautiful, well, pretty much just being young and beautiful.  It was the kind of scene where a person on their own becomes uncomfortably aware they are alone.

I left and since I was too deflated to take my Patti LuPone boot to the St. James Theater and wait outside to have her sign it, went to an internet café, checked my e-mail, sent a rather strongly-worded one to my landlord and explored Hell’s Kitchen until I gave up and went home (I use the word home carelessly).

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How do You Like Them Apples

On Friday morning I went to Bis Co Latte, a café a couple of blocks from my apartment.  I walked in to hear Beverly D’Angelo singing Sweet Dreams and felt right at home.  The counter had chrome cake pedestals with scones and cookies under plastic domes; the wall behind it was lined with chunky glass canisters filled with biscotti.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In addition to the biscotti, the shop has a small breakfast and lunch menu, so I decided to have a real breakfast rather just grab a couple of biscotti to go.  Holly, the owner, suggested oatmeal—that day’s was studded with peaches flavored with cardamom. 

I ordered it and a pot of tea.  The oatmeal was excellent with the chewiness of steel-cut oats, the soft yield of sweet peaches, and the crunch of hazelnuts, all with the subtle flavor of cardamom behind them.  The tea was much appreciated too, although I should have asked her to warm the cup since I like it to scorch my mouth.

I left and took the subway to Union Square.  Prior to leaving California, I sent a message to Lauren Molina on myspace and asked which farmers market I should go to; she told me the one in Union Square is the one she sang about—the one that “makes me happy.”

It made me happy too.  It is not a huge market, though it certainly dwarfs the suburban one I am used to, but it has an excellent selection—vegetables and fruits as one would expect, plants, breads and cheeses, and even a few stands with original art.

Plants of numerous varieties caught my eye, from six-packs of annuals to small pots of herbs and vegetables to five gallon tubs with trees and shrubs.  Naturally I was not in the market for any plants, and I was not planning on returning to my apartment prior to the rest of the day’s activities, so perishables were out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I simply bought a few Winesap apples.  They have been my favorite for years, but most California growers are no longer growing them as they are not a long-held apple, and therefore not cost-effective.   I walked through the rest of the market and found one of the few empty benches where I shared my apple with a squirrel who was not sure what to make of me.

If I’d had a few days, he would have eaten from my hand.  It was late morning by that point, so I walked the less-than-a-mile to Papaya King.  There’s nothing like a hotdog with kraut and a mango shake to take the edge off your hunger.  Afterwards, I found the subway and headed uptown to the Museum of Natural History.

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Moose and Squirrel

The Museum was packed with school children and foreign tourists; the latter seemed to find the taxidermy monkeys hysterical—must be like Jerry Lewis, less funny to us.  I enjoyed myself, but it wasn’t the sort of the thing that lends itself to much in the way of writing, so all you will get are a few random thoughts about, and an eavesdropping on, my visit:

There were a couple dozen art students in the museum and seeing them sketch models of dinosaurs, taxidermy animals, and other displays was worth the price of admission.  They were gifted and intense, and they made me want to buy a sketch book. 

I saw the skeleton of a prehistoric dog who apparently lived in California a few million years ago—Barstow to be precise. I’ve been to Barstow and I’m pretty sure it hasn’t gotten much more exciting since he was there.

They had some stuffed moose and squirrels, and I thought they should have displayed them together—you know, simply to amuse me. 

Eavesdropping, in the Museum of Natural History

Teacher with a group of students: “Come on Amanda, we are going to another area now.  Amanda, we need to stay together.”

Amanda: “I like it here, I don’t want to leave.”

Teacher: “Amanda, we are going to see the elephants.”

Amanda: “No! Elephants suck.”

Annoyed tourist from California: “No Amanda, you suck.”

Amanda:  Runs off from scary tourist to the less scary elephants

Very pleased tourist from California to woman who also found Amanda annoying: “I need to make more time to terrorize children—that was fun.”

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Bagel Boy

After the museum, I walked over to Zabar’s which is conveniently located a few blocks away; good planning in my opinion—all museums should be built close to gourmet shops.

Zabar’s is probably not all that different from numerous high-end food shops across the country except that is located in New York.  In other words, in addition to the expected cheeses and cured meats, and the fresh pasta and swanky lettuces, they stock foods one will find in a largely Jewish community—dozens of smoked and cured fishes, babka, and matzo as far as the eye can see, among other Kosher delights.

I cruised the olive bar (that’s the only kind of bar I cruise) and assembled a collection of olives from all over the world before moving on to the cheese.  After picking up at least a dozen pieces and changing my mind, I finally settled on a Stilton with chunks of lemon rind in it.  

I added a bottle of water and went next door to H & H Bagels.  They are ranked among the best, so naturally I had to try them.  I got a couple of poppy seed bagels and took them and my other purchases to Columbus Circle.

I had a picnic next to a French couple who limited themselves to cigarettes and bottled water; it seemed to work for them—they looked fantastic.  A pigeon did accept my offer to share my bagel, but seemed to have a hard time biting into it and kept flipping it in the air.

The French couple thought this was riot.  Once again, I am inclined to remind the reader: They love Jerry Lewis.  After my late lunch, I went back to my room for a break before my evening in the theater.

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All Nude Men!

After dressing—grey suit, robin’s egg-blue Material London shirt—I emptied my Timbuk 2 bag of everything non-essential and gently folded and stuffed my Patti LuPone boot into it along with a copy of Tales of the City.

I had yet to decide my game plan—if Les Liasions Dangereuses ran for even ten minutes less than Gypsy, I could go to the stage door, have Laura Linney sign my book, then run the few blocks to the St. James Theater just as Gypsy was letting out and get the boot signed by Patti. 

On my way to the American Airlines Theater, I stopped at the St. James and asked what the running time was—it let out at 10:45.  I asked the same question once I arrived at the A. A. Theater, and got the same answer.  I had to choose; I chose Patti. 

I love Laura Linney, I have since she was Mary Ann Singleton, but it’s Patti. The woman has humored me via e-mail for nearly ten years.  I’m loyal to the people who humor me.

Having made my decision, I settled into my seat and waited to see Laura Linney and Ben Daniels destroy people’s lives for sport.  I am not good at reviewing dramas, so I’m not going to attempt to.  The characters are brutal and beautifully played by the actors, the dialogue is scathing, and the play ends in both a literal and figurative jolt that made me jump. 

On the lighter side of things (which I’m mighty fine at reviewing), a woman behind me jumped during one of the nude scenes, as my head (which she very gently moved to one side) was blocking a portion of Ben Daniels’ person that she was interested in seeing.  She was very nice about it, and apologized during the intermission, saying “It was just that I couldn’t see it.”

And by “it,” she meant it.  I saw it—wasn’t so different from most, although he is definitely not Jewish.  Benjamin Walker also appeared nude, but I only saw his backside.  None of the women showed more than a breast and not a complete one at that, so I can’t give a serious analysis; I prefer to appraise them in pairs.  You know, this may be one of the few plays where the actors get a per diem for exfoliates and body lotion.

After the curtain dropped, I ran my (fully-clad) ass to the St. James Theater and established my position by the stage door. Within a few minutes the audience exited the theater and the crowd at the door grew to at least seventy-five.  We waited and chatted; I found the eight-year-old next to me to be the most interesting person in the group so I spoke mainly to him.

He had never seen Patti perform before, but liked the show and decided she was worth waiting in the rain for.  He also seemed to have a bit of a crush on Emma Rowley who played the young Louise.  We chatted and eventually after waiting for quite a while learned that the cast was speaking to a group of people who had purchased premium tickets and that we would be waiting a while longer.

Eventually a few members of the cast exited as did the people who were lucky enough to hear theater folk talk about theater.  Each time a woman exited the door, the boy would ask me if she was Patti.  I would answer “No.”  One time I answered “No, that’s Marsha Mason,” and it wasn’t until she was halfway past me that I wondered why Marsha Mason was sitting in a theater listening to actors talk about being an actor.  You know?

Finally I got the chance to say “That is Patti,” as she walked out the door and straight towards him.  I’ve only met her at a stage door once, but she did the same thing the previous time—went first to the youngest members of the crowd, the ones who it would mean the most to.  After signing a few playbills, she saw the boot I was holding and made a noise that might qualify as a shriek.

“My boot!  You have my boot.  What was my character’s name in that—I can’t remember it.”

“I think it was Zantalia, or something like that.”

“I remember the movie—The Song Spinner.  How fun to see it again,” she said as she quickly scribbled her name across it and moved to the next person.  Then she turned and gave me a silly look, and an even sillier gesture before moving on to the rest of the crowd.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As impossible as this may be to believe to normal, rational people, my having a boot worn by the woman, and having her sign it in my presence, made me a minor celebrity among that crowd.  I probably could have got a free drink out of it had I thought of it at the time.

But I didn’t, so I merely had a cup of tea while checking my e-mail at a place called The Coffee Pot, before walking home to Hell’s Kitchen.

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