New York

I inadvertently started a tradition of giving myself a surprise B-day party in NYC. It has been a decade of spring visits to Manhattan, that is until this year. This year with my nephew’s marriage in the spring and an eventual trip to upstate NY to pick up Carrie Rose I demurred. Still I did not want to miss out, so once Carrie Rose was tucked away — this time in Vermont — we took the Amtrak south.

Train travel in this country is a pathetic mess. I am not sure why it is tolerated but that is a story for another day. The train did provide us with a ringside seat of our trip south to New York City next summer. We were advised to sit on the train’s port side to better view the west side of Lake Champlain, the Richelieu river and the Champlain canal. The train crossed over at the Hudson’s eastside but at that point, it was dark so the utility of sitting on the left side was mute.

The train, at least in the north, does not travel in a straight line. It sways, it twists and turns, and it snakes along the edge of the lake. It must have been hell to build: blasting granite off a shear cliff into the lake to lay the track. The route we traveled this year whether by boat or train was bought at the cost of hundreds, maybe thousands, of Chinese, Irish, and I am sure many Europeans. Our path was littered with long forgotten monuments and cemeteries honoring these men.

Saturday was taken up with the train and as I looked out the window, I saw Lake Champlain narrow into the Richelieu River. Red & Green markers started to appear as well as several cruising boat heading for the Hudson River. Then the river verved off in one direction and the first northern lock (#12) of the Champlain canal appeared. The canal is a ditch and from the angle of a passing train, it is nearly invisible. These canals as well as the Canadian canals we traversed are purely recreational. The Erie retains some commercial traffic but the rest have succumbed to the loss of industry along their banks, as well as trains and trucks.

We arrived in NYC tired and hungry. The only redeeming thing was that our inn was only two stops away on the subway. Our room was a garret complete with a steep skylight worthy of a French impressionist painter. It was moist and warm with a cranky air conditioner going full blast. If it had not been 10:30PM with nobody at the front desk (this is a B&B, so they go home early) we would have complained. In the end, it turned out fine. The windows opened and NYC remained mercifully cool so we listened to the 23rd street noise.

Manhattan is an odd combination of threating and non-threating. I seldom feel unsafe there. People are genuinely friendly and helpful. Most of the poor souls with problems keep to themselves with the occasional gesticulating screamer to avoid. This year we encountered the worse of the above on our first subway ride to the Metropolitan Museum.

The subway has the benefit of multi-social/economic ridership. Day or night, it is packed with rags to riches. At $2.50 a ride the cost starts to add up but in 5 days of travelling north and south we spent less than a couple of taxi rides.

As I said, we were staying in a B&B. The breakfast never varied: bagels, some egg concoction, peanut butter and jam, cream cheese, chopped fruit, and yogurt. A Spartan spread but perfect for us.

The clients were from Europe and Asia, with a few Yanks thrown in. We awoke enthusiastic to get on with the business of being a tourist. Carrie Rose occupies a lot of brainpower, so I had not put much effort into our NYC itinerary. But it is not that hard in this concentrated city.

Sunday we went to the Metropolitan Museum and had dinner at Eataly. Monday was a trip to B&H camera, then the Highline, Chelsea Market, and the Mingus Big Band at the Jazz Standard. Tuesday was the Italian Futuristic show (1940-1945) at the Guggenheim, Japanese sweets from Minamoto on Madison Avenue, and dinner with friends who have spent their entire adult lives 65 stairs up in a tiny Greenwich Village apartment. Wednesday we went to the design museum in the morning and I had a shakuhachi (Japanese flute) lesson on the upper west side in the afternoon. I also traded my old (1900’s) bamboo flute for a newer one (1930). Dinner was with a friend who sailed (yes, I mean sailed) half way across the world from China to start an internal medicine residency in a Brooklyn hospital. Five busy days in a busy city.

New York City is an aesthetic muddle. The streets stink. Piles of garbage block the sidewalks. The air is thick and gritty. It is visually chaotic and sonically intolerable. But the creative energy is palpable. It draws me in.

Despite what New Yorkers think, not everything is the best. In fact, a lot of the stuff that goes on is just silly. But the point is it goes on, in spite of every common sense convention prohibiting it. This paradox brings me back to be surprised.