Love Letter to New York

Clip clop, flip flop, patter, patter, pat.

My sandals smack the city streets as I walk long blocks across and up, across and up. With every step, I soak in New York's pulsing dynamism, as if my feet are sponges with direct links to the city's life source.

I had a date with Shawn, one of my favorite people, oldest friends and the one who inspired me to start this blog.

We met at the 92nd St Y to hear a former colleague of his present her new book, How to Raise an Adult. Afterwards, starving, we raced down Lexington and across 21st, heading west to Shawn's new home and new puppy. 

Booker came to dinner with us, because in New York, dogs are quasi-people. We sat outside at Pastai, at a sidewalk table, ordered a glass of cold Grillo (me) and a beer (Shawn), and watched as people ogled the wriggling pup- goofy, beaming smiles on their faces. Neighborhood friends, memories and laughter floated around us; surely that's what pushed the humidity and heat away because there was no trace of either. 

After cupcakes at Billy's Bakery, it was finally time to part ways. Two good hugs before Shawn turned left and I right. As I looked down the glowing avenue, my ambivalence about catching a cab joined hands with the total inability to spot an empty one. Lucky me, I took off walking.

I love the women in skintight jeans and baggy shirts, draped over electric meters and taking long, deep drags on their cigs. This is the only place that still seems remotely chic.

...the men in impossibly tiny booths guarding lots and listening to tunes from foreign homelands.

...the bow-tied doormen who nod politely, the brassy front doors behind them gleaming without a fingerprint to be seen.

...the ambient smell of dog piss, delivery men on bikes, steaming plates of late-night fare slid atop shimmed-even outdoor tables, lights, drips, languages, horns. 

...mountains of trash tied neatly in bags and packed neatly in boxes lined the sidewalks, turning them into trenches. 

Finally, more out of acquiescence to the later hour than anything else, I hailed a cab. Immediately I remembered why I both love NY taxi rides and feel as if my life is in vague danger when in them. 

My driver, a handsome Sikh, is as familiar with the streets as he must be with his own hands. He winds in and around, through and across, threading needles that seem actually to have closed up; like neglected pierced ears. 

His window remains open, and periodically, he calls out to other drivers. At Tesla square, we come within an angel's breath of crashing. I thrill in it all.

I beg him to let me out early, for there is more to see before I leave these streets. I pass babies being strolled despite the darkness of the night. I wince at the homeless man sleeping on the sidewalk. I wonder at a man making music out of nothing and everything. It's past 11 and no one is sleeping while back home, everyone is.

The diamond district lights are bright: faceted gems atop columns glowing like beacons. Anywhere else those would look so hokey, but not here. I see Radio City, Rock Center, men with walkers, women with canes, hot dog and pretzel vendors, seemingly sourceless clouds of smoke. 

It takes me ages to get to sleep because I'm so wired, but I convince myself into slumber with the promise of "more tomorrow."

Fast forward 19 hours, and I'm nearly catatonic from enthusiastically BlogHer'ing all day long. I get in bed but then remember just where the hell I am. New York as a motivation unlike any other. I slither into jeans and sandals and head out into another night, north this time, up to Columbus Circle, along the perimeter of Central Park and up Broadway.

I pass a man kneeling with sincere concern next to a homeless woman wearing little more than an old sheet. I have seen her before. I know I have. I stop to see if I can help. "No, no, she is fine," the kindly man says.

New York gets a bad rap for being cold, but I see humanity everywhere. 

A barefoot chap is trying to entice everyone to blow bubbles, giant ones, using ropes and poles. "It's free, man. Bubbles!"

I eat outside again, this time at Boulud Sud, and revel in every bite of crispy artichokes and an heirloom tomato panzanella salad. A baby, maybe two months, squeaks in his mother's arms at the next table. Two elderly women walk by, clutching each others arms fondly.

Sated, I head towards the Park and am unable to resist the siren song of a public drum and dance show taking place near a fountain. I find a spot on the marble base and sink down happily. The music is electric, the dancers in complete sync. Their bodies seem hinged, multifaceted, powered by an engine. I cannot stop watching them and it takes everything I have not to jump up and join in.

A police cruiser pulls up and drops two people off. The woman is crying. You don't often see the police serving as carpool. No one notices or cares. The cop drives off, the woman wipes her eyes. The barefoot bubble guy is still walking around talking about bubbles. The drummers are keeping our heartbeats for us.

An extremely drunk woman with a fifth of vodka and a shirt just a bit too small, is overly invested in securing tips for the drummers. She takes their "tips here" drum and pressures viewers. The "manager" of the group politely asks her to put the damn drum down. She does but then tries to tuck dollar bills in each drummer's shirt. While they're drumming. As if they're providing musical lap dances. 

Again, she is encouraged to back off. "Is she with you all?" the manager asks Barefoot Bubble. "I'm not with anyone!" drunk woman replies. But she slinks away and sits quietly. Until I see her arms rise and start waving dollar bills in the air. 

The concert ends, and I realize the time. I must go get some sleep. But this city. Will it?