New York

Summer Vacation, Day 56: Go Yankees!

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

I know that the above subject line will make some people’s blood boil. To them, I say, “Tough!”

I purchased four tickets to a Yankees-White Sox game in mid-September – part of a week-long final home-stand in The House That Ruth Built. Brendan, Gabe and I (and one other person TBD) are going to the Bronx to see the old stadium before it closes and falls. Plus NYC, the Statue of Liberty via the Staten Island Ferry, maybe. Everything we can do cheaply. Suggestions? Woohoo!

A couple days later, the Yale football plays its opener at the Yale Bowl against Georgetown. Might hit that, too – and the Peabody Museum of Natural History and Yorkside. Oh, this is gonna be fun!

It’s also gonna be a lot of driving. Even figuring diesel at $5 a gallon and only 40 mpg (I average 46 or so), it’s still way cheaper to take the Golf than fly or Amtrak it. Could check the bus, I guess …

Skin Deep Is Deep Enough

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

I reconnected with an old friend while in New York City last week. We met at a Starbucks (not that Starbucks, as it turns out; the other one, just half a block down and across the street), and she didn’t know me for a moment, in part because someone else had approached her a moment before thinking that she was someone else, and in part because I have a healthy crop of whiskers and shaggier hair than in our college days.

She had just finished a videotaped interview or some such thing in which a makeup artist had prepared her for her “close-up” – and she mentioned how strange the whole thing seemed: she’s not one to wear a lot of makeup, much less have someone apply it for her, and she’s yet to fully realize or release her inner diva. It reminded me of the story I promised to tell a several days ago, about the last time I flew into New York. This is how I remember it now.

I watched as the plane passed over the city and couldn’t fathom the enormity of it. Dad once summarized his dread of New York City as the feeling that, if something went wrong, there was no way he could walk out before sundown. I could see his point firsthand – the skies were clear, and the only open space I saw for miles was the Atlantic. All else was rooftops.

For a moment the plane dipped its port wing earthward, and I saw Yankee Stadium, lit for a home stand, the interlocked NY gleaming white from the green grass. Then we tipped starboard, and I turned to look out the windows across the aisle.

Across the plane sat a young woman I’d seen in the airport: shoulder-length blond hair in a loose ponytail, a few loose strands tucked behind her ears, deep blue eyes and freckles, a simple white t-shirt and jeans. She was beautiful, sure, but seemed even more so in that comfortable-in-her-own-skin way. She laughed easily on her cell phone; she slipped off shoes and tucked her feet beneath her on the seat while she read.

She wasn’t reading when I turned to look out her window, however. She was gazing into a tiny mirror, dusting her cheeks and nose. I watched the cityscape pass outside the window, then glanced back at her. Eye shadow now. The freckles were gone.

I tried hard not to stare, but the process was fascinating and her concentration was absolute. Her lashes black with mascara, she went to work on her lips – gleaming pink edged with just the right shade of lip-liner; her ready smile replaced by a mouth poised to pucker or pursed for profanity – one couldn’t be quite sure.

She shook out her ponytail and arranged her hair just so around her new face, which had taken on a cool and porcelain perfection. She was still beautiful, I was sure. I shivered – strangely, our corner of the plane seemed to be getting colder as we descended. She must’ve thought so, too – she covered her t-shirt in a short, stylish black jacket, and slipped into her heels.

I wondered at her transformation – wondered if she did this for herself or someone else, someone who might meet her at the airport and whisk her off to dinner. I wondered what fool would prefer this flawless, frozen mask to freckles and teeth and bare feet.

Moments later, we touched down. She was home.

Who Is My Neighbor?

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

My driver from the airport to the hotel Saturday was an older Romanian man who welcomed me to New York four times over, showed me a cell-phone photo of Jane Fonda at LaGuardia from earlier in the afternoon, talked about a movie he’d seen her in as a young man (called “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?”), then about another movie, which led to a conversation about the war and his views on U.S. politics as an East European immigrant from a long-suffering nation. He combined a great love for America with high expectations, a heavy dose of skepticism, and no illusions about the potential for political leaders to disappoint. Fascinating.

I told him that one of the things I love about getting into a car outside an airport is the roll of the dice: you never know who you’re going to cross paths with. He smiled and said, “You get in with an open mind – not everyone does that.”

* * * * *

I walked from the hotel through a crush of humanity to the intersection of 50th Street and 5th Avenue, to St. Patrick’s Cathedral for Mass this evening. It’s amazing what you pass along the way: the destitute and the fantastically wealthy, posh restaurants and corner hot-dog stands, fashion-forward boutiques and knock-off handbags.

Yesterday the cathedral was bustling with tourists (and a scattering of prayerful, mournful, and presumably faithful). I lit a candle and said a prayer for the folks back home, made a lap around the church, then left. Hard to find peace with so many people milling around.

I arrived tonight about five minute before the service. The ushers were stationed at each aisle, asking people if they were here for Mass. If yes, they were given a program and allowed down the aisle to find a pew; if no, they were directed to the outside aisles to observe and take photos. I wound up three-quarters of the way back, just right of center, and when the massive pipe organ started, you could tell how big the space was to fill – it sounded surprisingly soft, almost muffled. It took several minutes for the church to reach some semblance of quiet, and even then, there was a constant influx of church-goers and tourists. Between the priest and me were hundreds, maybe thousands, of worshipers of every nationality you could imagine.

The readings, of course, were the same ones many of you heard. Monsignor Ritchie, however, said (in a voice equal parts joyous preacher and wizened New Yorker) that he would speak about the readings from Tuesday’s Mass – in part because the cathedral clearly held so many visitors, many of whom he feared may not realize that the Church doesn’t just celebrate the Mass on Sunday.

So he preached what he described as a second set of commandments in Paul’s Letter to the Romans (Ch. 12), and ended with a verse from the next chapter: “For the commandments, ‘You shall not commit adultery,’ ‘You shall not murder,’ ‘You shall not steal,’ ‘You shall not give false testimony,’ ‘You shall not covet,’ and whatever other commandments there are, are all summed up in this saying, namely, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.'” (Romans 13:9)

The procession to the altar for Communion was slow going, not unlike the sidewalks outside, except without the cell phones and exasperation. People were patient; people were kind …

* * * * *

I filed out with everyone else, back into the neon whirlwind outside. I walked past 30 Rockefeller Plaza, past Radio City Music Hall, where the annual Christmas Spectacular (featuring those leggy Rockettes) is the only show in town due to the writer’s strike, past Lindy’s New York Cheesecake and back to hotel, not hungry enough to eat dinner. I stopped at the little lobby store to get a Coke and peanuts (curse you, Bob!), smiled and thanked the woman at register, wishing her a good night.

I got snack-hungry later and ran back down to get some popcorn. She recognized me, and we talked about the weather, here versus Minnesota, then about her love of the City. “I’m more of a country boy,” I said. “I couldn’t live here, but I do like to visit.”

She smiled and said something I didn’t understand about my education showing through; after a few moments, I realized she was talking about my upbringing. She said, “Where I come from in Cuba is a town, but not big. It is country. I like it, too. People come here; they say, ‘Hello,’ like you. They are nice, friendly people. That’s their education.”

We talk a bit more, then I start back toward the elevators. “You have a great night,” I say.

“Good night,” she says. “You say, ‘Buenos noches.'”

“Buenos noches,” I reply.

“God bless you,” she says, and waves.

Unable to Say What I Want to Say …

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

Had a dream last night that me and a bunch of my friends from high school were having dinner at a restaurant when my ex-high-school girlfriend and some of her extended family walked in, including her baby sister. Now, her baby sister was a preschooler back then, so she should be grown and graduated now, but no matter: she was there, she was tiny, and she remembered me. She very sweetly asked me to write her a note that she could take with her since she doesn’t see me anymore. I was touched.

I thought for a moment and knew exactly what I was going to say (two lines; very nice; can’t remember in the daylight). But every time I found a piece of paper to write on, it would rip or shrink while I was writing until it was far too small to say anything on!

Terribly frustrating problem to have as a writer …

The Wilds of Manhattan

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

I’m writing tonight from the 22nd floor of a hotel near 52nd and 5th, New York, NY. I went to college in Connecticut, but money was tight, so I only visited The City (as my friends called it) twice back then: a biology visit to the Bronx Zoo and a tour with Jodi, led by my then-boss, Walter.

I’ve been back once since, the first week I worked for Hanley Wood – maybe I’ll share a story about that trip tomorrow night. Tonight, an observation, then bed.

We broke through the clouds this afternoon, and the terrain took my breath away: canyons and arroyos, stony ridges and spikes of granite, unbroken to the horizon. At street level, sundown comes early, and you can’t see clearly more than a few hundred yards at most. It’s louder and busier than where we hunted elk this fall, but the feeling I get coming into New York City is remarkably similar to the feeling of hiking off the beaten trail in Rockies: neither excitement nor fear, but anticipation of the unknown.

Like the mountains, there’s beauty here: St. Patrick’s Cathedral is incredible, as are the faces and languages in the streets. There’s savagery and survival, too: you can see it in the faces of the street people; in the trash and food littering the streets; in the constant security presence, the flashing lights, and sirens. There’s monotony: the hurry-up-and-wait of traffic (both on the streets and the sidewalks), the constant background noise, and the caramel-colored night skies.

And, like the mountains, there’s the constant opportunity for excitement – and the constant threat of the same.

* * * * *

Blogger’s Note: Naturally, I’m here when the Yankees are dormant and the writers are on strike. No Jeter, no Letterman, no shows on Broadway. The Cathedral was packed with tourists, however – hopefully it’s quieter for Mass tomorrow …