Out With My Sister
Sept. 12, 2004
Enjoyed two evenings with my sister and her boyfriend. Sue and Jerry. I told you about Jerry. Insurance executive, Republican, very generous with his money, fun to spend time with, a little corny in his humor. They spent the weekend here, along with one of Jerry’s girl’s and her boyfriend — both just graduated from college.
Cocktails at the Soho Grande on their Friday evening, before the four of them dashed off to see The Producers. Then on their Sunday evening, drinks and food in a series of places. Jerry made all the arrangements and paid all the checks. Started with me joining Sue and Jerry at the Ritz-Carlton in Battery Park. Drinks on the outdoor terrace, overlooking the harbor. Wonderful setting. You feel like a pharaoh sitting up there above the harbor, the ships, the cities. Then in a taxi to meet “the kids” at the Soho Grande — cocktails in the hotel lounge again. Took a quick look at Sue and Jerry’s room — curious about the architecture. Then to the East Village in two cabs. Sue and I alone in ours. Brother and sister getting a few minutes to indulge in the family point of view.
A lavish, expensive dinner. Ordered about 10 appetizers, each $15-20. Followed by entrees in the $20-30 range. And three good bottles of wine. I don’t know how much they cost, but the first one was described as “very special” and was the only bottle of it left. Everything was a joy to the mouth. Most restaurant meals are disappointing in some way, have some element you eat quickly to get it over with. None of that here. Made me think that most of the things people eat can be done excellently or otherwise, and that most of the time it’s otherwise. All about the skill of preparation, the quality of ingredients, and of course giving a damn. It seems natural that you would have to pay more for excellent food, but why is that? Once you’ve got yourself a kitchen with all the ingredients at hand, how much harder is it to do a great job than an average job? Why can’t great be the average?
Was enjoyable and a little disheartening to be with those young people. Both good looking. Brains in full bloom. So many years to play with. Hard to accept that I’m no longer a member of the up and coming generation. Still. Nice to look at their young faces. Nice to have the role of listening to them with interest and encouragement. A continuity with how we are around little kids. They draw a picture with their foot and it’s beautiful, to hear us grownups. With these young adults the applause isn’t that exaggerated. But there’s the same desire to encourage them and see them smile.
Back at the hotel, said goodbye to all, wished them safe travels. If the young people felt any kind of sadness at the goodbye, they kept it to themselves. Sue and I both teared up a little, hugging tight. I gave Jerry a hug, but a measured one. He’s on the reserved side in that way. Had the feelings I always have when saying goodbye to family. Bewildered that it’s happening again. The knowledge it might be the last time I’ll see them. An excitement about going off alone again. A satisfaction that another short, intense chapter has just been written and, in a way, turned in to the publisher.
After the goodbye didn’t want to go straight underground to my train. Walked south into Tribeca. That place such an other-world quality at night. Not like a world of aliens. Like another world of us. A human outpost on another planet. There’s all that superstructure of buildings and streets, and only a few places doing business. Only a few people about. The everlasting immigrant workers, small-sized humans hosing the sidewalk, moving boxes of food. And the night-lifers. Somehow their nice clothes really seem like their nice clothes in that environment. Artificial apparel. You’re aware that they’ve costumed themselves to get into a certain frame of mind. To enjoy a pretense. The one lit-up bar or restaurant per block gives that impression, too. You’re aware the people here are making the best of an environment that exists for other reasons, the way the scientist-colonists would have to do in their mining compound on the iron moon of Saturn, or whatever. Much of the city feels that way at night, but Tribeca especially.
This night walk had the special charge of having been with family and of now going back to my chosen exile. But this time during the transition I was in my place of exile, not an airplane or car. For awhile felt sad, walking further and further from my sister — still there if I wanted to see her again, but something I would be insane to do. Then just enjoyed walking through New York with that transitional acuteness of consciousness. The night and the loneliness of the neighborhood made New York seem a little phantom-like. The recharged Missouri-ness of my awareness made me seem more distinctly myself than usual.
So it was almost like reminiscing in advance. I walked homeward, more or less, enjoying the city as if it I’d come back through time to see it again.
On every block remembering, “I ate there. I stood here with so-and-so. I came through here with so-and-so on the way to a show. Kissed so-and-so over there.”
Took the train under the river to Brooklyn, took one of the first exits so I’d have a long walk to my apartment. Continued the pre-reminiscence.
“Held her hand as we walked here. Ate there several times. Couple of times with so-and-so. This is the apartment where I was a man in his 40s.”
Walking slow. Stretching it out as you’d stretch out any high if you could.
Was a good kind of taking stock. An appreciation of the richness of my years in New York. Made this city feel more like Holiday Ranch. A place where I’ve been conscious and flabbergasted.
~ Sept. 12, 2004