MTA JOY

So, the other day I got on a bus with my NYC instincts on full alert as they always are when the MTA is involved.  My radar read - angry crazy woman in the front and crazy but not so angry in the back.  I sat in the back.  A few minutes later the woman near me started to meow.  Not sweet little mewing but a full on howling.  I'm thinking I made a wrong decision so I more towards the front.  She continues her loud wails and then her phone rings.  She has a reasonable, rational conversation.  Maybe job related, there are stats stated, decisions discussed and logical pronouncements. Then she hangs up. And low and behold, the meowing commences again.  Fortunately I was not too far from my stop.  Oh the fun bus drivers must experience every day.

So, when I got to my destination I told my friend about my bus ride.  He told me about the time he was on the subway and an elderly gentleman was singing Jesse's Girl.   The elderly gentleman knew the melody, but didn't know the real words and sang some gibberish.  However he did know one line of the song, which he sang out loud and clear each time it came around and that was - "How can I find a woman like that?" Let's give this man some credit, at least he knows what he wants.

I’ve heard tell

There was a young man who lived in a small town.  His fiancé had just broken up with him.  He was very much in love with her and was bereft.  He couldn’t even fathom life without her.  There was only solution in his mind.  He would take his own life.  

There was a river that flowed through the town and a bridge over this river.  He couldn’t swim and decided if he  jumped off the bridge it would be a fast, easy death.  He came to the highest point smack in the center of the bridge.  He stayed for a few moments, mustering up all his misery to do the deed. He climbed to the top of the ledge.  Took a breath and jumped.  

As he was on his way down he came to his senses and screamed, “This is a mistaaaaaakkkkkke!”

Fortunately, this whole scene was observed by a witness, who jumped in and saved the man.   I’m not sure if the man ever got back together with his ex fiance.  But I can guarantee that this man has a renewed appreciation for life.

***
A friend was sitting on a jury.  It was deep in summer and there was no air conditioner.  There was a ceiling fan that rattled on, the defense attorney rattled on and the court stenographer clicked away.  Deep in the middle of a long droning by the defense attorney the entire court simultaneously realized that it seemed a little quiet.  The court stenographer had stopped. The judge turned to her and asked what was going on.  The stenographer pushed away her chair, took her glasses off her nose and in a deep Bronx accent said, “I’m tired.”  The judge called for a recess until the next day with an admonition for the stenographer to rest up.

Odette

I had two cats, Bobby and Odette, brother and sister.  They were tuxedo cats with exactly the same markings except Bobby was black and a bruiser and Odette was silver grey and very beautiful. They had big personalities and were quite the pair.    I wanted one kitten but was told I had to take two, so I did.  Later I found out they had a sister, Miss Ellie who was a Pygmy cat.  Does such a thing even exist?  I imagine her as a runt many times over.  If I had known about this cat, I would have taken her as well.  Absolutely. 

Bobby and Odette were very friendly, they eagerly greeted all humans who entered the apartment, following them around and doing the necessary sniffing.  If a plumber came, they were on either side of the sink, looking up at the plumber and then back towards the sink.  A friend came over once and took off his Converse sneakers, they tried to get both of their heads into same shoe, and then settled on one shoe for each little snout.

Odette was very sweet and welcomed any dog that came in, where as Bobby would patiently wait for the right moment and whack them, proving that he was the boss.  This piece is dedicated to Odette and I hope to write one about Bobby soon.  Odette was a flyer.   Out of the corner of my eye I would see a whiff of movement, and it would be Odette flying from the bookshelf to the cabinet and around the room four times over. 

Odette particularly liked to jump from the couch to the top wardrobe shelf.  This she did with grace.  Except for one night.  I was wrapping gifts on the floor and my boyfriend at the time was on the couch.  The wardrobe door was barely open.    We heard a crash.  I asked my boyfriend to check to see if she was okay.  Ahh, she’s alright.  Please, I asked.  He didn’t.  So, I did.  I opened the door to see Odette hanging on for dear life with her claws stuck deep into my woolen winter coat.  I rescued kitty from coat.  This boyfriend didn’t last.

What best exemplifies Odette is what happened one cold winter night.  Bobby passed away at too young an age, and Odette wasn’t feeling all that well herself. She would nap by the radiator so I kept a towel for her to rest on.  One night Odette was on her towel and I was on the couch watching TV.  I am stunned to see a mouse creep from behind the refrigerator and walk straight up to the blanket.  The cat looks at the mouse, the mouse looks at the cat, and then the mouse walks on the blanket up to the cat.  The cat and mouse settle in and cuddle together. 

I scream, the mouse runs away, the cat runs away.  I clean every little step the mouse took, I throw the towel away and put down a new towel.   A few minutes later the mouse comes back and takes it’s place next to Odette.  I scream and scream.  Both run away.  I clean and scrub and decide I cannot live with this mouse.   I did what I had to, to make sure the mouse was not coming back. 

I then thought – how long has this been going on?  This couldn’t have been the first time.  They must have been sharing a towel for a while.   Eek.  You can’t give a cat a bath, but I cleaned the cat as best I could.   Well, so much for natural enemies.

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS

If you live in NYC for any length of time you develop extraordinary sensory perception.  It’s a necessity.  Having a finely tuned radar system is the only way to survive.  We live too close together and travel en masse.  You must be able to figure out that this is a crazy person but no need to cross the street, this crazy person you move far away from, and don’t even make a left turn here because you don't even want to know what's going on down that street.

One day at work I had to man the fitness desk.  I was hungry and had half a sandwich with me. I went to sit at a table with a boy sitting alone.  I asked if it was okay and he nodded.  I sat eating my sandwich for a minute or so as he stared at me.  He then said, “ I have a soccer ball at home.”  I said, “wow that’s great, do you play.”  Yes, he said.  I saw a book on the table and said, are you studying mandarin?  Yes.  Could you speak it for me?  He looked me in the eyes and said, “I really can’t do that. “ He was 6 and in first grade, we talked for a bit and then I told him I had to go back to the fitness desk but if he liked he come chat with me there.  He shook his head and said, “I have to stay right here.” This young boy probably intuited that I was someone who would appreciate his ownership of a soccer ball!

I was in the brand new Target looking at the men’s pajama bottoms.  They are much nicer than the women's which are made of modal, a fabric that feels like you are wearing an oil slick.  The men’s of course are 100% cotton.  As I looked among the selections I noticed an odd creature watching me and smiling.  He then approached.  The radar said – crazy but benign, so I stayed.  He smiles and says, “I like the mens and I like the womens.  The mens I love but the womens I marry.  I said something like, “how nice for you.”  He kept smiling, paused for a few brief seconds, turned and then evaporated, to whence he came.

I was walking in the West Village close to where I live.  A hipster couple walked up to me and the man said, here this is for you as he handed me a flower.  I said thank you.  It looked as if were picked from a shrub.  I put it in a vase full of water.  A few flowers fell off but a couple grew.  Well this little little shrub is still going strong and has begun rooting.  I plan on planting it in a pot all it's own.  A random act of kindness is beginning to take root!

I was at the Lexington & 53rd Street station, whose picture is in the dictionary as an example of hell.  I saw a blind man walking to the end of the station.  There are sections where the path is so narrow; it’s scary even with sight.  I offered to help him.  He needed to get to the back of the station.  So we walked together.  It always shocks me how oblivious people are but it’s very noticeable when someone is walking with a long white cane.  I had to navigate this man around preoccupied people.  The scene changed as we walked into the subway car.  It was another world, a glorious world - people gave up their seats, everyone was kind and thoughtful.  I told this man – we just landed on the nice train!

So my wish for all is that you land on the nice train, each and every day.  And let's practice random acts of kindness.

M20 Redux

M20 Redux

So, I recently became a NYC bus rider when I realized the M20 takes me to every place I need to go to - down Seventh Avenue and back up Eight Avenue.  As everything in NYC it has a character and charm all it’s own.  Here’s what I’ve observed. 

Going Uptown.

My Favorite Bus Driver.  I met my FBD when I got on the bus behind a woman who was carrying a cup cake.  When asked why, she told FBD it was her birthday and a colleague had given it to her.  Well, he had the entire bus sing “happy birthday.”  I saw him the next day and said how nice that was.  Of course, he said, got to keep life light.  I would chat with him whenever he drove the bus.  It wasn’t until he turned toward me one time when I realized that he was very attractive.  Apparently he’s many women’s FBD.   Because I have seen various women at different bus stops hand him a bag of cooked food for his dinner and they do not even get on the bus!  His schedule has changed so I don’t see him regularly but he’s always friendly and nice – to everyone.

Middle School.   I once got on the M20 in the late afternoon and sat in a seat in the back.  At the next stop there was an implosion of Middle Schoolers.  I watched their frenetic dynamic and tried to figure out who was in what group but I didn’t get a sense of it BECAUSE EVERYONE WAS MEAN TO EVERYONE.  There was one kid who really wanted attention and was trying to be friendly to people but everyone was particularly mean to him.  I sat next to a girl who probably wasn’t on the peak of the pyramid and when she said something mean to him.  I turned to her and said quietly, be nice.  Just be nice.  I could tell she absorbed what I said.  I got off at the next stop and made a vow that if I ever got on the Middle School bus again, I would say the same thing to the entire crowd.  Not that they’d listen, but maybe one kid for a short time would absorb it.  I’m sure I would be called the crazy lady but maybe life would be a little easier for one person for a little while.

Bus apps.  There are now a few bus apps and a site online that will tell you where on the route your bus is.  I generally use this when I go uptown, and I can plan my exit from work.  However, there’s a strange phenomena.  The app and site will tell you the bus is making its way uptown and then a minute later when you refresh it, the bus will disappear. I was told it had something to do with the closeness of the World Trade Center and how signals get blocked.  I’m not sure if this is true because sometimes the bus will reappear and sometimes not.  Strange.

Going Downtown.

Tourists.  The M20 is the bus you take if you are midtown and want to go to the World Trade Center.  Apparently all of the guidebooks from every part of the world tell you to get off at Chambers Street.  This however is not the closest stop to the WTC.  In any group, the person who speaks English the best will confer with the bus driver and I hear him say Vesey and North End.  It seems time and again, they don’t quite trust the bus driver or even what they are hearing.  For they all get off at Chambers.  I’ve tried to help tourists and tell them to wait 3 more stops but to no avail.  Apparently the only trustworthy information is from their guidebooks.  Which isn’t wrong, at Chambers you have a visual of the WTC looming.   It just always makes me laugh and it never fails.

There are more stories on the M20, when they manifest I will be sure to add them. 

Ditched by a Golden Girl

       

So, I started coaching Cross Country for fourth grade girls at an Upper East Side school.  The girls are beautiful, charming, and exuberant - so much so that after that first day I lay exhausted on my couch.  I asked them what they wanted their team to be called and it was unanimous – Golden Girls.  With a chuckle I declared, so be it.  They seem unaware of the hilarity.

Yesterday, on the way to the field, one of the girls Emily (not her real name) had me laughing as she explained why she calls her new Uncle  - Turkey Butt. It was a different experience on the way back.  Emily’s best friend told her she was ditching her.  Emily cried and cried.  The other girls told me that they too had been ditched.  One girl four times, another three times.  And so on.  I was shocked, when had this become a thing?  

Yes, I had seen Mean Girls, but even in that cautionary tale, it wasn’t repetitive ditching.  This is apparently a right of passage for these very young girls.  Suddenly I remembered an incident from high school that still has me unnerved – and IT DIDN’T EVEN HAPPEN TO ME.  I WAS JUST AN OBSERVER!

Elyse and Lynn were best friends for a very long time. Although I was accepted into the triangle, I wasn’t awarded equal footing.  However, they were fun and creative and I felt more at home with them than most others in the school.  From the age of 13-16 we attended theatre school together.  Lynn and I would choreograph every bit of music we could find for hours and hours after school and Elyse and I would rehearse scripts.
   

Our junior year, Elyse and I were cast in the musical.  The very popular seniors were also cast.  And we all became friends.  For some reason they didn’t like Lynn.  They made derogatory remarks, laughed about her and so on.  Elyse ditched Lynn.  I don’t even know how it happened. 

I remained friends with Lynn and Elyse and the popular seniors.  I guess I had a different status then Elyse in High School.  I was friendly with a lot more people. And it didn't hurt that I stopped the show with a dance number in the musical.

Lynn was bereft.  I didn’t know what to say or why Elyse did it. In retrospect, I realize Elyse was a bitch.  Not in the get things done way, but in the insecure way.  She put people down to make herself feel better. I was the recipient of many of those putdowns. Perhaps Lynn was better off. 

On the way home from the track last night I told Emily she was brilliant and wonderful and tomorrow she will feel better.  I know kids grow up faster, I hadn't realized that all the crazy high school junk is now in elementary school.  When did people become disposable? 

I told the girls that it’s always better to be nice.  That nice always wins out. I hope they hear me.  It will save them many tears, for karma always wins.

Attention

By Air Force photo by Rudy Purificato [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

After reading my story about David DeFrances, a friend told me he lived next door to an older gentleman for many years.  The older gentleman was a holocaust survivor.  He had a number tattooed on his left forearm.  He showed my friend the tattoo and spoke about the horrors of the concentration camps.  He apparently had been transferred to a few different camps and spoke about the abominations of each camp.

This older gentleman became very sick and passed away.  It was then that my friend learned that the gentleman was born and raised in Ohio.  He was not in the holocaust and may have had just a smattering of Jewish blood.   The first indication his story was fraud is that the vast majority of holocaust survivors never speak about their experiences. Not even to their own families.  It’s only in their very old age that they feel they can even begin to mention it.  Some have thankfully written their memoirs, and the Shoah Project gives survivors an opportunity to come forth with their histories.

Why would anyone make up such a terrible story about himself?  The need for attention and sympathy must be so great.  How sad. 

Let’s state the truth - we are all okay, just as we are.  Always were, always will be.

David DeFrances

So, I met David De Frances at my local Starbucks.  He seemed trustworthy so I asked him to watch my laptop.  We struck up a conversation and soon we had a friendship a la Starbucks. This friendship expanded to include several other Bux regulars, one of whom was Carol, someone I had seen in the neighborhood for a long time. 

I went to Starbucks to write but David was very chatty.  And soon I knew everything about his life, in great detail. He’s an actor and went to Brown.  He was in a soap opera - The Guiding Light for several years, though it ended in September 2009.  He owns a brownstone next to Sarah Jessica Parker and they are friends.  He knows Mathew Broderick and was in several plays with him.  He went to theatre school in London and still owns an apartment there.  This is where he met his good friend Edie Redmayne.  

David was in Spring Awakening with Lea Michelle and flew to LA to console her after Corey Monteith's passing.  He went frequently to LA to audition.  And would get parts, just not the ones he wanted.  David just broke up with his boyfriend, an attorney.  Together they had two dogs that David was keeping because David loved them so much, though the ex insisted on visitation rights.

David was very concerned with his hair. He had thick black hair that he checked over and over again. It was so shellacked that nothing could happen to it, even during the humid days of summer. He was kicked out of the local Rite Aid because he would frequently check his hair in their mirrors, that they thought he was casing the joint.  He was very upset, and couldn’t see the humor in it.

One time, David mentioned he just had lunch with SJP at Café Cluny because he had to inform her that while she was on vacation, her staff partied on the steps of her town house.

David grew up Catholic in South Dakota, his father was a sheriff and he played ice hockey.  He had two sisters, one in London with two kids and one sister who was a doctor and married to a doctor.  They lived in Boston with their twin boys.  He would describe in minute detail everything that he sent them for birthdays and holidays.  In fact I knew more about David’s life than I know of some of my closest friends.

My schedule changed and I didn’t see the Starbucks crowd for a while.   It was many months later when I ran into Carol one late afternoon.  She’d been looking for me, she had some news about David.

David committed suicide.  And everything he told us had been a lie.  

David's brother-in-law found David's phone and wanted to inform his friends.  The only friend he could find was Carol.  So he called her to let her know about David's passing.  It was the moment that Carol asked about the family, that she learned that everything he told us had been a lie.  

Everything - a fabrication.  David wasn't an actor, didn't live next to SJP, didn't go to Brown, and didn't know Edie and Lea.  He didn't have an ex and he didn't have dogs. There was little that David said that he hadn't made up, including what he said about his family.

It's been a year and I'm still so sad.  For the senseless loss of life. And to think about the pain he must have been in.  He must have felt so bad about himself that he felt the need to invent an alternative existence.  I'm a writer and I make money doing it, however, when I knew David I was working 3 jobs to make ends meet.  Carol is retired from the NY Times.  Why us, we ask ourselves.

There were red flags.  And in retrospect they were huge.  I looked up the Spring Awakening cast and he wasn't listed.  Carol didn't find his name in the Guiding Light.  I told myself actors are story tellers - they embellish, subtract, add, change the retell all the time.  All artists are, all people are for the most part.  

I know and have been involved with very famous people.  Unless I know you for a very long time, I don't name names and I may or may not in this platform, depending on the story.  That's my decision, and not necessarily holds for everyone. So David knowing all these stars was never out the realm of possibility.  

Apparently, he was a dog walker and we think he may have walked dogs on the same block as SJP.  The house of cards came tumbling down when David's landlady in Brooklyn decided to sell the house and he didn't have the money to move.  He was in great despair and thought he had no one to turn to.

He could have turned to me or Carol.  He could have found help from the lovely people at Church of St Luke in the Fields across the street. He hid so much.  

I do know that he was fun, clever and bright.  If only he knew - he was just fine the way he was.  We all are.  

Stuck in the Elevator at the New World Trade Center - Yesterday

So I was stuck in the elevator for an hour and half at the brand new Westfield World Trade Center Mall.  I had a long workout and thought I would take a walk over to Eataly and get something yummy to eat.  I had a  bad feeling about going.  I was thinking perhaps it was related to the upcoming 9/11 anniversary.  So clearly I didn't listen to my intuition. Never good.

A security guard told me I had to take the elevator (AE22) to the third floor to get to Eataly. The elevator has windows on three sides.   A family with little children got off on the next floor and a couple got in and pressed a button for the second floor.  The doors didn't open on two and didn't open on three.  We pressed the button for all of the floors, the door still wouldn't open.  Then the elevator started to go up and down on constant repeat on it's own. 

I pressed the alarm button. No response.  I pressed the alarm button and held it down.  It took several minutes before a human contacted us.  I told them we were stuck in the elevator the doors were not opening on the floor.  He said to hold on he would contact the mechanic.

And we were still going up and down!  I pressed the alarm button again.  The voice said the mechanic was on his way. From where I wondered?  This was a brand new building, on a very busy Saturday afternoon.  Shouldn't there be many mechanics in every corner?

I asked the voice at the end of box that surely there must be some way they could stop the elevator from going up and down. After a while, we landed on CIM, which seemed to be the main floor.  Finally, the mechanic(s) arrived because we could hear voices on the other side of the door.  In fact they were cursing, because nothing they were doing was working. This did not instill confidence in us.  Clearly, the mechanics were flying by the seat of their pants and didn't know how to rectify the situation.

The couple was from Montreal and very nice.  The man valiantly tried to open the door, but was told to stay away.   We could see security guards and policeman all over.  Suddenly we were the entertainment, and people were taking photos of us, pointing and commenting.

They reboot the computer associated with the elevator, as seen on the screen. And low and behold once again, we go up and down again.  I consider calling the FDNY.  I ask the voice in the box, who informs me they were there.  

It looked like the rescue would be a long time coming, so I sat down and breathe deeply.  It was at this time that the couple started to panic.  We hear continual cursing from the other side of the door. Nothing the mechanics were doing worked.  

Finally an hour and half later the doors open up.  The elevator was about 3 feet off the floor, so we were helped out.  The couple and I hug and they off go.  

It took me a while before my heart rate lowered.  I had chicken soup to calm me down.

This incident is disgraceful on so many levels.  Not only is this a brand new building but it's on a space with a particular history.  Elevators figure strongly in the history.  Didn't someone think to drill all the possible scenarios of elevators breaking down?  

The building should have been alerted the second the doors wouldn't open.  Why did it take me to notify management that there was something wrong?  I did not see FDNY at the scene.

The 9/11 anniversary is approaching.  Don't you think the mechanics and security should be on top of their game, not scrambling around for solutions.

Apparently, this is not the first issue with the elevators.  The elevators were having problems within days of the space opening.  A friend told me she took her children in a stroller and thad to search for an elevator that worked.  

Does the safety of the public take second place to making money?  It certainly seems so. 

It Was A Very Good Year

So, on a brutally cold winter night  in NYC,  I force myself out of my warm apartment and go to a party. The setting was humble, but the attendees were glamorous. The type you study in High School English.  I met one of my idols, a ground breaking, innovative writer – he wasn't very nice.  Disappointing. So maybe he was having a bad day, or maybe as my friend, Jean Caffeine says, never meet your idols.  Fortunately, things perked up from there.  

I have a basic guideline when I go to a party, which has served me well.  I’ll either talk to someone no one is talking to, or the oldest people in the room.  Often they are one and the same. 

I saw an older gentleman and his wife.  She was dressed in all white – white pants, white boots and the largest white fur hat in existence.  Fabulous.  So I go and introduce myself.  Ervin Drake and his wife Edith.  

They are charming, fun and clearly have a zest for life.  We make our chit chat and then ask the inevitable question – what do you do? Since it was a party of writers, the basic was a given, but not the particulars.  Playwright I tell them, and invite them to  a reading of my play the next weekend. 

Ervin’s a songwriter.  Popular songs and he also wrote musicals. His most successful song is - It Was A Very  Good Year recorded by Frank Sinatra.  Frank said, Ervin I’ll record anything you got. What Ervin didn’t tell me was that he also wrote one of my favorite songs, Good Morning Heartache sung by Billie Holiday, which was one of Billie’s favorite as well.

They ask if I know Stephen?  Of him, of course, but not personally, so they introduce me to Stephen Schwartz, who is kind and gracious, and so talented, as evidenced by his many Broadway hits.

Edith describes what it was like in the early 60s.  She was gorgeous now but must have been quite striking then.  Men were grabby and they chased her.  Literally.  At parties around a table. It seems Mad Men had it right.  

Edith and Ervin tell me they are going to a charity event, but they didn’t write down where it was.  Don’t worry, said I, someone with a smart phone can look it up.   “Smart phone?  What’s that?”   My phone at the time, wasn’t so smart.   So we found one.  Evidently, the charity event was the day before!   Phased, they were not.

We continued to have more laughs, and then they caught a cab to the train station for the ride home.  On a frigid cold night, they exuded great warmth.  What a great treat to have met them.

I was sorry to hear that Ervin passed away last year.  What a bright light.   He clearly had many Very Good Years.

Message In A Bottle

So, a friend of mine, Greg, came home late one night, to find a letter in his mailbox.  It was addressed to:

Any Boys and Girls
123 Broadway Street
United States of America
 

He read the letter and laughed and laughed for hours.  Greg, a fine artist, lives in a loft in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.  As all New Yorkers know, Broadway is just Broadway without a “Street”.  However, the Post Master General decided Greg’s loft was the right place. He couldn’t have made a better choice, as you will see.

The letter was written by Sergei and Natasha, two young Russian children.   It began:  Hello New Friends!  They were studying English, they were ages 9 and 10.   They talked about their lives, what their home life was like and how they hoped their new friends would write back to them.

He showed me the letter and we laughed and laughed.  I happened to mention this letter to a friend, a teacher of third graders, at a private school in the West Village.  Her eyes lit up.   I said, do you want the letter?  Indeed she did.
 

The class wrote a reply letter to their new friends Sergei and Natasha.  They responded.  They spent the entire school year writing back and forth to each other.  It became a special class project.  At one point Natasha asked, “what is this doll called Barbie?”

The next day every girl brought in Barbies hoping to send them to Natasha.  They chose a cross section of Barbies and shipped them off to Natasha.  Unfortunately, what they didn’t do is pay off the corrupt Russian civil servants because Natasha never received the Barbies.

This happened several years after the collapse of the Soviet Union.  It truly was a message in a bottle.  These two clever Russian children with sense of adventure, reached across the ocean.  Knowing we are all the same, and with a deep sense of humanity - they took a chance.

They are young adults now.  I like to think that a few have maintained contact.  That lasting friendships were made.  Perhaps even a few visits.  That the world is a tad more amicable. 

Ye Olde Antique Shoppe

So, I spent a summer in Scotland when a play of mine  ran in the Edinburgh Festival.  It was received really well and was a big success.  In the cast was an actor who is now a huge star, I won't name names but he now has a hit tv show and is in the Wolverine series.  We had triumphs, trials, victories, laughs and worked hard.  Finally we had a day off, and a few of us decided to rent a car and toodle about the Scottish country side.

The landscape, like the Scotts themselves, is lovely.  We saw ancient castles, lochs, mountains and shades of green I never knew existed before.

So we discover this lovely Scottish town, and on the High Street we find a parking spot in front of Ye Olde Antique Shoppe..  And low and behold we discover we have a flat.  The owner of Ye Olde Antique Shoppe comes out to see what happened.  He asks us where we are from – all 4 of us are New Yorkers.  He tell us he’s been to New York and went to a Bar Mitzvah on Long Island, and that he’s Jewish and Gay.  Three of us were Jewish and Ben is Gay, and all of us have been involved with theatre our whole lives.  The homing pigeon found it’s own kind.  What were the chances!  It was as if a huge cosmic magnet pulled us to this very location.  We chatted, laughed and then our new friend had customers he had to attend to.

It was time to get to the matter at hand.   None of us had ever changed a flat before.  Tom and Ben were valiant, found the spare, the tools and a book on how to change a flat.  One of them grabs the tool, as the other reads the instructions out.  A man sees this and walks by shaking his head in disbelief.

Our new friend from the Shoppe comes out to see how the progress is going. Slowly, we tell him.  We ask if he knows how to change a tire.  He said, not really.  I tell him, you don’t want to get greasy anyway.  Our new friend, slaps his thighs, lifts his hands up in the air and said in his Scottish brogue, “You can grease me right up!”  With that he pivots and returns to his store to attend to new customers.

The man who shook his head came back.  Let me help, he said.  Within 5 minutes he changed the tire. We thanked him profusely.  I never saw anyone read the book, he said in his Scottish brogue.  He might have repeated this several times.  And then he went on his merry way.

We said our fond farewells to our friend in Ye Olde Antique Shoppe, he promised he would visit us in NY and we reconvened our toodling.

Sometimes you luck out, make new friends and rely on the kindness of strangers.

London Calling

So, I went to London for a few weeks and stayed for months and months - as one does.  I was staying with a good friend, Margo, from high school who lived south of the River Thames in Clapham.    Margo and I were friends with two Brits, Val and Christina.  Margo, a talented musician, led a band that played in all the right places and had a hit that was moving up on the charts.  

Our little clan would go out, look fabulous, dance, laugh ourselves silly and cause all sorts of havoc. 

Val, an artist, had that fabulous David Bowie, Tilda Swinton, British androgynous look.  Christina was born in Africa, her father a general in the British Army was stationed there.  She had polio when she was young, Africa being one of the last places to eradicate the disease.  She has one leg shorter than the other and wore a shoe to correct the height difference.  After the first second of meeting her you forgot about it.  Christina was vibrant and alive.  Christina's sister circulated with the royal crowd.  Christina had a little shop in Clapham that sold buttons (called badges to the Brits) and everyone congregated there.  At any moment of time someone was making tea, drinking tea or clearing up the tea. Refusing a second cup of tea because I was a little speedy, Christina said, "You sound like a bloody foreigner." To which I said the obvious, "I am a foreigner!"  

One special night we were heading to a party, given by a friend of Val's.  Supposedly it was to be a great party and we were particularly sparkly.  It was on the outskirts of town and Christina drove her van.  We got a little lost, circled back, reviewed the map, and traveled and traveled.  It took quite a long time, but finally we arrived.  We charged up the stairs to the party.  It was fun and not quite what I expected, but what is?  

After about an hour or so, Val said, I have to tell you something.  We're at the wrong party!  Somehow after all that searching we landed on a party, just not the right one. Whose party was it?  The Hells Angels.  Of course we didn't blink an eye at the preponderance of motorcycles or leather pants. They were fun and welcoming, and no one asked how we knew the hostess, including the hostess.  We aimed for a party and we found one.  So we stayed.

I'm not sure how we made it back home, perhaps the Hells Angels gave us a convoy.  Seek and Ye shall find.

Going Your Way - All Hail The MTA

Oh, what adventures one can have traveling in NYC.  The ins and  outs, the ups and downs.  I’ve had some very special adventures on the buses, and in particular the M20.  The M20 takes me to many of the places I need to go to.  It goes down from Columbus Circle on Seventh Avenue to South Ferry, and up again on Eighth Avenue.  

It was a Friday evening, not too long ago. I had to wake up very early the next morning, and be perky.  I needed to get home in a timely fashion. The M20 picked me up and began it’s journey uptown.    We made a couple of turns and then we came to a standstill.  We needed to make a turn on Hudson Street (which turns into Eighth Avenue).  The problem was traffic backed up from the Holland Tunnel.  And we were waiting and waiting.  No one was letting the bus make the left turn, and the driver was not taking the initiative.  There seems to be many traffic cops in NYC, but somehow they never seem to be in a location that might actually need their help. 

I remember someone telling me that she waited on the M20 for an hour and half before the bus started moving.  That hadn't been my experience and it certainly didn't fit into into my schedule, so after about 20 minutes of waiting,I thought, this isn't working!  I walked up to the bus driver and said, “Do you want me to stop the car and then you can make the turn, and then let me back on the bus?”  The bus driver nodded his head affirmative.  So out I went.

I stood in front of a car, which contained a particularly angry driver.  He kept yelling at me and inching his car towards me.  Everyone was watching so I wasn’t that worried.  Okay so I was worried, but everyone was watching.  He inched and inched at me and cursed and cursed.  Eventually, traffic had moved a bit, and by now the bus driver was able to maneuver the bus so that we could finally make the turn.

The bus driver opened up the door and in I went.  The bus driver thanked me and then the other passengers broke out in full applause.   

We rode up Hudson Street, and  as I got off at my stop, the bus driver thanked me again.   A frail elderly lady was moving towards the bus stop as the bus started to inch away.  Elderly Lady, “oh he won’t stop.”  Me, “Oh, he’ll stop.”  I knocked on the door.  The bus driver opened the door and the Elderly Lady got in. 

I got home feeling satisfied.  Gotham can rest well tonight.

Clara and the Wolf

So, I first met my little cousin Clara when she was 7 weeks old in Strasbourg, France where she was born and raised. She’s the daughter of my beloved cousin Corinne, who passed away several years ago.  I think of Corinne often.  Corinne and I met when we were 18, on my first trip to France, when I met a lot of the French side of my family. Corinne and I had adventures, lots of laughs, read the same books and bonded instantly. From the get go, Clara was very much her own person and wonderful, as you will see. On this trip, Corinne, Clara and I went to visit our Great Uncle who lived in Germany (we are Jewish and I never really understood it, but everyone gets to make their own choices). The EU borders weren’t as porous in those days and there were checkpoints.  Midway, I suddenly remembered I had forgotten to bring my passport.  Corinne said, “I will kill you.” Corinne always had her American idioms down.  Well, 2 women with a baby - we weren’t stopped.

 I ran the Paris marathon, and Corinne, Clara and Martine (another cousin) were there to watch.  I had given Clara a leopard Beanie Baby called Freckles. Clara’s 7-year old French tongue could not quite manage that name, but she was really cute about trying and trying. Clara even brought Freckles to cheer me on. They were waiting for me at the 13^th mile, and here too Clara tried, “Frah Kols.”

Corinne and family were in New York. Clara, 14, would be taking an exam to gain entrance into an English school, and she needed practice. What Clara particularly wanted my help with was the difference between - Would, Should and Could. I tried my best, but I don't think I did the greatest job. However, Clara got into the school, went to University in England, and is now working on a Law Degree there.

My favorite time with Clara was when she was 4-years old. It was a brutally cold snowy winter in France, especially in Alsace.  Clara, her Dad and I were taking a walk in the Black Forest, the land of Little Red Riding Hood and Hansel and Gretel. The forest was dark, grey, the pine trees blocking out whatever light there was and we could hear wolves in the distance, or was that the wind howling?  When told about the dangers meeting a wolf might present, Clara said, "Well, maybe he is just afraid. And maybe he is afraid because he doesn't know me.  So, if I introduce myself to him, then he won't be afraid."

I imagined - Je m'appelle Clara, to which the Wolf would give a low bow and the world would be righted.  And so, once again the innocence of youth leads us to a softer place.

Hotel de Paris

I know of a very well respected attorney who was a partner at an elite law firm.  She and a friend were planning on taking a vacation in Monte Carlo.   They wanted to stay at the Hotel de Paris, an elite, fabulous hotel, smack in the center of town.  The attorney had her assistant call to make reservations.  No, the assistant was told, the hotel was absolutely booked.  The attorney decided to call.  No, absolutely booked, no possibility.  

The attorney really wanted to stay at this hotel.  So in her best “European” accent she calls back and pretends to be the Countess de Montague. She gets a room.  A suite, in fact.

So the attorney and her friend drive up to the hotel in a car they rented.  The attorney, in her best Countess de Montague, flings her hand and instructs the valet (as she would to her multitude of servants) to take care of the car. 

The attorney and her friend have a wonderful time.  They drive up and down the Cote d’Azur, dine out lavishly, and enjoy themselves thoroughly.  When it’s time to leave the Countess flings her hand and instructs the valet to take care of the car.  

They return home. 

Six months later the attorney gets a phone call from the Hotel de Paris.  The car is still there in the garage.  Would the Countess like them to keep holding it?  Please enlighten them as to the Countess’ wishes.

Needless to say the attorney, as the attorney, not as the Countess, negotiated with both the hotel and the car rental place.  So the cost of this extravaganza wasn’t too ridiculous.  I’m not sure, however, if she has any plans to return.
 

Seat on the subway

I had a seat in a crowded subway car.  I was tired and was reading a book on my iphone 6 called “Grace and Power” about the Kennedy administration.  I felt the presence of a boy approximately 10 years old slip into the seat next to me.   He had a nice energy and I was deep into the book.  At his stop, he got up and turned to me.  We smiled at each other and he paused for a second, then said, “nice story.”   And he walked out. 

 I realized, he was reading over my shoulder!  I was deep into a complicated section of the book where Kennedy was having a rough time with Khrushchev, and this young boy was reading along with me.  And I thought - alright, the world will be in good hands one day!