Three whole days by myself in New York - the guests, although most welcome, are gone. The cooking and baking, although enjoyable and fruitful, has provided a treasure trove of leftovers and so the pots stay in the cupboard. The holidays, although magical, are blessedly over. The weather is fine and chilly. I'm rubbing my hands in glee - oh what of the many options shall I do?
Friday I purge part of my clutter. Wow does that feel good. I take all I can carry up to the Holy Name Thrift Store (thanks, Eileen!). I still have at least two more loads. They are wonderful there, and most gracious. There is a lot of great stuff here!, I say out loud to the woman taking my stuff. She laughs. But no buying, Stephanie. You are in purge mode.
I go stand in line at the Times Square TKTS booth to get half price tickets to a show. I wait in the cold line for about 90 minutes. Okay except for fingers. Keep thinking I would leave but then felt I had already committed too much to abandon. Have a good book, so the time is well spent. I get a good deal on Dividing the Estate, which was mediocre - read about it here. But that is still hours away.
I walk over to the MOMA (Museum of Modern Art) and see the Van Gogh exhibit. Wow, some paintings almost no one has ever seen or heard of before. Here is a very famous artist. And there are private collections that no one has ever displayed in a museum before? Still? Wow. That is an astonishing thought. How cool for future generations! I discuss with a young Irish man as we wait in line for coats the merit of private collections vs. public access to great art. Is it still great art if only a few people see it? Is that "fair"? Should fairness have anything to do with it? We come to no great conclusions. merely questions.
Saturday dawns bright and clear. I must see the Angel Tree at the Met Museum. On the way is the NY Historical Society where I see a wonderful exhibit on Grant and Lee. Turns out they were at West Point together. Lee was at the top of his class, and Grant so far below that he was assigned to the infantry. They fought alongside each other in the Mexican American war. Their field training could not have been more different - which of course manifest in the approaches they took in various battles. What a gruesome and horrific war this was. Bloody and such high death tolls that it's nothing short of barbaric. This just 150 years ago, and waged by "civilized men." (Why does this surprise me so? Look at Afghanistan, Iraq, Gaza, Rwanda....)
A very chilling exhibit discussesthe "White Leagues" of the South that ran rampant after the war -- preventing many a Republican - black or white - from holding office or maintaining the peace or strengthening the economy. The White Leagues just shot the Republicans - shot them as they sat in session and as they tried to escape. Think that there have never been acts of terrorism, coup d'etats, or self-inflicted civilian massacres on American soil? Guess again.
A sober walk across Central Park brought me back to the present. I treat myself to a ramble in the Ramble, the area of winding paths and rough, rock-strewn hills. Even in winter with the branches bare, you can not tell you are in the middle of one of the most densely populated areas on earth. Those designers were masterful.
The Met is teaming with visitors, a good sign for art and love and joy everywhere.... but, honestly, sort of annoying. I wander through European art until I reach my favorite painting - Joan of Arc by Francis Bastien-LePage. I take the Italian Renaissance Art of Love tour. Imagine painting the bed posts of your son's bridal chamber with erotic images and quotations of love and sex. Rock on, Italia!
I sneak down the back stairs and slowly circle the Angel Tree with it's incredible creche and Nativity scene. I listen to the many voices and languages speaking in hushed tones. What a wonderful museum.
I walk up Fifth Avenue and stop for coffee at Cafe Sabarsky in the Neue Gallery. The best coffee in the city. A jazz pianist is playing softly in the corner. The charming but has-to-be-60 waiter winks at me and I stare back, surprised, until I realize that there are two gents who speak with Southern accents sitting behind me, debating who is going to talk to me first. I put them both out of their misery and quietly depart.
Up a few blocks is the fabulous Frick Museum. An industrialist of the 18th Century, Henry Clay Frick was already a millionaire when he built this incredible home. He wanted it to be a museum, and thoughtfully provided wide hallways, convenient square footprint and a luxurious garden and courtyard. His art collection is astounding in diversity and elegance. But I personally love the library. I could sit on the floor in that room and just read spines all day. But they don't let you sit on the floor - unfortunately.
I rush home for a snack, shower and dash to meet a friend I met through a clown workshop at Slava's Snow Show - on Broadway for the holidays. Talk about magic. This Slava guy is masterful. The audience is in high spirits and the snow falls all around us. Children literally scream with laughter. I am, as always, totally jazzed by the joy clowns give us. Thoughtful joy - it's not simply happy or sad. It's your own shades of grey reflected and even celebrated. I say this to Mr. Slava as we congratulate him and thank him for the performance. He cocks his head to one side and then kisses the back of my hand. I take this as a form of high compliment.
I text a friend to meet me at the neighborhood wine bar. Many glasses later we are teasing the bus boy about where NOT to get a tattoo. Oh my. It's a three aspirin morning on Sunday.
To wipe away the headache, I walk along the Hudson River where the wind and cold chap my lips and cheeks. There is no one about and the green fields yield none of the noise and commotion of the summer. It's peaceful. Sleeping. I pick up sticks.
The matinee at the Irish Rep is a musical of Welsh poet Dylan Thomas' Childhood Magical Memories. I know nothing of Thomas, but love the singing and the poems. Tap my foot the whole time and laugh out loud at some of the great lines so well delivered. My friend Rita, who does know poetry and is Scottish, says that he's one of the best. Goal: find some great Dylan Thomas to explore.
I hate to re-enter my real life on Monday. But am so blessed to be able to live in a city where I can have such a diverse set of experiences in one weekend. And Saturday is only six days away!
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