Tiny Bites of a Big Apple
Random Impressions of New York City
We've always been a little baffled by native New Yorkers—specifically, by how much they cling to The City (as they call it) and how they can only stand to leave for the briefest of vacations. If we complain about tall buildings, crime, getting lost, or litter on the streets, they'll shrug with their deepest sympathies for our country-bumpkin limitations. To paraphrase a raft of local crooners: If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere—and if you can't, don't let the door hit you on the way out.
We’ve lost count of how many times we've traveled to New York, so that might qualify as some sort of endorsement. We've visited the city poor, prosperous, and on expense accounts—and of the three, definitely prefer prosperous. The expense account dinners never hurt, but after a day of wading through the crowds and traffic to your next round of New York-style haggling, it takes an effort to dial up the enthusiasm for a night on the town. And poor speaks for itself in a place with this kind of hustle (and weather!).
One thing we learned long ago was to never try to swallow the city in one massive gulp. In London or Paris, we aim on every trip to get to the essence of the community, but in New York, we settle for one random bite of the apple at a time. We don't have a favorite neighborhood or borough, and we've never settled on a favorite hotel. We've never even kept a list of restaurants—they just go out of business anyway—so cuisine is a matter of firsthand exploration and following the localish crowds.
In that random spirit, here is an unsystematic handful of experiences to ponder:
Spanish Harlem:
Ben's first night, both in America and in New York City, took him at age seventeen to a hippie commune on 134th Street. Tie-dye, black lights, long, stringy hair, Mothers of Invention on the record player, vacant stares, the air thick with pot smoke, offers of puzzling—and probably public—casual sex. Within fifteen minutes, he was walking (after midnight no less) to the subway at Lexington in the ugly tan corduroy suit, green shirt, and blue tie with Dad's bomb-proof Samsonite. Welcome to America, young man! A night on the benches at La Guardia never looked so good.
TriBeCa:
One bitterly cold January evening, we came out of the Tribeca subway into deep snowdrifts and stumbled onto Ideya. This tiny Jamaican treasure had opened just days before, so we snagged a window table to keep tabs on the blizzard over too many of their signature mojitos. Like so many New York gems, Ideya took off like a rocket and then, within a decade, crashed and burned. The point not being to recommend a particular restaurant, but to note how fabulous finds like this come and go all the time. You'll quickly find your own.
Basketball:
The pickup games at the neighborhood courts can feature some sensational play. Up against the fence, you hear every squeak, grunt, and grumble and watch the streams of blood, sweat, and saliva fly off into the night. It might be unfair, but we picture these violent, hyper-athletic dudes failing one too many drug tests on their way into the NBA. They're that good.
The Plaza:
The Oak Room and the Palm Court used to be two of our favorite eateries in town, but then the Plaza lost its way, and the Oak Room closed down literally for bad behavior. One indelible memory: In the 20th century, the air in New York had always struck us as a polluted mess. But then, after we'd been living in Southern California for a few years, we woke up one morning at the Plaza and went for a walk. Something was off, and we couldn't quite figure it out—but then realized we were walking in a major US city and breathing fresh air. Such a shock.
The Theater:
One reason we don't mind traveling to Manhattan with other people is that Glinda can't get enough of the theater. Ben, on the other hand, would rather wander the streets of Midtown and its gaudy, degenerate theater of the absurd. With friends to keep Glinda company, everyone comes away satisfied.
Washington Square:
One of the most relaxed places to hang out in any city anywhere (but bring your own coffee). In the 1940s, friends of ours, Serbian refugees from the Nazis, rented the penthouse in one of the apartment buildings here for the then outrageous sum of $350 per month. Thanks to New York rent controls, their daughter is shelling out the same sum today.
The Algonquin:
We need to get back here. One of the few examples of a renovation taking a historic hotel—that used to have the most cramped rooms in the city—back to its roots as a comfortable haven for writers and artistes like Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, and Heywood Broun. A remarkably affordable hideaway, especially today and especially for Midtown.
The Islands:
Our ancestors came in through Charleston, South Carolina, so we've never really connected with the Ellis Island narrative, important though it was. The Statue of Liberty is another matter, but so much larger and more solid than it looks in the photographs. Those French do know how to cast an iconic—and hopefully eternal—green copper statue.
The Circle Line:
One thing we try to do on every trip is take the cruise around Manhattan. A side of the city you'll never see otherwise (several sides actually, all the way from majestic to gritty, to historic, to truly bucolic). One of the few places in town where you can sit down, relax, and wait for life to come to you.
Coney Island:
After a thirty-year absence, we expected a rundown, dilapidated mess. But on a warmish February afternoon, the only inhabitants were old geezers reading their newspapers on the neat benches next to the immaculate, but closed, concessions. We came here for the one and only Nathan's Coney Island and did not leave disappointed—the hot dogs were as delicious and unhealthy as ever.
Brighton:
We turned a corner here one afternoon and came upon a dude unloading crates of vodka up a small stairway into a darkened function room. When we inquired, he reminded us in a thick Russian accent that it was Valentine's Day. When we asked if we could crash his private party, he took $140 from us and told us to show up at 10:30PM. We did, and found that the Russian underworld was alive and well in New York. A fabulous buffet—caviar, blinis, lobster, shrimp, ten kinds of salmon—but the main event was the mobsters in their tuxedos and shoulder bulges and the millions of dollars of bling on their gorgeous, shimmering molls. We were deciding what to drink, when the waiter strode up and dropped off a fifth of vodka and two glasses. Needless to say, we didn’t even think about a selfie. The dancing lasted until the sun came up the next morning.
