New York State of Mind (09.07.23)

I was head over heels happy in New York City earlier this year, happy to a ridiculous degree. The city always feels right to me, proper, more alive than anywhere else, with its avenues and languages and crowds and glimpses of sky and constant changes, and its trees planted on rooftops and periodic and precious green spaces (thank you, Jane Jacobs). Even in Manhattan proper, everything you need is within fifteen minutes. New York City is young, always young. It vibrates. Sassy seems like a diminutive word, brash is overused, bustle is too small-scale, cocky too full of subtext. Language, in this case, might be insufficient.

Although it is prudent to be prudent in the city, it never seems hostile. Coming out of The Edge, the 101-story super-tall, dizzy from the height, I asked a sharp-looking young man to interpret his tee-shirt which carried this graphic: F$Sheart. “The first word,” he said slowly, “is the vulgar one. Then money, then S for ‘spread’, then heart for love”.  “Then it means,” said I, “f*** money, spread love?”  He looked a little shocked to hear me say that, and then smiled a yes. We parted friendly strangers.

(Another favorite tee-shirt spotted, in a very different key, on a paunchy gentleman: Sorry, Girls, I Only Date Models.  Close second: You Don’t Win Friends With Salad.) 

I was on an urban geography adventure whose name tells it all…Five Days, Five Boroughs. (“I’ve never been in the Bronx!” I’d said to my husband. “I’ve never been to Queens!  Or Brooklyn!”) It was all walking and public transportation, led by a NYC historian named John Kriskiewicz. True enthusiasm is a fiery and contagious engine, and John is deephearted and enthralled by his city. He threw off facts, opinions, and bon mots in a continuous enchanting stream. “In NY,” he said repeatedly, “everyone is a critic.” So we all became critics, and became enchanted.

Things I learned:

*There are 24 million people within 100 miles of the Statue of Liberty.

*About the loss of old Penn Station and his dissatisfaction with its replacement, the architectural historian Vincent Scully said “through Pennsylvania Station, one entered the city like a god. Now one scuttles in like a rat.”

*When the new Moynihan Train Hall was a post office distribution center, that’s where volunteers came to answer all letters addressed to Santa Claus.

*Of The Vessel, a massive walkable artwork closed because it was too easy to suicide from, John said “It’s a folly. You might as well take $200 million and light it on fire.”

*Languages and slang overlap in New York. One can, and does, “schlep to the bodega.” And an idiot, whether barreling heedless down the sidewalk, or driving through a crosswalk full of pedestrians, is called a “chooch” from ciuccio. In southern Italian slang, that’s a donkey.

*A random group of American adults will quickly deploy the new word with impunity throughout the city, exclaiming “What a chooch!” with regularity, and disdain, and laughter.

*On Staten Island, a different guide, highly opinionated and very verbal, and married to an Italian cop, remarked that SI has less crime because, in order to escape, the criminals would have to stand in line and wait for the ferry.

*There is a secret, unmarked bar frequented by actors and theater folk in the district, up a flight of stairs right next to a really famous place. It has a name, but no signage and no street number. No, I will not tell you where it is.

*There is a place in the Bronx called the Andrew Freedman House for Indigent Millionaires, endowed as an old age home for millionaires who have lost their money. It is a NYC designated landmark.

* On Arthur Avenue, in the Bronx’s Little Italy, you can wander along a street of delis with a dizzying array of olive oils and restaurants owned by five generations of Italians. You can also visit a bakery called Madonia, to buy a box of cannoli and watch them filled to order behind the counter. Just go on in.

*There is also a deli, bewildering, crowded, and wonderful, where it’s best to just say “give me something good for lunch.” It is right next to a place giving samples of their own wine in plastic cups. Recommending!

*When I texted my Midwest husband “I’m moving to the Bronx”, he promptly replied “I’m really going to miss you.”

From 1937 to 1954, a radio program called Grand Central Station ran on the major networks. The series had a wonderful opening narrative with a dramatic voice, and a decided echo sound effect. “As a bullet seeks its target, shining rails in every part of our great country are aimed at Grand Central Station, heart of the nation’s greatest city. Drawn by the magnetic force of the fantastic metropolis, day and night great trains rush toward the Hudson River, sweep down its eastern bank for 140 miles, flash briefly by the long red row of tenement houses south of 125th Street, dive with a roar into the two-and-one-half-mile tunnel which burrows beneath the glitter and swank of Park Avenue, and then … (sound effect: a train pulling into the station) … Grand Central Station! Crossroads of a million private lives! Gigantic stage on which are played a thousand dramas daily!”

This is exactly the way I feel about New York City.

And one last thought. It is best to simply embrace a certain amount of disorientation in New York City. Everybody does.

From the top of the Edge, 1100 feet above the street, the wind howls around the plexiglass walls, and the full spread of archipelago Manhattan far below is framed by salt water. John K attempted to orient our small crowd by pointing out landmarks: the Empire State Building, a good navigation aide, and the Chrysler Building with its distinctive and stunning art deco tower. I nodded and then looked away and then looked back, and I couldn’t find it. Yes, readers, I lost the Chrysler Building in the canyons of Manhattan.

New York State of Mind.