Last Tuesday, Hania and I walked the High Line, gazing north toward a skyscraper out of which a diagonal observation deck jutted. I waited until two people who looked like locals passed by, and asked them what the building was called. I thought I’d like to go there for the view.
“This is terrible because we’re locals,” the one woman said sheepishly, “but I don’t know. And I used to work in that area.”
A little while later I learned from a visiting Brazilian couple that the building was called The Edge.
We had lunch at Chelsea Market – pastrami sandwiches at Friedman’s – and then cookies and tea, which we consumed at one of the outdoor tables. As we were leaving, I saw the women I’d approached earlier sitting nearby.
“Just for your information,” I said, “that building is called The Edge.”
They laughed, then invited us to join them. They were mother and daughter; Hannah was now living in Queens; her mother in Asbury Park, though she’d been born in Lviv. We talked about Eastern Europe, the Jewish exodus, the Jersey shore, Miami, which is where Hannah thought she belonged. It was a lovely moment, and at the end of it we exchanged cards.
