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.
I’m off to New York tomorrow, the city that has sent me rejections – with the occasional acceptance – since 1974. Thought I’d visit before the 50th anniversary. Back here on the 12th.
Speaking of shocking things in the newspaper (scroll down), Sunday’s Miami Herald featured a photograph of Brad Paisley shaking hands with Volodymyr Zelensky. The meeting of the two men may have looked a bit odd – though Paisley has been vocal in his support of Ukraine – but the shocking thing was the country singer’s posture, with his right hand extended in a shake with Zelensky’s and the left one stuck firmly in his pocket.
I first learned of the manual etiquette of Slavs by reading Vladimir Nabokov. On seeing a photo of American officials, all with their hands in their pockets, standing with their Soviet counterparts, the great writer was appalled that the former did not understand that the latter would see the posture as a sign of disrespect. Years later, teaching English in Warsaw, I learned that my students would not dream of talking to me with their hands in their pockets.
It's commendable that Paisley made the effort to visit Ukraine, but it would have been nice if he’d taken some time to learn about the culture.
A recent starred review in Publishers’ Weekly of a work of fiction quoted two lines from the book: The first, a racist comment from a peripheral character and the second, another character’s statement about the prevalence of racial hatred. And I wondered: Do writers win points these days simply by citing the currently approved obsessions? Wouldn’t readers be more impressed by the sharing of some telling observation from the author, a brilliant apercu perhaps, or an unusual or interesting use of language?
Fifty years ago I attended my first Mardi Gras. I drove with my college roommate from Villanova to New Orleans non-stop, taking turns behind the wheel, occasionally biting into lemons to stay awake. The crowds, the floats, the costumes, the beads were all intoxicating but not the most memorable part of the trip. It was my first time in the South, and the people in shirtsleeves in the middle of winter, the live oak trees dripping Spanish moss, the languorous, happily unproductive atmosphere, opened my eyes to another world.
Our guesthouse sat near the courthouse, on a street that was closed to traffic. The nearest parking lot was $35 till eight o’clock, at which time it moved to another price I didn’t register because my mind was still focused on the first one. I found a spot blocking a driveway and left Hania inside with the keys while I took our bags to the guesthouse.
I asked about parking. The receptionist told me of a lot a five-minute walk away, and the system of payment that sounded somewhat complicated. I envisioned a modern parking machine designed by a graduate of MIT. But the price of $15 a day seemed worth the effort of trying to figure it out.
The lot belonged to the old school on Southard Street, and was only about one quarter full. I parked in front of some tall bushes and followed the signs to the pay station, which was on the school’s old porch. There I found envelopes, each one printed with lines asking for my license number and the number of days of my stay. I filled in the blank spaces – a pen sat on a desk for those who didn’t have one – put a twenty and a ten inside the envelope, sealed it, and then dropped it through a slot in the door. Short of an attendant, it was the simplest and most old-fashioned payment system one could imagine. I had an extremely pleasant stroll back to the guesthouse.