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.
Worth Ave. was very quiet. We found a parking space easily and walked down Via Mizner to Pizza Al Fresco. In addition to excellent pies, the restaurant has a lovely outdoor courtyard which contains, on one side, the tombstone of Addison Mizner’s pet monkey Johnnie Brown. Our friends arrived, Ohioans originally from Poland, and expressed delight at the weather. I told them the clear blue skies were depriving them of Florida’s shapely clouds.
After eating our lunch, and paying respects at the grave of the monkey, we strolled Worth Ave. Most of the stores, including the rare book shop, were closed, so we headed to the Society of the Four Arts, where we wandered through the botanical garden, admiring trees I didn’t know the names of and sculptures modern and representational. Chris posed for a picture with Roosevelt and Churchill.
From there it was a short drive to The Breakers. The cathedral-like lobby contained two trees and lots of garlands; brunch was still being served in the dining room (the pastries appearing like festive decorations). Down the south loggia we exited the building and stood by the sea wall, the waves of a size rarely seen in South Florida. (They helped make up for the lack of clouds.)
Leaving the hotel, we drove south along the ocean, then down side streets of high-hedged mansions. At one point I heard from the backseat a quiet plea for the possibility of a redistribution of wealth.