Yesterday morning at this time I was bracing myself for the drive from Montclair to Scotch Plains and then to the Newark airport. Mid- to late-morning traffic was lighter than on 95 here, but the spaghetti network of roadways in northeastern New Jersey made the driving unpleasant, especially for someone used to the simple, clear-cut (if frequently clotted) grid of South Florida. And the harrowing thought occurred to me: what if Jersey highways were filled with Florida drivers?
Forty-five years ago today, from my memoir Falling into Place:
“May Day arrived, and I went alone to Plac Zwycięstwa. Two young men nearly seven feet tall carried red flags at the front of the parade. Their presence seemed to add to the freak-show quality of the communist holiday in the land of Solidarity. Behind them marched various dignitaries, including Stanisław Kania, First Secretary of the Communist Party, and General Wojciech Jaruzelski. … An American woman, exiting the lobby of the Hotel Victoria, asked ungrammatically, “Where are they all going to?”
“Hell,” replied a Polish passerby.
We arrived early to our early dinner in Miami on Monday and, driving around the neighborhood, we saw a large church a few blocks away. Heading over, we discovered that it was St. Mary’s Cathedral. Happily for us, the side door was open, and we walked inside, passing half a dozen people sitting in pews. Completed in 1957, the sanctuary is newer than Trinity Episcopal Cathedral downtown (which celebrated its 100th birthday last year) but it is impressive in size and architectural features. We particularly liked the stained glass windows that had a spare, modernist look.
The president’s picture will now appear on a select number of passports. Trump’s egotism is apparently limitless, but this development could have a beneficial effect. What better way to boost domestic travel – at a time when much of the world is avoiding the U.S. – than by putting his mug on our passports?
We had dinner in Miami last night at 5:45 – which I wasn’t sure was legal, but it was the only time we could get a reservation at Sunny’s Steakhouse. We’d been wanting to go there for over a year, not just because it perennially lands on lists of “best steakhouses” and “best restaurants” but because one of the men who founded it was childhood friends with the son of our good friends in Ohio. And it was Hania’s birthday (a few weeks ago).
The restaurant was beautiful, made even more so perhaps by its location on a quiet street in an up-and-coming arts district (read: gritty warehouse district). We were led through the attractive, ficus-shaded terrace, past a picture-perfect bar (already filling with people), into a dining room that could have been in Palm Beach: dim lights, white tablecloths, small lamps on every table. There was only one off note. The music was not only loud – for some reason, I thought that early dining might save us from Miami restaurant decibels – but pumped up, completely at odds with the elegant decor. I felt as if I were in a cross-fit studio.
When I asked about it, one of the servers said that it’s a playlist of the staff’s recommendations, so it changes over the course of the night. And it did, sometimes turning almost bearable (mainly the instrumental pieces). But it was still a shock, and detracted from the otherwise excellent meal. I wanted to go around the room – which was now packed – and ask everyone if they were enjoying the music, the way the manager asked them if they were enjoying their food. I suspect the answer would have been ‘no.’ But I guess the staff was happy.
Two years ago, Hania and I were in Washington the weekend of the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, staying in a hotel a few blocks from the Hilton. The night of the dinner we took a stroll and I was surprised by two things.
The first was what seemed then to be excessively heavy security. Connecticut Avenue was closed to traffic north of Dupont Circle, and police cars were parked in the street around the hotel, blocking not only cars but pedestrians.
The other surprising thing was the number of people walking around in formal dress. Journalists not invited to the dinner gathered for parties (Politico was having one on the ground floor of our hotel) and dinners in neighborhood restaurants. Peering through windows, I saw tables filled with women in sleeveless gowns and men in black tie. It looked like Hollywood the night of the Academy Awards except that, instead of after-parties, these were during-parties.