There are a lot of reasons to love life in a big city. There are even more reasons to love life in the particular big city of New York. Broadway (and off-), restaurants, sights, shopping ... and I did love them all. But what I loved most was the constant sense that once I walked out of my front door in the morning, I had no idea what might happen between that moment and when I arrived home that night.
While there are slight variations, I generally know pretty much exactly what my day is going to be like every single day. I know who I'll see, where I'll go, and what will happen there. You might think this would make me happy. But my life is a conundrum. I'm the least spontaneous person alive. I loathe spur-of-the-moment. Yet I hate being bored or feeling like life is predictable. And in NY, I could have both. I planned my life out for two weeks. There was no point in suggesting we get together in a week and a half; that was booked. There was never an available evening earlier than two weeks hence. This could, in a different place, make life quite predictable indeed.
In NY, though, from that moment when the front door closes behind you, you are never alone, and that brings with it a constant sense of adventure. You're not alone walking down the sidewalk, or in the subway, or at the office, or in restaurants. No one drives (no one except the very rich or the supremely car-addicted), so that "private time" is lost. Take an empty elevator to your office? Dream on! Sit alone at a bar, nursing a drink? Not happening! No, you are around people at every moment. And people are fascinating creatures.
Sometimes, they are fascinating in weird, creepy ways. For instance, I was perusing the aisle at my local supermarket when a man sidled up to me and stopped, inches away. This was a definite invasion of my personal space but, as a sophisticated, worldly New Yorker, I wouldn't dream of assuming it was meant that way. He probably came from a different culture, so I turned to him, questioningly. Different culture, my ass! He leaned in another inch and whispered obscenities to me. It always amazes me how many thoughts can zip through one's mind in the space of a second. Mine dashed to how I tolerate this from construction workers on a daily basis (never mind all the "Fuck You's" I threw disdainfully over my shoulder at them) to how I would not tolerate it in MY supermarket. So, calmly, I opened my mouth, let out a bloodcurdling scream, turned, and continued with my shopping.
There were also the lovely encounters. I picked up a huge box at the post office and before I had time to dread lugging it the six blocks home, a nice guy offered to carry it home for me. He dropped it with me at my front door, waved, and was gone. In a similar vein, I spent an hour in a ticket line on my lunch hour and struck up a conversation with the guy behind me in line. I mentioned that I planned to just grab a hot dog on my way back to work as I hadn't eaten and when I reached the head of the line, he suggested I wait for him and he'd buy me that hot dog. And then proceeded to take me out to a very nice lunch. He made not one inappropriate comment or suggestion, just thanked me for my company.
These interactions cause one to both develop good instincts about danger and to be wary, while simultaneously creating a comfort level with strangers. The query, where to meet people, just never is heard. One meets people everywhere. I've gone out with men I met on the subway (a funny Russian guy), in the grocery store line (he was not so memorable), and in the Laundromat (not a keeper, but a nice guy). There is always the possibility that a new friend - or more - is just around the next corner.
Last, there are the only-in-New-York experiences. I'd been living there less than a year when one day I found myself being taken to lunch at La Cote Basque by an honest-to-god Russian Count. Of course, he was on the other side of 90 at the time, but he was elegant, charming and kind. He saw himself as a goodwill ambassador at my new job, and would always take new people to lunch to welcome them. Of course, all I could think was, "I grew up with chickens in my backyard and now I'm having lunch with a Russian Count!" I knew just how Shirley Maclaine felt when she sang "If They Could See Me Now".
I've done an interview for an early cable show, been invited abroad by a Dentist to the Stars whom I'd barely met, and dined in a penthouse apartment on Park Avenue. I've walked down streets late at night where I feared for my life, and jostled with the crowds on the subway at 2:00 a.m. I've eaten in the finest restaurants and at the lunch counter at Woolworths. I've been to private parties at the Metropolitan Museum and in tiny Hell's Kitchen walk-ups. I've felt every range of emotions known to humans while inhabiting that city of a million stories. The one thing I never, ever was, was bored. And the one thing life never was, was predictable.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Standing on my own two feet ... NOT
It started when I began noticing that my feet hurt in some of my shoes. Not killer hurt, but hurt. So I casually mentioned it to my doctor, who, equally casually, diagnosed bunions and told me that surgery was the only cure. He added that surgery would involve cutting out bone, breaking bones, putting screws in bone, and - worse - would mean 2-3 months of being completely off my feet, so I decided that surgery sounded like a silly idea; after all, I could just use the mind-over-matter approach and my feet would stop hurting, right? I suppose I should have tried the mind-over-feet approach, as the former didn't work all that well. Still, I managed to go along for quite a while without feeling the need to do anything drastic.
When I realized that not one single pair of shoes were actually comfortable anymore, not even my sneakers, and only one pair of bedroom slippers caused no pain, surgery stopped sounding so silly.
Naturally, if I were to go ahead and have this surgery, doing one foot at a time made no sense at all. Okay, it would be nice to have one working foot, I suppose, but it would mean taking twice the time off work, just months apart, and having someone come in and help me not once but twice as one shouldn't really be left on one's own too much while on pain pills.
So I began planning. A note here to military generals: If one can successfully plan an operation of this type (pun intended), one can plan anything. Got an invasion you need organized? Maybe a take-over of a small country? Just call me. I can handle it.
First, the surgery had to be scheduled to suit my doctor, me, my job, my sister (who would come take care of me for a week), my friend who would move in after my sister left and this had to be done within the confines of my podiatrist's scheduling system (come in the month before you want it done and we'll schedule it for the following month ... and so one can't make actual plans until that date is established) - well, you get the picture.
Next, came the peripheries. How to get my sister and me home from the surgery (she can't drive my car - a stick), how to get us back for re-bandaging several days later, how to get her to the airport to return home.... And the extras. There was the need to stock up on things like prescription drugs and groceries, to prevent friends having to do much shopping for me. I spent weeks accumulating enough toilet paper, cat litter and hand soap to fill a pantry. Once things were in place, I began cooking. I'd been told that the two things I wouldn't be able to do for myself for several weeks were drive (at least not my car) and cook. Ergo, the latter had to be done in advance.
The first step was cleaning out the freezer.
After eating - er, eliminating - the majority of the contents, I was free to prepare for surgery. Weekends became cooking marathons - big pots of this, huge casseroles of that - all packaged neatly and tucked into the corners of what had become a fairly empty freezer.
Ahhh. All my stresses were over. Now, all I needed was the pre-op "stuff" and I could curl up on the operating table with a good knock-out drug and emerge with happier feet.
Silly me! All the pre-op blood work - check. Good to go. The pre-op EKG? Not so much. Turns out I was having atrial fibrillation, a nasty little disorder that can cause blood clots and resultant strokes. Anesthesiologists, in particular, do not like to see this, I was told. A week of beta-blockers later, a second EKG and ... nope. Still no good. Three days to surgery and it's a no-go. The day before surgery, I saw a charming, extremely busy, avuncular cardiologist who fit me in thanks to some pleading from my wonderful primary care doc and got the go-ahead. Naturally, this emergency dr. visit required me to cancel a couple of my own clients so I then got to go into work the day of surgery to care for them. What is life without a little last minute stress?
But the day had arrived! My sister and I drove a borrowed car to the surgery center, where they took me in early (!), taught me to use crutches, and found me the ugliest boots ever,
before hooking me up to wires and drips.
And now I'm a week post-surgery and ecstatic. I've had no pain, in spite of having ditched the pain pills after the first three days, and I'm reasonably mobile on my crutches, as long as I don't have to go long distances or navigate stairs. Spending the better part of a week in bed with the cats, my computer and a large stack of books is not an experience to be dissed. Having one's sister bring food (and, post-pain pills, wine) three times a day is lovely. Having her around was actually one of the best parts of the whole thing. Wearing these boots for another month, plus - not so great, but I can handle it. I have visions of the future to keep me going:
When I realized that not one single pair of shoes were actually comfortable anymore, not even my sneakers, and only one pair of bedroom slippers caused no pain, surgery stopped sounding so silly.
Naturally, if I were to go ahead and have this surgery, doing one foot at a time made no sense at all. Okay, it would be nice to have one working foot, I suppose, but it would mean taking twice the time off work, just months apart, and having someone come in and help me not once but twice as one shouldn't really be left on one's own too much while on pain pills.
So I began planning. A note here to military generals: If one can successfully plan an operation of this type (pun intended), one can plan anything. Got an invasion you need organized? Maybe a take-over of a small country? Just call me. I can handle it.
First, the surgery had to be scheduled to suit my doctor, me, my job, my sister (who would come take care of me for a week), my friend who would move in after my sister left and this had to be done within the confines of my podiatrist's scheduling system (come in the month before you want it done and we'll schedule it for the following month ... and so one can't make actual plans until that date is established) - well, you get the picture.
Next, came the peripheries. How to get my sister and me home from the surgery (she can't drive my car - a stick), how to get us back for re-bandaging several days later, how to get her to the airport to return home.... And the extras. There was the need to stock up on things like prescription drugs and groceries, to prevent friends having to do much shopping for me. I spent weeks accumulating enough toilet paper, cat litter and hand soap to fill a pantry. Once things were in place, I began cooking. I'd been told that the two things I wouldn't be able to do for myself for several weeks were drive (at least not my car) and cook. Ergo, the latter had to be done in advance.
The first step was cleaning out the freezer.
Ahhh. All my stresses were over. Now, all I needed was the pre-op "stuff" and I could curl up on the operating table with a good knock-out drug and emerge with happier feet.
Silly me! All the pre-op blood work - check. Good to go. The pre-op EKG? Not so much. Turns out I was having atrial fibrillation, a nasty little disorder that can cause blood clots and resultant strokes. Anesthesiologists, in particular, do not like to see this, I was told. A week of beta-blockers later, a second EKG and ... nope. Still no good. Three days to surgery and it's a no-go. The day before surgery, I saw a charming, extremely busy, avuncular cardiologist who fit me in thanks to some pleading from my wonderful primary care doc and got the go-ahead. Naturally, this emergency dr. visit required me to cancel a couple of my own clients so I then got to go into work the day of surgery to care for them. What is life without a little last minute stress?
But the day had arrived! My sister and I drove a borrowed car to the surgery center, where they took me in early (!), taught me to use crutches, and found me the ugliest boots ever,
And now I'm a week post-surgery and ecstatic. I've had no pain, in spite of having ditched the pain pills after the first three days, and I'm reasonably mobile on my crutches, as long as I don't have to go long distances or navigate stairs. Spending the better part of a week in bed with the cats, my computer and a large stack of books is not an experience to be dissed. Having one's sister bring food (and, post-pain pills, wine) three times a day is lovely. Having her around was actually one of the best parts of the whole thing. Wearing these boots for another month, plus - not so great, but I can handle it. I have visions of the future to keep me going:
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Duke of Jones
Anyone familiar with the stories of Eudora Welty knows that life in small Southern towns is quiet and placid on the outside and filled with drama and fascinating characters underneath. So it was in the small Southern town from which I hailed.
There were the "normal" people who did - unusual things - such as the wealthy attorney who picked up soda cans from the side of the road so that he could turn them in and finance his next European jaunt, or the other attorney who wore berets to work and listened to bagpipe music all day long. And there were the eccentrics, such as the man who walked around town, dressed entirely in black and carrying a guitar, going by the moniker "Johnny Cash"; he apparently hadn't figured out that the "original" Johnny Cash was a different race than he was. And that he lived elsewhere and had made real money.
There were also the people who were simply larger than life. They would have stood out anywhere, I've no doubt, but in a small, slow-moving town, they became legendary. Duke was one of these. He didn't actually live in my small hometown - he lived 12 miles away in a much smaller town called Jones. To put Jones in perspective, I once drove through the state with a close friend of mine from NY. This friend, who is well aware of my allergy to small Southern towns, kept commenting as we drove through town after town, "I could live here. You know,if I had a family, and was kind of settled down, I could live here". When we got to Jones, he looked around and declared, "I couldn't live here."
There were the "normal" people who did - unusual things - such as the wealthy attorney who picked up soda cans from the side of the road so that he could turn them in and finance his next European jaunt, or the other attorney who wore berets to work and listened to bagpipe music all day long. And there were the eccentrics, such as the man who walked around town, dressed entirely in black and carrying a guitar, going by the moniker "Johnny Cash"; he apparently hadn't figured out that the "original" Johnny Cash was a different race than he was. And that he lived elsewhere and had made real money.
There were also the people who were simply larger than life. They would have stood out anywhere, I've no doubt, but in a small, slow-moving town, they became legendary. Duke was one of these. He didn't actually live in my small hometown - he lived 12 miles away in a much smaller town called Jones. To put Jones in perspective, I once drove through the state with a close friend of mine from NY. This friend, who is well aware of my allergy to small Southern towns, kept commenting as we drove through town after town, "I could live here. You know,if I had a family, and was kind of settled down, I could live here". When we got to Jones, he looked around and declared, "I couldn't live here."
We were in Jones to visit Duke - the only reason for anyone who wasn't born there, to stop in Jones. But what a stop it was. In this tiny backwater, Duke lived in a house which featured mahogany wood panelling in the library, immaculate gardens, and boasted peacocks who met us at the door. Duke called himself a "country farmer", but he was well-educated, well-travelled, and beyond intelligent. So my friend and I sat and talked to him about the types of subjects you just knew weren't often discussed in that town, enchanted. Finally, I said that we had to leave, so Duke rose, took our glasses and walked to the bar. He handed me another "glass" of wine (plastic cup) and one of beer to my friend. My friend, flustered, noted that we really did have to go. Duke looked at him and said, "Yes. This is a roadie." He then said, "No one is going to bother you for driving home drinking these, but if they do, just call me." When we reached the car, my friend's comment was, of course, "I could live here."
Duke was an astute businessman and accumulated significant wealth. He was also consistently generous, using numerous methods to ensure that the less fortunate citizens of Jones were cared for in many ways, such as buying bicycles for all the children in town. But he clung to his simple country farmer persona. After all, such a persona does allow one to be underestimated, often when it counts. And between this persona and his disdain for political correctness, he could, did, and enjoyed, ruffling the occasional aristocratic feather.
One of his sons has held prestigious and important jobs with some of the finest art museums in the country. At a dinner honoring this son, held in Boston, Duke found himself seated by a female donor who was chatty. She asked him, "Is it true that your son was educated at Oxford?" "Why yes, ma'am, he was." "And aren't you a farmer?" "Yes, ma'am, I am." "Where do you farm?" "In Jones, Louisiana." "Jones, Louisiana? I've never been there." His answer: "They haven't missed you." Undeterred, she continued, "Sending a son to Oxford must have cost a lot. How did you afford it?" Equally undeterred, Duke replied, "Well, ma'am, we had to sell a couple of slaves." That ended the conversation.
Duke was always ready with a quick retort, an offer of food and drink, and a seemingly endless supply of fascinating stories. What he didn't have was immortality and he died far too young. He was in his 80's, which, for such a man, is far too young.
He left Jones a legacy that benefits its citizens and visitors on a daily basis. Another son of his continues to live and farm there. Annoyed by what he sees as a speeding ticket racket, he took matters into his own hands. When you enter and when you leave Jones (about a mile apart), there is a huge sign with bright flashing lights announcing "SPEED TRAP. SLOW DOWN." My visiting friend asked me how on earth Duke's son was allowed to put up such signs without running afoul of the law. Simple. He owns the land that houses the signs. Duke was proud.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)