Sunday, November 23, 2008

Woodland Herbs Delight Me

Today I attended the "Prokofiev: Teachers, Inspirations and Contemporaries" concert at the 92nd Street Y. It was my first visit to this famous NYC venue.

As is usually the case when I attend an opera, ballet, or classical music concert, the audience was composed almost entirely of elderly people. There was a group of three sitting in front of me: two men and a woman. All of them spoke with an Eastern European accent.

The men were wearing hearing aids and spoke at a high volume. The man in the middle sighed and grunted particularly loudly as the hall hushed and we waited for the pianist to begin playing. I wondered if the noise amused or annoyed her.

Members of New York audiences do not let infractions of decorum go unnoticed. I witnessed a Film Forum audience drive a woman out of the theater for using a cell phone during a movie. It makes me wonder whether New York audiences are composed of unusually cranky people or whether New Yorkers are just particularly unnerved by cellophane-wrapped cough drop consumers.

The man sitting in front of me would have been mortified if he knew how disruptive he was. It was obvious that he couldn't hear himself clearly. He was outraged when latecomers sat beside him. "Next time, arrive promptly!" he hissed loudly as they sat down. The entire hall could hear his admonishment.

Ironically, his male companion was energetically silent. As each performance closed, he raised his hands above his head with fingers splayed and clapped wildly. He resembled a giant two year old applauding his own accomplishment, except his hands moved so swiftly they were a blur. In spite of his effort, his hands made no sound.

Much of the beautiful music was written to accompany awful poetry. When I glanced at the program, my eyes rested on the line, "woodland herbs delight me." I suppose many of the insipid lines were written by society women confined to polite expressions of violent feelings they only imagined feeling.

What will happen to these art forms when this generation of elderly New Yorkers is gone?

Friday, November 21, 2008

Clean Clothes in Captivity

In Chelsea there are tiny storefronts that take in laundry and send it somewhere else to wash. I'm not sure what the proper term for this business is. It isn't a laundromat because they don't have coin operated machines. It is probably something that doesn't exist in many places. I suppose this storefront laundry business is here because real estate for a laundry facility is too expensive.

Actually, the closest laundromat just went out of business. There aren't that many left in Chelsea. Most of Chelsea's laundry goes to these small storefronts.

I found my cleaners by chance. The cleaners downstairs is convenient, but at $1.20 a pound, too expensive. A new cleaners opened with a discount, so I went to them. But the staff spoke English poorly; they didn't understand requests such as "no fabric softener." In frustration, I tried an older cleaners a few doors down from the new one. They are a bit less convenient, but they speak much better English and have decent prices.

I dropped my laundry off at the cleaners on Saturday. Every night I have had appointments after work and was not able to pick up the laundry before the place closed. Today, I was down to my last pair of socks.

I raced to get there on time tonight. The woman minding the store quickly retrieved my laundry bag. I apologized for leaving my clothes there so long. After I paid the bill she looked up at me with a smile and said, "You look so beautiful today!"

This comment was completely unexpected. She was peering into my face and smiling.

This lady is often working behind the counter, so we recognize one another. She isn't a habitual flatterer. Although I don't think I am particularly attractive, I'm certain her comment was sincere and it made me feel really happy.

The warden of my clothes couldn't be more lovely.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Cig and Snip Break

Tonight I noticed something odd as I walked by two young, uniformed ushers outside of the Shubert Theater in Times Square. One was seated on a ledge and the other was standing behind rather than facing her friend. They were taking a cigarette break.

It seemed a strange arrangement for a conversation.

As I passed, the flash of neon paper scissor handles caught my attention. The standing usher was trimming her friend's hair.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Apartment Envy

There is a lovely apartment across the street from me. It is on the fourth and fifth floors of a brownstone. Its windows face mine, and I can see inside of it as if it is a doll house.

The family that lives there moved in shortly after I moved into my apartment. It is difficult to look at their ample space, shiny new appliances, unpainted and varnished original woodwork and not feel jealousy.

My railroad apartment literally offers a single path of movement in any room. I feel like a rat in a maze. The tile in the bathroom is so cracked and poorly patched, it is a marvel that any piece is intact. My bed slowly slides on the sloping floors of my bedroom from one side of the room to the other. Besides, the individual pieces of wood flooring are warped and popping from the floor. When I put a nail in the wall, the plaster around it often crumbles and leaves a bigger hole.

In other words, it is a typical New York apartment.

Until August, I lived in the spacious Soho loft everyone thought they would live in before they moved to New York. I knew I was lucky to have it and I savored every moment. I also knew I was spoiled and vowed I wouldn't complain when I had to move to the next place that would inevitably be smaller and lack the simple, suburban-standard amenities to which I became accustomed. An electrical outlet in the bathroom, for example.

I have had the misfortune of moving 5 times within New York City in the past 11 years. Now I live in the smallest of all of my New York apartments and it is an adjustment I strive to make with grace.

Each evening, when I pull down the shades of my bedroom before I change into PJs, I can't help but notice the apartment showplace directly across the street from me. It is lit like a stage and about as far as mid-orchestra row K theater seats would be from a stage.

Tonight, for the first time, a new member of the enviable-apartment-family was looking back at me from one of his many southern-facing windows. It was a young Labrador retriever. His front legs were slightly raised on the window sill and he stared at me with his head cocked. Then he barked twice. It appeared that he was alone and eager to interact with me.

I stopped and watched him for a few moments. I smiled and savored the irony. The mansion dog wanted desperately to be in my tenement flat.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Close Strangers

As I walked alone down busy 23rd street, my hand brushed the hand of a stranger who was walking in the opposite direction. It lasted only a moment, but it made me pause and ponder the impact. Touching hands seems intimate, yet I didn't even see who the person was. It could have been a man or woman, homeless person or billionaire.

This is one of the aspects of New York City that I simultaneously like and dislike. One is surrounded by and in close proximity to many people. I sometimes would like a little more room to move about. It would be more expedient to get to Home Depot without dodging baby carriages, slowing the pace behind dawdling hand-holders, and making way for the handcart of boxes. Yet, I like that I have an opportunity to mix with so many different people, people that I wouldn't be likely to meet in other cities or in the homes of my friends.

It is a struggle to live in New York City. The cost of living here is high. Like many people, I work at a company that has warned its employees of forthcoming layoffs and I am worried that I will soon join the ever increasing ranks of the unemployed. Thousands of layoffs in the publishing industry have already taken place, so it will be very difficult to find a job. At a time like this, the city seems harsher than usual. It remains unconcerned about those who love it and strive to remain here.

I found this brief stranger's touch comforting. Because it was anonymous, it is as if the city extended itself for a moment to reassure me that there is a human element here with the potential to care. In fact, it is all around when you need it.