Whirlwind Weekend

“New York is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal, its politics are used to frighten children, its traffic is madness, its competition is murderous.

But there is one thing about it - once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no place else is good enough.”

― John Steinbeck

Sitting on the couch yesterday afternoon talking to my sister on the phone, Peg and I recounted our weekend and it sounded like we must've been making it all up.

Friday night was dinner at the Penn Club, a group event featuring a tenor accompanied only by a piano, belting out Rossini and Bizet, arias that were so clear and precise they made one's heart soar. Meanwhile, the elderly hematologist sitting next to Peg started to ruminate with us, detecting a Southern accent and therefore a kindred political spirit, about how awful Mamdani was and how ridiculous to suggest Netanyahu should be arrested as a war criminal when he arrives for U.N. week (oh yeah--it's U.N. week. I mean, this is New York City).

After supper we adjourned to the basement bar to commiserate with our favorite bartender, Tony, a crusty Long Islander about our age whose demeanor reflects a New York stereotype from another time. Everyone else in there were Asian women in their mid-30s (the new face of the Ivies), and Tony desperately didn't want us to leave, finding one more story after one more story about Jets football, how the City has changed, etc. Finally we took our leave and came home for a quick stop on the roof to enjoy the skyline before bed.

Saturday we were at a loss as to what we should do with our day, and ultimately settled on the Whitney Museum of American Art, an eight story behemoth over in Chelsea at the foot of the High Line pedestrian trail. Peg gets one free set of tickets a year to a bunch of the museums here, a benefit of her library card, which is great because the art in the Whitney was, well, not to our liking. At one point I walked past a string of outdoor lights partially suspended and the rest sitting in a pile on the ground, then realized this was considered to be a sculpture. Most of the contents of the six open floors was silly like that.

But the views were something. That's looking down the Hudson, with the Statue of Liberty in the distance.

After the Whitney we wormed our way through the West Village's crooked streets to the subway, then to Macy's so I could buy a suit. I have oral argument in the First DCA back in Tallahassee in a couple weeks, and not being able to run for a year now has made my formal wear awkwardly tight.

Somewhere during our wanderings in the Whitney we decided to get tickets to see Going Bacharach one last time before it closes. We loved the show in the dead of winter, and loved it all over again on Saturday night. The young man from Perth who put it together was a prodigy on the piano and claranet, and you could tell he genuinely loved his subject.

So, we're not done yet because Sunday meant St. Mark's in the Bowery, and it was Homecoming Sunday there. We decided to go to their 9:30 Bible study, braving light rain the whole way. The priest had three attendees besides us--a garulous Vietnamese guy about our age who improbably went to the Air Force Academy before becoming a Wall Street finance guy; a skeletal artist who had just started his church journey, furiously scribbling notes in a tiny book, and a straightlaced guy who really, really loved his mother. Two of them were "in sobriety", which of course colors everything they have to say.

The topic was the third chapter of Genesis, with Adam and Eve being expelled from the garden. You know the bit. They didn't. In keeping with the parish policy of making everything about left-wing gender theory (when they're not obsessing over race), one attendee suggested it was entirely appropriate that Eve was created first in the story. The priest gently corrected him. When the priest went on to contrast the majesty and order of the creation story that begins Genesis with this folksy tale of God taking evening walks in his garden, I mentioned this was likely a much older story, written centuries before the priestly source(s) assembled their grand beginning. I mean, God refers to himself in the plural--can't you see the henotheism that came long before the Jews became purely monotheistic? This was not EfM, however, so that didn't go very far.

But the music in the long, long service (1+39, but who's counting?) was beautiful, even majesterial at times. The highlight came during the offertory, when a tenor who once had the lead in Handel's Messiah at Carnegie Hall took the stage for a solo. And such a nice guy. When Peg complimented him, he responded that the credit was God's, not his.

After church we attended their cookout, eating in the parish hall because of the rain, then went back out in the rain and wandered into Macy's again so Peg could buy a formal dress for a charity dinner in Boston next month. My job was to zip up the back on the dress when she emerged from the dressing room for a look. Racy stuff (at least for me). Yesterday was Mexico Day in NYC, and Herald Square felt like EastLos with all the Mexican folks and flags.

Down in the 34th Street subway station a guy dressed all in white played a saxophone while surrounded by dozens of electric cats that danced in rhythm to his tunes. You couldn't help but smile a little.

All this led to a book and a nap, because it was only 3:30 or so. Then we called Katie, then walked over to our favorite Indian restaurant, which was a lot busier than we expected on a Sunday in the midst of a depression. Amir, our favorite chemical engineer turned restauranteur, was sober this time, and friendly enough but not parked next to Peg and calling her "Madame" all night, like the last time.

How was your weekend?