Months ago I planned to make another weekend trip up to New York. I knew I wanted to see the Big Apple this particular time of year and it had been fourteen years since I had seen New York in December.
There is nothing witnessing the capital city of Capitalism in its spastic, ecstatic convulsions of the holiday shopping season. No word can capture the awe, the frenzy, the lights and glitter of the sleepless electricity that takes place between Thanksgiving and New Year's. It is New York at its very finest, even if the weather descended on Manhattan is nearly at its very worst. (For the absolute worst New York weather, you'd have to be there in either late January or late July although I'm not sure which I'd loathe more).
Fortunately for me, I managed to trick three good friends into joining me on the two day trip. Little did they know how freakin cold it would be! Ha! Ha! Little did they know what kind of tour guide they were acquiring! Ha! Ha! Not a native New Yorker by any means and utterly unqualified to be a tour guide, but out of the four of us, I was the only Easterner.... ...and the only one with an I-Phone. So, after earning their trust, I marched them furiously through district after district, shunning all cabs and we patronized only the subway (except for one late Sat night from the pub to the hotel in Brooklyn, which was probably a good idea). But they failed to complain or tire, the world travelers that they were, and we wound up having a marvelous time even after the Metropolitan Museum of Art tried to hold us hostage.
We arrived to bagels and coffee, then walked through the tree, flower and wreath district to the subway station to head north a few blocks. We attempted FAO Schwartz, but the line was around the block. So a jaunt through Central Park refreshed legs stale from a long bus ride over the Delaware river and through the Jersey pine boughs. One friend was then accosted with the curses of a parsel tongue psycho. New York maybe the Capital of Capitalism, but Manhattan is also the Central Bus Station of the planet when it comes to the insane.
Then we decided to grab a coffee at the Met reasoning with our collective experience in travel that most museums in the world decide it's a good idea to gather extra revenue by attracting walk-bys to drink overpriced coffee and feel culturally enriched by the law of proximate osmosis.
Walking in the door, our bookbags were groped and stripped search, and one of my companions was directed to stand in line to acquire some strange certificate stating she was carrying a laptop. Then we were directed to stand in a long line in the bag/coat check. After standing in line for 15 mins and depositing our bags and coats, we attempted to enter the hall to acquire coffee and were informed that we would have to pay $20 entrance fee. Then we re-enetered the line for coat check to abandon the idea for coffee at the Met altogther. After waiting in line for another 15 mins, the nice coat check man asked us why we had returned so early. We told him we just came for coffee. He asked us to wait (despite our pleas to allow us to abandon the endeavor) and returned with free passes to the museum. Exiting the coat check again, we were granted enterance with our iron buttons, passed through the Middle Ages and then the Renaissance to get to the basement cafeteria and some delightful spiced hot cocoa. Finally, we recovered our things, bestowed great fortune and good karma on the nice coat check man and exited the Metropolitan Muesuem of Frustration and its Sovietness, into chilly, but more predictable weather.
I wouldn't have felt satisfied without doing a little shopping, and this was accomplished at a rather quick stopover in midtown. Then we headed under the East River to our hotel in Brooklyn. This is where insert that our hotel room was very nice, the beds extremely comfortable, but the hottub was luke warm.
Then off to Chinatown for dinner. Hot soup dumplings at Joe's Shanghai. Ducks in windows. Freshly killed fresh fish killing any hint of subway or alley urine. Chinatown is indeed a happy place.
Later it's my choice - 30 Rock plaza and the world's greatest Christmas Tree. It was so crowded, one could barely breathe. But who needs air when you have Christmas cheer? Opposite the tree, a projected snow flake animation played out on ten stories of a building front. Magical yes, but somewhere high above the tree, the cast of Saturday Night Live and Robert Deniro were getting ready to put on a show. Hmmm - one day I'll get in there.
By this time, frigid was the only thing that could describe enduring the outdoors. Lucky for us a pub evening in Brooklyn in cozy bars "Boat" followed by camp-themed bar "Camp" capped the night off. Cab back to room for sleep.
Sunday morning - further into Brooklyn for a massive, delicious brunch at Tom's Cafe, where we seemed to just miss the crowds. Then - onwards - through, rather than below or above the rooftops of South Brooklyn.
The Russian language started filling the subway car (is it still called a subway even after it "turns L"?) while it filled with pointy-shoed passengers donning cyrillic newspapers and high-heeled booted girls in fur lined collars. Brighton Beach filled all my onion-domed expectations, and exceeded them.
Inside the stores (Soviet style gastronoms, rather) they sold kielbasa, canned fish and pork-filled pelmeney. Folks walked like Slavs, shrugged-shoulder-like, in Chinese-made black coats and sweaters bought in outdoor bazaars from Central Asia to Canada. Old babyshki sold shoe inserts and socks on street corners, confirming my suspicion that street vending for the elderly is a form of social exercise as well as a way to earn a few extra rubles.
Even as it was sunny, it was hovering around freezing, with the Atlantic wind bringing the wind chill well below sane. Yet, there on the Boardwalk near Coney Island, there they were, the Coney Island Polar Bear League swimming in the jetsam of the Hudson. They were mostly donned in board shorts and full length swimsuits, so I was sure they were mostly non-Slavic.
Coney Island this time of year is forlorn, spooky and abandoned. Its calm is such a stark contrast from across the river. The wind which whistled through the skeletons of the dismembered rides sounded awfully like a moan. Coney Island was to be redeveloped soon, and this proud monument to innocence seemed to be dreading its inevitible remodel reminding one that good change is rarely ever resoundley heralded near inception.
After a Coney dog, and a brief, but excrutiating walk through seven floors of Macy's flagship, we were soon on an unheated bus back to DC's Chinatown.
