Leaving New York City
Our final days
On Wednesday we saw the Van Gogh exhibition at the Met and I worked my way through the hordes of smart phone photographers to stand close to Starry Night. I love Van Gogh’s bold masculine strokes and his bold color choices and I wanted to shout at a nearby amateur art critic that it’s patronizing to write off the man’s pioneering brilliance as the work of a madman for I only saw the heart-rending tenderness of a persistent disciplined genius laboring to capture the mysterious forces that animate existence. His pen and ink renderings of the cypresses in Arles filled me with awe and terrible envy when I was a student nearly half a century ago and today studying them on a Tuesday at the Met they filled me with sublime joy. Vincent, you would have loved the warm golden light in southern Arizona.
That evening we had front row seats for “Camelot” at the Lincoln Center. It was an extravagance I purchased months in advance for my family in memory of my mom and dad.
I clearly remember the day I saw the movie at the theater on Davis-Monthan Air Force with my mom and dad. I was just a kid. Despite movies costing only seventy-five cents it was a big deal. Mom dressed as though she was going to church. The Master Sergeant wore his finest civilian duds, and they were both so excited to see the new musical blockbuster with Richard Harris they said I could get any candy I wanted from the concession and on our way to our seats in the dark movie theater I saw them hold hands.
The house lights went down, and we all stood for the national anthem as an image of old glory fluttered on the giant screen. We knew the words. I stood tall, chest out, fists at my sides with my thumbs at my seams and I mumbled Sir Francis Scott Key off key which made my mother wince. When we sat down in the dark and the movie began, I noticed the little girl sitting in front of little me had golden hair that smelled like baked bread and ten-minute into the movie I was convinced my very own Guinevere was sitting in front of me and I understood King Arthur’s longing to understand how to handle a woman even if I was only seven. I could relate to Lancelot’s agony over the thought of ever leaving Guinevere. How could I bear to leave the theater when this movie eventually ends? How could I bear to never see the little girl seated in front of me again? And then when King Arthur is forced to go to war and his dream of Camelot is all but lost he’s approached by a kid just like me who heard the stories of the round table and justice and doing right and he gives the kid the royal tap with Excalibur and I leave the theater with my mom and dad who behave like they are in love and I’m in love with swords and little girls and the knights of the Round Table and sitting in the front row of a theater on Broadway sixty-years later I am overcome with sentimental nostlagia when Arthur sings of a place named Camelot.
This video shot by an attendee at the first preview curtain call beautifully captures the excitement of a Broadway show: "Camelot" 1st preview curtain call at Lincoln Center
The next day, Thursday, was our last full day on Manhattan and my dear kind friend and fellow Tucsonan, Alan Hershowitz, a renaissance man and a native son of Manhattan, happened to be in town and generously offered us a tour of his old stomping ground the west side of Central Park. Do French Horn players stomp?
Our expedition began with a sinful breakfast of French toast, syrup, pancakes, bacon, eggs, toast and potatoes at Tom’s Restaurant, a diner made famous by the Seinfeld series.
WHen I return home I will offer my cardiologist a full confession.
We then made our way past the magnificent cathedral of St. John’s where we found Mariachis performing and instead of pausing to brag on Tucson being the Mariachi epicenter of the universe we kept moving with our wonderful tour guide, up to Alan’s Alma Mater, Columbia University, where I recognized the steps in front of the library where courageous protesters spoke out against the war in 1968 and ignited the anti-war movement and I recalled the words of Harry Belafonte celebrated in the Statue of Liberty museum.
Bring it on. Dissent is central to any democracy.
News clip of the moment: Columbia Revolt of 1968
On our way west to see the Hudson River we came upon President Ulysses S. Grant’s Tomb in a modest park and I couldn’t help but think of Grant’s grief over the collapse of reconstruction. How the General cannot be resting in peace when the great terrible war that he had won, serving Lincoln and the nation, is still being fought.
We walked through neighborhoods populated by the ghosts of Duke Ellington and Edgar Allen Poe and when we crossed over to Riverside Park we saw the beautiful Hudson River which moved me to ask if this was Captain Sully’s River.
Yes, it was.
"Sully" film clip of landing in the Hudson
One can’t watch the ferries rush to rescue the passengers on the river and not be proud of the American spirit.
One can’t listen to Captain Sully and not be proud of this American hero.
Heading back to our hotel we stopped for a little snack at a restaurant named Carmine’s that had an old-world feel. We settled on a ridiculously massive antipasto platter served on a dish the length of a gondola. Refreshed, we continued trekking south.
I think my favorite surprise at this juncture was stopping in at a neighborhood grocery store called Zabar’s where it appeared residents had been shopping for all their needs since the invention of the bagel. The aromas reminded me of the rich smells of the old Feig's Kosher Market & Deli crossed with the fragrances of Roma’s Imports back home.
That night Alan treated us to jazz at Birdland in Hell’s Kitchen where we drank Martini’s and Cosmos and listened to a jazz trio led by the great swinging Jamaican pianist Monte Alexander. Alan’s friend Moira joined us and we talked about our Irish roots in the NYFD and NYPD. Towards the end of Monte Alexnader’s exquisite set the 79-year old virtuoso noted he knew Harry Belafonte personally and closed out his show by performing several jazz interpretations of his late friend’s island classics.
"As Time Goes by" Monte Alexander
The next morning a cheerful Pakistani American drove us to LaGuardia airport and on our way, I recalled the Haitian-American who picked us up a week earlier at JFK and although I could not see the Statue of Liberty down below as we flew away from New York City I could feel the vital warmth of her torch in my heart.
Driving home to Tucson in the dark we passed a billboard around Picacho Peak asking “ARE YOU GOING TO HEAVEN OR HELL?” and I said, “Both.” We were returning home to a town that’s definitely hot as hell. And our idea of absolute heaven.
Your writing brings your travel to life for all of us!
This was really fun to read, I've never been to NY city, and you just gave us all a glimpse of what could be a marvelous trip! Thank you!