NYC Again

It’s another quick hitter to NYC.

Rolling up the Kensington early on a rainy Saturday morning I wonder what surprises await. Well, this ride is different. For all the thousands of times I’ve ridden this road I’ve never seen so little traffic. None of that “will I make it to the station on time” tension. OK, good start.

Amtrak Empire Service arrives at Penn Station only a half hour late. Pretty good by Amtrak standards. But, we agree, it seemed as though the time passed more quickly than usual. It’s, I conclude, the commuter syndrome: you know, after a while an oft taken route becomes so familiar that time passes differently.

We check in once again at HIEX on W. 45^th   (home of those delicious morning time cinnamon rolls). I open my Surface to check my email. (A topic for another day: why would Microsoft build a device that lacks basic features like a spam filter?) I find a weeks old email from daughter Jennifer announcing a gig in New York City. I reread it and, oh my, it’s scheduled for this Monday. Does this mean she’ll arrive in New York on Sunday? I reach for the cell phone. We connect.

She’s already here! She’s staying with her friend Catherine in Brooklyn. Is this not the absolutely most pleasant surprise! We quickly make plans to meet. We’re headed to Whiskey Park, a favorite watering hole. And on the way we’ll walk right by Benoit where we have late dinner reservations. It’ll be easy to stop in and add a third person. Which we do.

Somewhere around the second Veuve for Shelley and IPA for me, Jennifer swings through the Whiskey Park door looking fabulous as ever. Another round then off to dinner, reunited and it feels so good.

SUNDAY IN NEW YORK

We hit the streets late morning. It’s a beautiful late summer day. We cruise 5^th Avenue and toss some high end retail spotting a couple of items, pants at Ann Taylor for Shelley, shoes at Cole Hahn for me. Mark them, we’ll be back in the neighborhood before we depart.

We hail a cab and head for the Metropolitan Museum. The principal reason for this trip is the exhibit, “Sargent: Portraits of Artists and Friends”.  It proves to be well worth the trip. It’s extensive, ninety-two paintings and drawings. For every towering full length portrait like the astonishing Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth there are a dozen more intimate close-up portraits, each a vibrant, living portrayal. We learn that Sargent worked his skill amazingly fast. Some of these portraits, finished in mere hours, seem as complete as paintings labored over through days of sittings. Some of the oil paintings seemingly fully finished are noted to be “sketches”.  Sargent was a contemporary of the Impressionists and a close friend to many of them. And often he fills the spaces around the portraits with blushes and swirls of color as impressionistic as any they might have painted. Then, in the final two galleries, a revelation. Sargent, we learn, gave up portraiture in 1907. For the rest of his life (he died in 1925 at age 69) he turned to painting from nature. In keeping with the theme of this show, paintings from this period depict artists outdoors at their easels. In vibrant scenes bathed in sunlight the artists are portrayed as integral parts of the landscape in which they are working.  And finally watercolors, several painted at Viscaya in Miami, male nudes in tropic daylight, discrete yet homoerotic.

 

As we work our way through the last galleries a text arrives. Jennifer and Catherine are on the front steps.

We join them and walk through a Central Park packed with New Yorkers enjoying the beautiful late summer afternoon. Frisbees fly, kiddies frolic, roller skaters skate, bicyclers bicycle, joggers jog, picnickers spread their spreads. Passing Bethesda fountain we’re drawn to a gathering in the beautifully tiled Angel Tunnel. We find Tribal Baroque (Jennifer knows them from San Francisco) busking there. We take in a tune, then press on.

Our destination is the Russian Tea Room for Caviar and Bellini’s. Well, for all but me. I make due with Russian beer (Baltika…nothing special). And then high tea during which the tea is pretty much ignored in favor of more Bellini’s and beer. Jennifer and Catherine depart. We head back to the hotel stopping on the way to make the previously spotted purchases.

We’re not done yet.

In my student days trips to New York (I was often on the bus that left the Greyhound station at midnight and arrived in New York at 8:00 AM) meant live jazz. But with the exception of our honeymoon visit to the Village Vanguard, I hadn’t  had a taste in years. So we reserve at Dizzy’s Club Coca-Cola for the 9:30 show. The venue proves to be an all-together pleasantly warm room on the fifth floor of the Time Warner building on Columbus Circle.  We pull up at the bar securing superior sight lines. More champagne, more beer. On the bill: The Cookers, a septet of veteran jazz musicians. Cook they do. Their set follows a pattern. They open collectively working a complex chart. Then all but one horn player leaves the stage; the one remaining launches a long solo backed by the piano, bass and drums rhythm section. They are all virtuosi. I’m particularly taken by Donald Harrison on alto. And we both agree that Cecil McBee, the bassist, and George Cables, the pianist, are wonderfully subtle and that Billy Hart, the drummer, in his distant youth, listened to too much Elvin Jones.

And then we’re done.