When Luke and myself were out on the bus, exploring different areas, on Good Friday, we spotted a fully cast Passion Play on the street, complete with Jesus carrying an enormous cross, various holy people in costumes and Roman soldiers with scourges. The crowds surrounding this were whipped up, calling support or shaming the soldiers. This was, of course, the Latino community of New York, typically Puerto Rican or Dominican, who like their religious feast to be dramatic. We saw the same playing out on the rooftop over the Plaza in Valladolid, Mexico in 2002, though there, Jesus was inclined to get distracted by people he knew in the crowd below. And actually, all the dramatic rituals have been shelved by the Irish church, as far as I know. When I was 10, big enough to go to midnight mass, the church went into complete darkness/silence in the middle of mass, then we all lit our candles and renounced the devil, renewing our faith for another year. I guess it still happens, but without the risk of fire/insurance claim/panic attacks. We must have been fairly robust little people to be facing down Loreto Abbey Dalkey’s version of Satan with a candle and a promise, but I guess very different times.
Easter Monday isn’t a work holiday here, but since Steve is a teacher, he had the day off. We had talked about taking a long walk, and he suggested walking from the top of Manhattan to the bottom. Everyone either of us mentioned it to was enthusiastic, saying they’d always thought they’d love to do it (a bit like the reaction to taking the Amtrak train cross-country – most people looked wistfully back to a time when they had the time and the cojones and the constitution to attempt it).
We left the house about 9.30, and took the subway to the last stop north. This is Inwood, where Kimmy brought me to view the Shorrakopoch memorial stone to commemorate the Smart Alec that bought Manhattan from the Native American group here, for a tiny amount of money and trinkets (see Blogpost 13, all pics, for detail).
Steve and myself got into our stride and headed down Broadway, past Fort Tryon Park, through Washington Heights, following either Broadway or Riverside Drive until we got to homely surroundings of Columbia University, and popped in at Steve’s place for a pee and drink stop. Onwards and downwards we set. Steve walks quite fast, and I’m no slouch myself at fast walking, but I’m not used to such fast pounding on concrete paths. I was seeking out any bits of grass or earth to walk on, just for the sake of my knees. Walking along the side of Central Park, deep in conversation, I didn’t notice the tree roots causing a major obstruction on the path, and fell flat on my face. Initially, I was terrified I’d hit my teeth, but, looking closer, there was no damage at all, except a graze to the chin – my Hollywood career ruined!
We had talked about making a lunchtime pilgrimage to the Hard Rock Cafe, where we both worked for a number of years (in San Francisco). We agreed that it had to be fairly fast, as we still had walking to do. So, when we reached Times Square, a dazzling array of neon kitsch and milling crowds, it was hard to spot the Hard Rock Cafe among the flashing signs. We joked about looking for a staff discount, but what we were actually looking for was to experience something of what our own customers did back in the ’80’s & ’90’s. We came in from daylight and discovered that no table was available, but we could sit at the bar (there’s no diner counter). A nice guy gave us menus and asked if we’d like drinks, in almost unintelligible English. We stuck w water. Another unintelligible guy came and took our order, without writing anything down: one fake-meat burger, one chicken Caesar salad, one onion rings. Shortly afterwards, he arrived with a pint of beer for Steve, which was sent back, and our order clarified. We got our lunch, and ate it, because we were hungry. I asked for mayonnaise and got it, but it was swiftly taken away. There was none of the welcome or conversation that had been fully expected of us when we waited tables. The food was okay, but certainly didn’t merit the $70 it cost (incl. tip). We had a look around before leaving, and fully appreciated our own old Hard Rock Cafe on Van Ness, all natural daylight and a more-than-double-height ceiling. Those were the days, my friend.
We walked on through Greenwich Village and Tribeca, til we reached the welcome sight of Battery Park, 15.2 miles later, according to Steve’s counter. We took the Subway all the way back to Columbia at 116th St. and we’re home before 5pm. I’d expected to be banjaxed, but no – that didn’t kick in til next day!
So I took the subway again, all the way over to Luke in Brooklyn for a bite to eat and a look at his apartment. His place is just a perfect one-bedroom – what they call a walk-up (no lift). On the second floor, his bijou balcony (only big enough for one) overlooks trees in a backyard. The kitchen has a big old-fashioned stove, storage shelves, a chef’s prep island (why am I not surprised?) and a cafe table with blue-and-white gingham-style oilcloth. There’s art on the walls, everywhere, and enough space to dance around the kitchen. The bathroom is off the kitchen, with one of those dinky dwarf-size bathtubs, which he’s researching for renovation. Leading from the kitchen, and open space takes you to what the Berliners call a “Berlin room” – a room you have to pass through to get from kitchen to bedroom. The thing about the decor here is that the artwork is maximalist – everywhere – but the furniture is minimalist – wonderful! – just a long couch and a screen in this room. The bedroom was nice and ample. I’d say if it were Irish navvies, they’d easily fit in four sets of bunk beds and still have room to dance the odd reel. Luke The Chef made me a sort of square pizza, beetroot & celeriac dauphinoise and a cuppa tea. Much more chat ensued, but I was the sensible girl and took the L train shortly after 9, to get home for a good sleep after my long days walking into night.
Well, I guess they figure that most people are tucked up in bed at 9.30pm on the Monday after a holiday weekend, so that’s when the subway decides to do any roadworks, repairs, ongoing work. The L train had three long delays of about 15 mins each, and, a couple of stops before the final destination, threw us off the train to get a bus, with no directions. I managed to find a cross-train that got me to 42nd St, which is like the Third Circle of Hell, takes about half an hour to just get from one line to another. I finally got on the A train, but didn’t realise that they were all express that night, so didn’t stop at many stations – hence, dropped me at 125th St instead of 116th St. Never mind! I thought, I’ll just walk back the nine blocks! However, I hadn’t reckoned on landing in Central Harlem, which isn’t dangerous per se, but definitely risky, especially as I didn’t know which direction to go. Back down to the subway, I took a train going the wrong direction and had to catch one back to 125th St. From there, I took another express train down to 59th Street (the spaghetti junction of subway lines), in order to catch a return train to 116th St. Luckily, there was a lovely black woman, a nurse just off-duty, who also wanted to go to 116th St. A regular non-express local subway A-train pulled up, and we got on, relieved to finally be going home. We chatted and got out together, but what I didn’t realise was that there are several 116th St stations, and this one was back in Harlem, on the east side of Morningside Park (whereas I was staying on the West side). I was warned by more than one person not to walk through the park, and anyhow wild horses wouldn’t have persuaded me to do so. So my lovely nurse friend told me to wait on the opposite side from her and the no 7 or 116 would get me to the other side of the park. Got on the 116, then realised he wasn’t going the way I had thought he said. So he dropped me a couple of blocks from Broadway (my safe place that I know), and I walked the ten blocks home. Up til about three-quarters way through this adventure, I was smiling at how silly I’d been, then I was getting tired, and just loved the bed when I got home to Steve’s. I learned so much about the subway, especially the subway at night. But all through the adventure, I met truly lovely people, who went out of their way to help me, just proving to me that the world is full of good people.
On Tuesday, I woke a bit creaky, but had a most wonderful meeting with Jasper/Zorah, a gorgeous young woman who I babysat in Berlin, along with her brother Alexander, when they were little ones of 10 & 7 (now 20 & 17). We spent such a tremendous morning talking about her studies, ambitions, hopes, about politics, college life, New York life, family. I walked with her as she went to collect her bag for the first lecture, and was about to go when she said her girlfriend was just finishing class, so we all met up for a chat and a selfie opportunity! What a meeting – I felt proud to say I was part of her family once upon a time, in loco parentis.
In the afternoon, I made a little supper, as I wanted to join Steve at a drop-in singing class in Columbia, and since it was his first day back and the class began at 6, it was good to have omelette and salad ready to go. It had begun to rain, so we took our umbrellas and dashed over to a gorgeous library, worthy of Harry Potter, where a selection of people waited on the teacher. I would say the teacher probably had ADD, and, with the best will in the world, thought that people could follow his changing thought-pattern easily. Even though it didn’t matter that we couldn’t read music, our warm-up was three pages of Gregorian chant in Latin, which you guessed from the direction of the notes. Next up was an obscure opera of repeating notes, once again guessing the tune from the direction (up or down)of the notes. Finishing with a song by Leonard Cohen, adapted by Philip Glass, in which our teacher had made all the references to males (my son/father etc) into neutral nouns for political correctness. Very admirable, but since the song was about the relationship between fathers and sons, just a bit daft. Reminded me of when I went to see the opera Figaro in Budapest, and realised halfway through that some bright Nationalistic director has translated Puccini’s beautiful Italian into Hungarian. However, despite a most surprising programme, it was really enjoyable, and our speedy teacher handed out iced carrot cake muffins at the end, and congratulated me on coming from Ireland. A feelgood moment.
Wednesday morning, I began to feel the full effects of Monday’s walk, but got myself ready and headed to the MET for a look around. It’s one of the largest art museums in the world, housing 1.5 million pieces of art spanning 5,000 years of world culture. I’d already decided that I’d only be able to see a portion of it. When I got there, there were many others there too, all whingeing and whining because it’s closed on Wednesday. It was raining, and I didn’t want any other museum, so went to 110th St to do some shopping, have a nice cheap Mexican lunch and head for home in the rain. I decided to do all the prep, pack my bag, make my picnic, send messages/emails, while the rain fell relentlessly and the gale-force wind really got going. I did the sensible thing and had an early night, but the wind was so noisy I couldn’t sleep til well after midnight.
Woke to better weather, so got up early and headed to the MET. Even though at the top of the queue, there were thousands flowing in. It’s a huge premises, so, if you know what you want, you can often go directly there before it gets crowded. I only had an hour, so headed straight for the Impressionists. Monet, Pissarro, Early Picasso, Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh, a great selection, but they seemed to be organised in their bequest collection, so a mixed way of viewing, nonetheless a tremendous cache of late 19th-century impressionist paintings. The building itself is stunning, with light-filled arches or atrium over staircases or halls.
I headed from the MET downtown to meet Kimmy at the Rubin museum for a meditation/chanting session, run by the Tibetan Buddhists, with a visiting French teacher, all robes and smiles and Namaste. He worked with prisoners in Los Angeles, reducing recidivism by startling numbers. He gave a little talk, short and to the point, about adversity, then chanted a refrain that we could all join, which was followed by Q&A. When we finished, we got the opportunity to chat to him, then headed off for lunch in a cafe recommended by Kimmy. After this, we returned to the Rubin for some peace and quiet to work away on projects.
We then walked down to the Hudson Park Library on Leroy St, in Greenwich Village, where Poetry Night at the Library was taking place. I had searched for Poetry Open Mic’s in New York, but it seemed that many of them had folded up in the recent past. Both Kimmy and myself expected the library to be a small gathering of quiet older people sharing poetry, but were surprised to see that the three featured poets were young college kids, who brought a huge crowd of supporters to cheer everyone on. They mixed up the featured poets with the Open Mic, so, after the host did a spoken word piece, I was up first – never a very comfortable place to be, but I got a great welcome and cheering-on and applause, so well worth the trip there. Then both featured poets and Open-Mic’ers read and were tremendous – so a great night all round. I couldn’t afford to stay out for a drink with Kimmy, as was up at the crack of dawn next morning, to get to Penn Station on time for the North East Train to Portland, Maine. Goodbye to New York, the city that never sleeps (though I slept really well there, in a city that certainly felt silent for most of the night), one of the most stimulating places in the world, where just sitting and looking is one of the best pastimes.
Dinner with Luke at his lovely Brooklyn home, before my Subway adventures.
Lulu before her adventures on the subway, ready to meet lovely people.
Berlin Erasmus 
my dads village Sezze does a fully blown passion play every year with several of my relatives taking part. They have as lso taken it to Rome and Lourdes