In the woods and in Oklahoma, in New York

Central Park woods

I “only” got stuck three times in my most recent ECP session, so that is progress.  I thanked the nurse who got the needle in my arm on the second try. She said she didn’t know why I was thanking her and I said it was because the last nurse did it three times. It is a very yucky feeling when it doesn’t go in right. They get it in but it hurts in an unusual and specific way that tells me it has to come out and they have to give it another try.

The added Cymbalta at first seemed to help my aching feet, but then it didn’t, and it is confusing and upsetting because no one person says the same thing as to whether to add a certain drug or try more CBD and a small amount of THC and if so, how much and how often. I am on a relatively low dose of gabapentin – 1500 milligrams a day – and the neurologist had said I could take more but didn’t specify how much. I met a woman who is on 2,400 mgs., and it seems to help but then it messes with her head. Neuropathy sufferers can bond the way plantar fasciitis sufferers do. If you don’t have it, you don’t get how pain in your feet can affect your head. The woman and I talked about how odd it is that your feet can feel numb, and as though they’re wrapped in gauze, and be painful and tingling at the same time.

I think I need to see the neurologist again to get more specifics, and now I will just revert to an oldie but goodie: yada yada yada. 

Though I haven’t been having luck with my feet, I’ve had it on a couple of other fronts while in New York for a week.

View from theater seats

On Monday, I went to a yoga studio where I’ve been a couple of times, YogaWorks Eastside, and said I wanted to pay for a week’s worth of classes. The person at the desk said he had no record of me, and therefore I did not exist, and therefore I could have a free week of yoga. And also a free loaner mat. I wasn’t going to protest. He signed me up for a week’s worth of classes. The teacher of the Hatha Yoga class that I was about to take was listening. At the end of the class, she smiled and said, “Now you exist.” I took the same class today, bookmarking the week. I haven’t done yoga every day since I was in Costa Rica! 

The guidance has seemed very New York, focusing on getting anxiety to subside and quieting the tendency to rush around mentally with all the physical rushing around city streets. Since some might say I’m a little bit hyper (yes, also anxious) and that I rush around more than I need to (with the city possibly imprinted on my psyche), it has suited me well.  

The other day I entered the Today Tix lottery to see if I could get $40 rush tickets to see Oklahoma. (Following my daughter’s lead, again.) After yoga I walked through a downpour to Circle in the Square theater so I could talk to someone in the box office about seating availability. I usually do it on line but different sites had different prices and I wanted help sorting it out. It was 2 p.m., the time of the lottery drawing. I didn’t get the tickets, but I got an offer of $60 per ticket for seats that cost twice as much on some sites. 

The box office person gave me seats in the second row, and since she did it for me, I didn’t have to pay the service fee that I would have had to pay on line. The downpour continued through show time. It's a good thing it wasn't cold, because my feet were soaking wet. As my theater scout warned me, it had very dark undertones. Still, it leaves you humming.

As the New York Times review explained: the director has "reconceived a work often seen as a byword for can-do optimism as a mirror for our age of doubt and anxiety. This is “Oklahoma!” for an era in which longstanding American legacies are being examined with newly skeptical eyes. Such a metamorphosis has been realized with scarcely a changed word of Oscar Hammerstein II’s original book and lyrics. This isn’t an act of plunder, but of reclamation. And a cozy old friend starts to seem like a figure of disturbing — and exciting — depth and complexity."

In other news, I ate a giant matzo ball and walked in the North Woods section of Central Park, an unexplored area for me. At least the neuropathy doesn't keep me from getting around. Putting CBD lotion on my feet seems to help. In any case it feels good. 

Driven to distraction, driving towards NY

Grown-up kids at dinner with mysterious object

Been driving a lot because...

On Wednesday I reserved a ride for the trip to Dana-Farber. I got the confirmation call the night before, and then, the day of, a call from the driver, who asked if I wanted a ride at 2.  I said yes.

So I packed up and looked out my driveway, and when at 4:06 there was no driver, I called the number he had used to call me. But I got no answer and no voicemail. I called over and over until about 4:15 and then finally gave up and called the complaint line at MART, which arranges the rides.

I got put on hold and then told that the driver had left, listing me as a no-show.

WHAT?

I said.

"I've been waiting at my door."

The operator said she would file a complaint for me but in the meantime I was on my own.

It was a company (Prevalent Transportation, one of the contractors) that has taken me a zillion times before, and they know to come in the driveway or I can't see them. This happened once before when a driver waited at the foot of the driveway, didn't see me, and left without calling. If they don't see me, they can call! They usually do. The last time this happened, the operator told me they are not obligated to come into the driveway or to call. I imagine the guy just didn't feel like doing his job.

I called my people in pheresis at the Kraft Family Blood Donor Center at Dana-Farber and asked what was the latest I could get there. They said 4:30. A friend said he would drive me but by the time he got to my house I would never make it. So around 2:30 or a little after I jumped into my car and sped off.

I made it exactly at 4:30. They were impressed. I was wired and upset.

My nurse for the day, Marlene, tried twice to thread the needle into my left arm. Twice, it hit a valve and would not go in. I didn't have the help of my oxycodone because I couldn't take it and drive. It was unpleasant but I did some slow breathing.Tina, another nurse who was there, gave it a try on the other arm and went in successfully. They said it would go faster if I tried a double – not exactly the technical term – meaning one in each arm. This is possible with the new machines. I said I wouldn't mind but I would wait for a time when I had my pain meds in case I had a problem.

I started to take a little nap when the procedure was under way, but a doctor came over to talk, so that was that. Mandy is a nice pathology fellow. I showed her some of my medical writing, such as what it's like to live with two sets of DNA, and my most recent, on how treating neuropathy can be a pain. She said I should go on TV to tell my story of the four bone marrow transplants. I said I didn't know how to do that and wasn't sure if I wanted to anyway.

I finished around 7 and got back home around 9, pretty tired. It wasn't the best timing, because the next day I had planned to pop down to New York to see some friends and family and do some of the usual things such as run in the park.

I did it anyway. I parked in New Haven and took the train to Harlem and then went on to my cousin Jeanne's. As you do when in New York, I walked all over the place. Yesterday I did around 17,000 steps.

Some of us had a nice shabbat dinner on Friday. It was extended family, kids and a baby. Time flew. I was compelled to mention this while looking at my high school friend's children and a grandchild. I thought we were just in her room making lists of the boys we liked.

For dessert, I was surprised with a pre-birthday cake. Sweet! (One Donald Trump sentence structure allowed per blog post.)

Yesterday I ran a little more than four miles to and in the park and up to the reservoir. I considered going all the way around, but I looped back on the bridal path instead.  For someone who really isn't running, I figure that isn't too bad. 

There was so much activity that I thought a race was going on, but one of the runners said it was a training run for the New York Marathon.

After leaving the park, I got a bagel and a coffee and sat on the steps of a church on Lexington Avenue about 10 blocks south of 86th and Lex, where my mother's store used to be. Lexington Avenue feels in many ways the same, but the block where my mother's jewelry store used to be has totally changed. It's one big blob instead of small stores such as my mother's and Reggie the dressmaker's.

I was going to leave after my run but headed over to UN Plaza to visit my 98-year-old aunt again. When leaving New York I tend to dilly-dally even more than I do at home. I knew that I would be tired after picking up my car in New Haven but figured I'd caffeinate and get through it.

On the way to the 125th Street/Harlem train station in an Uber, I looked around and realized that I had left my laptop in Jeanne's apartment. We were already at 106th Street and would have to go back to 72nd. I asked the driver if he could turn around, but, of course, it is not so simple in an Uber. I had to send him a text message with the "new" address (the address from which he had just picked me up ) and an explanatory note and then re-enter the final destination. It's all in the app, so there was no such thing as using old-fashioned words to tell him, I later realized. Also, we had a bit of a language barrier. It was cumbersome and made me wish I was in a cab.

At $32, it was a pretty expensive trip. I don't know if a cab would have been better or worse. 

Having missed my originally chosen train, I got on the next one with a few minutes to spare and promptly fell asleep. Once at the train station in New Haven, I went to Notes on my phone to check my parking space number and saw that I must have not hit SAVE: The field was blank. Another fine kettle of fish...

I told the people on the elevator what had happened, and one man said I could get off at the sixth floor and just walk down. I remembered parking pretty quickly on the first floor, so I asked the elevator people what they thought about my starting at the bottom. "You could have lucked out," a nice woman said.

So I rode up with them and then rode back down, got out, and looked around for A-1 or something like that. I clicked the door unlock on my keys. A faint beeping grew quickly louder. 

Mirabile dictu!

I found the car, got in, and arrived back home around 9 with no more mishaps.

Today I was tired but still glad I went.

Good parking, good play in NY

Katie and I are back from three days in New York, where the first thing we did was walk with Serena along The High Line, a park built on an elevated rail line along the west side.

I had never been before, and it was just incredible. The sign above just cracked me up, because it spoke to the determination that I (and obviously many others) have with getting a spot.

I also had to laugh because we had just driven in and I had found the perfect spot without praying to anyone.

Katie and me on the High Line.

Saturday night we saw the revival of Stephen Sondheim's  "Follies" with Bernadette Peters. It was amazing, a combination of darkness and light not usually seen in Broadway musicals. We had heard many of the songs, such as "Broadway Baby," before in revues, but didn't realize that they came from this show first produced in 1971.

The weather was nice, so we walked around a lot, did a little shopping, saw family and one night went down to Brooklyn to hear some music. On Sunday morning, I ran four miles along the Hudson River Park and really enjoyed it. I'm used to Central Park and the reservoir on the upper east side, but the change of scene kept me interested.

Later that day, we did get up to the park, walking across it at nightfall to dinner with the city lights all around us.

On Monday, we stopped in Stamford, Conn., for a late lunch with Ben, getting back late and tired.

And now, it's back to the routine, starting with tutoring in 7:30 a.m. tomorrow.

But hey, as I write this I'm listening to "Broadway Baby," and it's bringing me back.

All's Well That Ends Well

Katie waits for tickets to Shakespeare in the Park.

Last year's trip New York to see Shakespeare in the Park was pretty simple: Get there at 9 a.m., early but not as early as those who start lining up at 6 a.m. when Central Park opens; get free tickets at 1 p.m.; return at 8 p.m, then see Shakespeare outside at the Delacorte Theatre.

Last year I wouldn't have had the energy to get through this summer's more complex trip.

For starters, last year we took the train, but I was tired of schlepping bags from the train station, so I drove with Katie. First challenge: Parking the car. (A garage is a last, desperate resort.) I have had nightmares about parking and losing my car in New York, and although that had never happened, it almost did when we drove in on Sunday.

I parked temporarily so we could say hi to Jeanne, Bruce and Amanda (we stayed in their apartment) and drop off some stuff. I left the car nearby (on 73rd and Lexington), went upstairs briefly and then returned to move the car to a spot "that's good for tomorrow."

 I was tired from driving the three hours down, plus stopping for lunch in Stamford with Ben, Meg and Jim, and then I went out the side door, which somehow that disoriented me. (I guess it doesn't take much.) I shouldn't even admit it, but the need to confess is strong, so I have to say that for some reason I mistakenly thought the car was on Second Avenue.

It wasn't, so I walked in loops in the lower 70s from Second, to Third, to Lexington. Unable to find it, I basically thought I had lost my mind. Finally I spotted it on Lexington Avenue and 73rd, only a block and a half from the apartment. I was dripping with sweat, but I haven't been so happy in a long time.

(Later I felt better when Bruce told me he had 'lost' his car, reported it stolen, the spotted it hiding at the bottom of an incline.)

Next I drove around looking for a spot on the south side of a cross-street, where the signs say No Parking Tuesday and Friday from 9 a.m.-10:30 a.m. (for street cleaning). After about half an hour of this, I had just said out loud to myself "I hate New York!" when a spot appeared in front of an apartment building on 73rd near Fifth, like water in the desert.

OK then. The next day, Monday, we lined up at 9 a.m. to wait for tickets to "All's Well That Ends Well." The waiting is part of the experience. You bring chairs, books, newspapers, muffins, whatever. You make friends with the people around you, watch the parade of people and dogs along the path and are serenaded by a musician who stops and performs at spots along the path.

Soon after we got our tickets at 1 p.m., the rain began to fall. We did a few errands and walked back to the apartment, trying to decide if we should take a chance and go to the show or do something else. It's like going to a baseball game: You should show up no matter what because you never know what will happen. But if the performance is canceled, your tickets are no good (except for souvenirs).

We hemmed and hawed and decided to skip it, going out to dinner and a movie instead. Even if the rain stopped, the seats would be wet. As Jeanne said, "Who wants to see Shakespeare with a wet ass?" We decided to try again the next day, when the forecast was better.

The next morning, Katie went to get on line at 9 a.m. while I took care of the car; I planned to join her after. I got to the car just before 9 and said hi to the maintenance man, who was hosing down the pavement. When the street cleaner comes, you need to move your car out, and then, unless someone has snuck in behind you and stolen your spot, you back in.

I opened the window and began my wait by calling Emily. Looking the other way, I was surprised by a stream of water coming in through the window and hitting me in the face. I screamed like I was being murdered and told Emily I'd call her back. It was my friend's way of alerting me that the street cleaner was coming. It was 9:06. So I moved out and then back in, but I wasn't finished yet. You still have to wait out the full time, so I sat there and read until 10:30. (Further uptown, in my home territory, they make it easier by just having a half-hour window.

I then carried the (heavy) chair and my stuff back into the park, got on another line, and we got a new set of tickets. It was a nice day and we were going to run in the park, but after lunch, I crashed on the couch while Katie did the same on a bed.

Later we grabbed a slice of pizza on the run, got to the theater and took our seats under a beautiful twilight sky. But no more than half an hour after the performance had started, rain began to fall, turning into a downpour just as the actor playing the ailing King of France said, "Lend me a hand." He added, "Or an umbrella."

The actors walked off the stage, the audience applauded, and then we began our descent to seek cover. We were in the second to last row, so we got drenched. Katie loved it. I felt like I was a little too old to go with the flow (so to speak), but I did my best. Everyone waited under the overhang around the theater. The rain stopped after about 15 minutes, we went back in, and the performance resumed.

Talk about Shakespeare with a wet ass. I was soaked through.

At the show we saw last year, "A Winter's Tale," I have to say I dozed off occasionally. It was hot and muggy, and the production wasn't as good as this year's.

This time I was definitely wide awake. It was partially because I had been doused with water, and also because the production was superb: Crisp, clear, beautiful to look at and easy to follow. If you're interested, here's the New York Times review, in which Ben Brantley called it "a captivating production."

The audience gave a rousing round of applause at the end, probably feeling more appreciative because of the rain delay.

We will be back next year.

Ouch

My two joyful runs up and down little hills in Central Park took a toll on my legs, specifically my quads, which ached in the same way they do after the long downhill in the 10-K St. Patrick's Road Race.

This was the mini-version. I didn't run on Monday, but I did walk a lot, including going up and down a gazillian subway steps. Going up stairs was fine; going down killed. "Ouch ouch ouch," I said going down each step. You can mumble to yourself to your heart's delight in New York, and nobody will pay any attention.

My travels included a trip to Lower Manhattan to visit PJ in her new digs. She made a good healthful lunch with brownies and strong coffee for dessert. We chatted about this and that and compared notes about our Graft vs. Host Disease and our view of life post-transplant. Having met in the blogosphere, we have discovered in real-life that we are kindred spirits. There is nothing like talking to someone who is almost exactly on the same page.

Monday's travelogue also includes an excellent pizza for dinner at Lombardi's, America's first pizzeria.

Yesterday, Katie and I went to the Frick Museum with my high school friend Pam and my cousin Jeanne's daughter, Amanda. This art collection is housed in the 1913 mansion on 70th Street and Fifth Avenue built by coke and steel industrialist Henry Clay Frick. He collected the art on display, including works by Rembrandt, El Greco and Vermeer. The furnishings, decorative arts, sculpture and architecture are as amazing as the paintings.

We found the bench where I used to sit in high school. I'd stare at the eighteenth-century portraits and have my high school thoughts and the men and women in the paintings would gaze back and say, "Get over it."

(No, I wasn't hearing voices. It is just incredibly calm and beautiful and takes you into another world.)

Yesterday I ran in the park again. It didn't feel as great, and my legs still hurt a little. But if you want to be a runner, you have to accept that kind of day as groundwork for the better ones. Later in the afternoon, after Katie and I sat and read in a Starbucks, I had such shooting knife-like pains in my heel that I had to lean on her.

I don't know if that was the plantar fasciitis or the neuropathy which, despite medicine (neurontin), still keeps my feet partly numb and tingly most of the time, with occasional sharp pains.

In any case, it went away. I probably won't run today, but I can't sit in Jeanne's apartment, either. Katie and I are heading later to the main branch of the New York Public Library to read in its magnificent Rose Reading Room. We'll probably take a bus, but I love walking in New York too much to take it all the way.

'Home' for the week

Years ago I had a semantic argument about running with a guy I was dating.

We were planning our day, and I wanted to set aside time to exercise.
"I have to run," I said. His reply: "You don't have to run. You may want to run, but you don't have to."

I was thinking about this yesterday shortly after Katie and I arrived in New York for a week-long stay. We settled into my cousin Jeanne's apartment, and, although I was tired from the trip, I put on my running clothes and my new shoes, eager to try them out.

I haven't attempted to run in weeks, due to the flare-up of plantar fasciitis. But I tried tennis, and it felt OK. Ken Holt the miracle foot doctor had said he didn't like my Brooks motion control running shoes because they were too built up and made my left foot roll out. So I got a new pair of Asics and tried them for the first time yesterday with my new orthotics.

I did a walk-run over several crosstown blocks until I got to Central Park, where the park drive is closed to traffic. I thought I would walk and run, but my feet started running and didn't stop. I'm not sure how far I went; probably not much further than a mile, but I was happily surprised that I didn't need to stop and I didn't feel sick. I kept going, up some small hills and down, soaking up the sights and sounds of my old back yard. The sun dropping behind Cleopatra's Needle. The shrieks of children sledding down the little snow-covered hills. The runners coasting along. The people walking their dogs (or the dogs walking their people.)

And then that tiny switch went off that gives you those great endorphins. Wow. I coasted down a hill. It felt so great. I do need to run, or else why would I be doing it?

Katie and I came down by train yesterday to see one of the final performances of the musical "In the Heights." Its creator and star, Lin-Manuel Miranda, had left the show and was now back for the end of its run. The show was wonderful and was made even better by the audience's adoring reaction to seeing its star. When he came on stage, they clapped for so long that he had to stand frozen for several minutes. The standing ovation at the end was just as intense. Good live theater is so fulfilling when you get to share your appreciation this way.

The trip down was slightly discombobulated. I finally got a new suitcase, an upgrade from my mother's old one with the rickety wheels that kept tipping over last time I was in New York. Kohls had a buy-one-get-one-free offer, so I got the carry-on size plus the little bag to go on top so I wouldn't have to bring the old nylon toy bag that kept falling off last time.

Friday I had all day to pack. Of course I had to play tennis in the morning and I had to go shopping for the suitcase because I had waited until the last minute. Then there was buying something for dinner and making something for dinner and then making brownies, and then watching two episodes of "The Gilmore Girls" with Katie. It was midnight when I got around to packing, and 2 a.m. when I finished.

I loaded up the two new suitcases and then realized when we were at the train station that I couldn't lift them. Katie pointed out that the new little suitcase was heavy just empty, and that I would be better with something like the old toy bag. She was right. So much for trying to look coordinated like a respectable grown-up. I think I'll go back to the mismatched look or even use a shopping bag.

Katie did a lot of the lifting up and down stairs at the train station and onto the train, but I also depended on the kindness of strangers to help me out.

All that schlepping made the run in Central Park even better. I was free and unfettered and flying along.

'Shakespeare in the Park,' revisited

,

Katie in Central Park with our hard-earned

free tickets to "The Winter's Tale."

It's been ages since I saw Shakespeare in the Park with some friends. Every summer since 1954 the Public Theater has presented free Shakespeare at the Delacorte Theater in a tradition begun by the Public's founder, Joseph Papp.

I'm not sure why I didn't go more often. My parents were patrons, meaning they got their tickets in advance and got the best seats. Their goal was to see as many of the plays as possible, and I think they came pretty close. I can't remember them inviting me. Maybe they didn't. They certainly took Diane and me, and later us and our children, to many Broadway shows.

Anyway, Katie and I finally went Saturday. We saw "The Winter's Tale," which is in repertory with "The Merchant of Venice."

The catch is that you have to wait in a long line to get your tickets, which they give out starting at 1 p.m. You get two tickets per person. Park gates open at 6 a.m., and people are already in line near the park entrance in the wee hours. I asked the first person in line when he got there, and he said 3:30 a.m.

This I could not do. We got there at 8.m., and the line was already pretty long, but people came after us too. The line started moving at 1, and we got our tickets at 1:30. It felt like a big accomplishment.

The woman next to us said that she arrived at 6:30 a.m. to see the season's big draw, "The Merchant of Venice" starring Al Pacino, and a staff member told her to go home because she was too late.

Our time in line was actually quite pleasant. We sat in what we call our baseball chairs, dating to the days when we set up these seats-in-a-bag at baseball and softball games. We brought books, water and snacks. Katie walked up to the front of the line, where the cafe is, and came back with good coffee and muffins. Both of us went a couple of times. Later we ordered lunch from a nearby deli whose number the staffers gave out, and our sandwiches arrived by bicycle shortly afterwards.

Waiting in line was a show in itself. Protected from the sun by trees lining that path, we watched a parade of people with their dogs in all shapes and sizes. A flautist entertained, walking up and down the line. Our friend Pam joined us for a while. It felt like five minutes, not five hours.

We walked back to my cousin Jeanne's nearby apartment, where we were staying. We regrouped and did a few errands and then, before we knew it, it was time to head back. We stopped for sandwiches which we ate on the way, and, as instructed, arrived at the Delacorte at 7:45.

The setting makes for half the experience. The sky grows darker as it finishes its descent, casting shadows on the stage. The lights flicker on in the buildings around the park. It's like turning the lights down in an indoor theater. The stage becomes brighter and brighter.

We thoroughly enjoyed the play. It didn't have the buzz of "Merchant," but it was beautifully done. We knew the play, so the ending was not a surprise, but it was so magical that we could have been seeing it for the first time.

Afterwards, we walked back to the apartment and collapsed. It was a hot day with a lot of walking. I was so worried about staying hydrated that I drank so much I could have floated away, but I guess it did the trick.

On Sunday we sqeezed in bagels and coffee with our cousin, Joanne, then met up with Ben and his girlfriend, Meg. Joanne left, and the four of us went down to the United Nations area to have lunch with my Aunt Marge and Uncle Bill, who live nearby.

Then, load the car, stop for Starbucks and hit the road.

If I do say so myself, not bad for someone with a hematocrit of 25 when last checked and a painful left side due to stupid latest fall.

Katie helped a lot, lugging the heavy stuff. She was a delightful, insightful companion.

A+ mother-daughter weekend.

'Home' for the holiday

I took this photo Saturday with my cell phone at Bethesda Fountain in Central Park. A popular gathering place, it's frequently a backdrop in movies. Jeanne, Katie and I sat on a bench in the warm sun and could have stayed all day, but Katie and I had to head back home. The park visit was a part of our whirlwind Friday/Saturday visit to New York for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.

When I was in high school, I hung out at the fountain frequently. Most of my friends lived downtown, so we tended to congregate more there. But I also went to the fountain, much of the time with my cousin Nancy, who lived uptown like me. Nancy was (and still is) nine months older and seemed so grown-up and cool to me. She hung around with a bunch of older kids, including a couple of guys who frightened and fascinated me. (What were they, probably all of 19?) I trotted along with Nancy, doing what teen-agers did at the fountain in those days. It was, as they said, groovy.

This past Saturday, a gaggle of college-age students in Speedos ran around the fountain, stopping in front of people to perform little songs and goofy dances for them, then holding out their hat. I told Katie that if some silly guys did that in "our day," we would have thrown them into the fountain. (Oh, will those aging baby boomers ever stop talking about the good old days?)

Around this time last year, I wrote a post, Should I Stay or Should I Go?, about my indecision about returning to the "old country" for the holiday. I was about three-and-a-half months past my third transplant, and although I was, and am, attached to the traditions and to going to services, I stayed home and sent Katie alone to meet up with Ben and cousins. I had a little get-together at my house where we ate a round challah with honey, symbolizing no sharp edges and a sweet New Year.

This year I actually went, although Dr. Alyea said I shouldn't go to the crowded services. Once again, as it has been for all my little getaways, the weather was perfect. Katie and I drove down Friday afternoon and moved our stuff into the apartment building where I grew up, and where we now stay with my mother's 93-year-old friend, Muriel, who has become like an aunt to us. Then we went to a restaurant called Deux Amis, where we had dinner outside with my real aunt, Marge; her husband, Bill; and my cousin Jeanne, who brought a round challah. I'm not supposed to eat in a restaurant, but I can sit at outside tables, and I can order cooked food (not salads or anything raw.)

The next day when Ben and Katie went to services, Jeanne kept me company walking around the upper east side, near the 92nd Street Y, where the services are. For lunch, we met another cousin, Joanne, at an outside cafe – most of the places have outdoor tables now – and then ended up in the park. We really didn't want to leave. It would be nice if there was a machine that would woosh you up to where you want to go, so that you could linger but still get back home at a reasonable hour. But alas, there isn't, and we ended up getting home around 9 p.m.

Two large school systems around us, Amherst and Longmeadow, have a sufficient Jewish population to close on the Jewish holidays. But South Hadley does not. It felt good to be in the city, where store doors carried signs reading "Closed for Rosh Hashanah" and people dressed for temple crowded the streets.

Back home, we felt good that we had said the prayer over the round challah, visited with family and maintained some tradition. It was, of course, different, because we grew up celebrating it with my parents, who hosted the holiday dinner the night before, and then took us to a relative's house after temple. I missed them. But I could still hear my father saying, "Here's to a sweet New Year with no sharp edges!" He loved to say that.

L'Shanah Tovah. Peace and good health to everyone.

Escape to New York

                                   With Serena (left) and Joanne

                                   at the Central Park reservoir.

At the last minute, I went to New York Friday on a quick trip that we scheduled for Katie to see NYU and Columbia. The plan was for Katie and Joe to drive down, pick up Ben and Meg uptown and then continue down to tour NYU on Friday. I bought tickets for them all to see "Hair" on Broadway that night along with our cousin, Serena, and  found a restaurant for their pre-show dinner  (where they ended up not going). They'd tour Columbia Saturday morning and return that day. I would stay home, my involvement finished with the planning stage. 

I had thought of going, but it felt too complicated: I couldn't go to the show, couldn't take public transportation, couldn't pop into a deli for a sandwich. I also wondered if I had enough energy. I would be glad they were having fun, but I would feel a little left out. I told Katie that I was the puppeteer pulling the strings but not participating in the action. (It was a joke, but you know what they say about there being some truth to this kind of comment.)

I told this to Melissa, and she asked why I didn't just go. When I told her my reservations, she had an answer for each one. Transportation? Take a cab. What to do when they go to the show? Visit with someone else. Food? Well, there's always pizza (safe because it's cooked in such a hot oven). So I ventured out, feeling both wary and excited. 

During part of the NYU tour on Friday, I sat on a bench in Washington Square Park, one of my old haunts in high school. I walked along with the tour a bit, but I had trouble keeping up, and each time they went into a building, I wasn't sure what to do with myself. At the dormitory stop I put on a mask and followed the group. We climbed three sets of stairs to see a dorm room. It was too much for me.                     

Friday  night, Joe, Katie and I stayed at 1200 Fifth Ave., the apartment building where I grew up. With my parents both gone, going there was strange but comforting. We stayed with my mother's friend Muriel, who is now sort of like an aunt to us. At 93, Muriel is elegant in an old New York style. She has a beautiful art- and book-filled apartment on the 15th floor, overlooking Central Park.

She bought us bagels and lots of fruit, just like my parents would have. She also set out a box of Lu biscuits – Petit Ecolier with dark chocolate. My mother loved those, and we'd often squeeze into our small kitchen and eat them after seeing a show. When I thanked Muriel, she said she had gotten them because she knew my mother liked them. 

Her apartment in the pre-war (WWII) building shares certain subtle characteristics with our old apartment, 4C. The wood floors creak just the same way. The older faucets make the same sound when turning on. The cabinets in the kitchen are the same, and even the sound of the front door opening and closing sounds like "home." To be honest, that part of it is a little odd. It's like you're home and you're not home. But I got used to it, and it was great spending some time with Muriel.

Things fell into place. When the kids went to the show, my cousin Jeanne and I found a good restaurant with tables outside, where I felt comfortable ordering dessert. We walked around a little and later I met up with the kids at Muriel's.

                                       With Jeanne in Westport, Conn.

I was a little embarrassed to wear my Red Sox hat after two (later to be three) losses to the Yankees, but nobody bothered me. I did stand for a long time trying to get a cab, with many empty ones passing me by. I thought it might be the hat, but when I took it off they still failed to stop. When I changed locations (hat off) a cab finally did stop. Odd.

One of the things that really makes me feel like my old New York self is parking the car. Finding the right space and following the regulations for that particular spot is an art that obsesses many New Yorkers. My father and I used to have long conversations that started the minute I entered the apartment when I visited from Massachusetts. His first question: "Did you get a spot?" (You hope to never have to give in and use the garage.)

The street cleaner comes by in the morning, and you have to either be in your car or move. First thing to take into consideration: If you park in front of the building, you need to be in your car from 8 to 8:30 a.m. Across the street along Central Park, you have to be in the car from 8:30-9 a.m. We parked across the street to get the extra half-hour sleep.

I went down at 8:25 with a book and got in the car. It was musical cars out there, with the 8:30-ers watching to see if the 8-o'clockers in front of the building would pull out so we could take their spot and not have to sit for the whole half hour.

The street cleaner came along a little after 8:30 and signaled some, but not all of us, to move out so he could clean along the curb. The idea is that you go back into your precious spot, but sometimes cars follow the street cleaner and dash into your spot before you can back in. That didn't happen on Friday. You can imagine the commotion when it does happen.

 Meanwhile the traffic police came along and ticketed cars in which nobody was sitting. I happened to be talking on my cell phone when the officer walked up the line of cars. I guess I was slouching and he didn't see me, because he walked over and took out his tickets. Yikes! I sat up straight and he walked away.

A car did pull out across the street, and I tried to make a go for the spot, but the car behind me was faster and got there first. You have to have your wits about you. Then all you have to do is feed the meter quarters every two hours. It worked out well, because when the kids went to Columbia Saturday morning I walked around the reservoir with Serena and our cousin Joanne. 

Hope you don't mind the parking story. The ritual is part of my heritage!

On the way home, we stopped in Westport, Conn., to visit my aunt Marge and her husband Bill. We stayed for a cookout and then headed home to South Hadley. 

I was pretty beat, but I'm glad that I did it.