Friday, February 28, 2014

book club

I had picked tonight’s book.  

The book is about a non-Jewish architect living in Paris during the occupation. He reluctantly begins creating ingenious hiding places for Jews.

I don’t like the book.  I think the characters are clichés and the writing is pedestrian.  I assume tonight will follow our typical book discussion when we don’t like a book: short and dismissive.  I am wrong.

Monique is hosting.  She is originally from Holland.  Her flawless and accent-less English belies her roots. Among the many wonderful skills Monique possesses, hosting is one of them.  Her serving pieces are perfectly suited for every item she serves, and there are many.  She makes a scrumptious leek and potato soup, a beautiful salad, quiche, and hors d’oeuvres.  She serves mini cupcakes and offers any drink you want — red or white wine, plain or carbonated water, coffee-regular, decaf, and/or cappuccino, and tea.  All served to perfection.  She even pours from a lovely porcelain teapot.

There are ten of us in the group.  Tonight, all come but one.  Usually, we socialize for two or more hours until someone (usually me) asks if we can discuss the book.  Tonight, quite by accident, the discussion begins early and lasts late.  Laurie says of the book, “If you look beyond the writing and character development, it’s a very good book.”  Strange as that sounds, she is right.  My view is too small.  The discussion opens my eyes to the bigger issues.

A few in the club are children or relatives or friends of holocaust survivors. Monique actually grew up in a town walking distance from Germany.  Yes, she was born after the war, but many from the war were neighbors — some were part of the resistance and some were collaborators. Someone else’s father was a psychiatrist whose practice included children of the holocaust.  Our conversation goes well beyond the pages of the book —the one I had read too narrowly.


Tonight is exactly what a good book discussion should be.  A few hours with intelligent and articulate people. A sharing of ideas and experiences.  And of course, good food and drink.

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

when negative means positive

It’s 2 o’clock and I’m back in bed.

M left this morning, and my head cold is knocking me out.  Nine of us are getting together to celebrate Shari’s birthday tonight and I feel miserable.  Scratchy throat.  Achiness.  Heavy head.  All I want to do is sleep.

The phone rings and I don’t pick up.  I am barely awake.  Then I hear, “Hi Lyn, this is Lalani from Dr. Lupovici’s office.  When you get this message, please give us a call. Dr. Lupovici would like to speak with you. The number is….”

My biopsy results are back.  The doctor wants to speak with me.  Why couldn’t his assistant just leave the results if it were good news? Maybe it’s bad news. Maybe that thing in my mouth that I’ve seen for years is more ominous than I thought.  I picture all sorts of horrible scenarios in the few minutes before I call back.  I am literally shaking.

I call back, and Lalani answers.  She seems more formal than usual, or am I imagining that?

The doctor comes on the phone.  He’s right to the point.  “Just as we suspected, the results are positive.” 

I stop listening. My imagination travels to some very ugly places.  And what does he mean, just as we suspected?  I never suspected the results would be positive and I didn’t think he had either.  In fact, I remember him saying that he was almost 100% sure it was nothing.

If I hadn’t been in bed I’m sure I would have collapsed.  He’s still talking and I think I hear, “So it must have been an old filling that just got embedded in the skin.”  Wait, that doesn’t sound bad, as that was his original suspicion.

“So it’s nothing, then?” I ask.  “”Yes, everything is fine,” he confirms.

“But you said it was positive,” I respond. “I’m sorry, he says,” I meant the news is positive.  The results are negative.”


My head cold, along with every other part of my being, immediately feels better.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

on stage and off

M and I have tickets to Beautiful, the new Broadway musical about Carole King.  At the end ot its two and a half hours, M turns to me and says, "I could sit here and watch it all over again."   We both love it.

We have great third row seats.  The theater’s been recently renovated and the seats are comfortable with decent legroom.  Sort of like being in first class.  Except some of the people surrounding us should be in coach, if that.

Behind us is a couple who appear to be dating.  They are all over each other.  Heads on each other’s shoulders.  Loving gazes.  And the need to comment after every single scene. A ringing cell phone would be less annoying.  When the play ends, they rush the stage.   They appear to be in their late 70's. 


Then there is the hooker with a Trump look-alike.  She is dressed in a thigh-high black mesh dress.  Her hand never leaves her date's crotch.  She's not even secretive.


M tries to surreptitiously take their picture with an iPhone until the usher warns her that photography is not allowed.

The play is fantastic. And so is the tapestry of intriguing people who have come to see it.


Monday, February 24, 2014

a walk in the park

At ten this morning, M and I meet Sid in Central Park.  He is going to be our tour guide.



Months ago I bought a Groupon for Gotham City Tours; today I use it.  It is sunny but cold.  And in the park it’s windy.  Not the best day for walking and talking.  


Sid, who is Albanian and Turkish, grew up all over the world.  He has visited 48 countries, went to school at Hunter, and is an expert on the history of Central Park.

I have been in the Park hundreds of times, seeing but not seeing.

We start with the whispering bench.  M sits on one side; I sit on the other, and our whispers are amplified from one end to the other.


Sid takes us through the southern half of the park.

We see the 1959 bronze statue of Alice in Wonderland. It includes a caricature of the philanthropist George Delacorte who commissioned the statue for the children of New York.


Hans Christian Andersen is a better looking guy.


The park was designed to allow a steady stream of traffic.  But to keep the park separate from the noise of urban life, the roads were all built below the level of the park grounds.

It costs $7,500 per year to have a plaque on a park bench.  I like this one.


It really is a beautiful place.  Although this I knew before today's tour.









 Before leaving, we pay our respects to John.


And even see a little bit of spring, struggling to make its way out.



Sunday, February 23, 2014

everything but the proverbial sink

Alexander was two weeks old the first time he left the city; we were going to my sister’s for Thanksgiving. I left the house with a car seat.  A change of clothes, just in case.  Diapers and associated products.  Multiple bibs. Bottles for water. Oh, and the nanny.  It was a lot to pack for an afternoon out.



And when Alexander was a few months older, there was even more stuff to take.  Bottles.  Food.  Toys and other diversions.  A high chair maybe. And stuff I’ve probably since forgotten. My friend M, whose son Sam is three years older, described each excursion this way, “Every time I leave my house it’s like fleeing Poland.”

M arrives today for a three-day visit. Her big SUV is fully packed, as if she's still fleeing. 

There are things for Sam, who now lives here:
  • Case of Gatorade.
  • Case of water.
  • Box of Nature Valley Granola Bars.
  • A bag of clothes Sam left in Boston when he was home last week.
  • A bag of clothes his girlfriend left when she was up last week.
  • 3 pair of pants and a couple of shirts M ironed for him.

And there are things for me:
  • A tempurpedic twin mattress to replace Alexander’s (she has one she isn’t using).
  • Two small suitcases with stuff I had left behind when I was visiting her.
  • Shower liner and rings as a temporary fix for my door-less shower.
  • Clementines (in case there's a shortage in New York City).

For herself, M brings little.


My doorman, who helps unload the car, thinks I’m getting a new roommate — guests don’t usually bring their own mattresses.  Or their own shower curtains. I even bet if I had needed a new sink M would have brought one of those too.   Ah, but she knows I just got one.