near-perfect night

On our way to dinner at the Chart Room, we pass a surprising site.

"Stop,"  I tell my mom who is driving. "I want to take some pictures."

My mom is hesitant after my episode on the bus earlier this week. "Maybe you shouldn't," she advises. She doesn't want me to upset anyone. And though she doesn't say it, I'm guessing she's thinking, "Especially some crazy Trump supporters." I promise her that I won't provoke them. I exit the car to take a few photos.

My only comment to the man and woman manning this little campaign center is, "You don't see much of this on the Cape." They agree. 

Overall, my photo adventure goes smoothly. 

But just as I'm getting into the car, Zelia can't help herself. She yells out the window, "Trump is the swamp," in reference to Trump's campaign promise of draining the swamp. All I can think is, my poor mom — she's the one driving what must feel like the getaway car.

We get to the Chart Chart Room, and in response to COVID, there are many more tables set up outdoors. The restaurant has done a great job of separating everyone.

I get my usual: baked stuffed lobster. And it is, as usual, incredible.

As is the night sky...

perfect day

I feel like I've escaped into a new, freer world.

Zelia and I start the day with a 6-mile walk, partly along the beach, and partly along empty roads dotted with scenic summer houses. It's so much nicer, and easier, than walking in oppressive city heat, wearing a mask, all while trying to avoid cyclists and runners. Strangers here even smile and say hello (from a safe distance) as we pass them.

It's a perfect, blue-sky day, with a nice breeze. Sitting with people I love, reading a book I adore (Playing Nice by JP Delaney), with feet in the sand and an ocean view.

I get to the beach around 1;  my mom shows up an hour later with some woman in a floppy hat, big dark sunglasses, and a mask. I am sure she is a friend of my mom's that I'm supposed to remember from summers past and don't. When the woman isn't looking, I mouth to my mom, "Do I know her?" Turns out I do; it's Zelia.

The beach is really magnificent. I say hello to old friends I haven't seen since last summer. It's good to be back. And, my mom looks great, and seems genuinely happy that I am finally here. 

I am too.

I leave a little after four, to a view that is never boring, always changing, and grounds me in away that city sidewalks don't.

9-stop odyssey up to the cape

Around 9:30 or so Zelia and her stunning daughter V pick me up. Last week of summer, tests all taken, we are finally driving up to my mom's house on the Cape.

STOP #1

Zelia's stunning daughter V is not thrilled with her mom's driving.

"Why are you driving so slowly?"

"Why are you taking the Hutch to Greenwich when it's faster to stay on 95?"  

"Mom! You are too close to that guy in front of you!"

We pull over and V takes the wheel.

STOP #2

We drop V off at her boyfriend's house in Greenwich and return to I-95.

STOP#3

Zelia and I both need coffee. We stop at an off-road food court type place somewhere in Connecticut. Everyone is wearing a mask; the bathrooms are clean; and the indoor space is wide open.

We go to a Dunkin' Donuts, get our drinks, and are back in the car, back on the road, all within ten minutes.

My order of "coffee with just a tablespoon of half and half" somehow gets interpreted as "coffee with lots of half and half plus a tablespoon of sugar." It is undrinkable and I toss the entire cup.

STOP #4

We need gas; too bad we didn't think to get gas at our last stop where there was both a food court and a gas station.

STOPs #5 and #6

We've now been in the car about four hours, have just traveled through RI, and are hungry. We turn to YELP and find a cute-sounding place nearby. 

A few more exits and we are in Marion — a quaint New England seaside town. And for the first time in a year I see the Atlantic.

We get back in the car, drive another mile, and find Kate's. It's the perfect place for lunch. 

And because it's pretty empty, we are comfortable eating indoors. My first time having a meal in a restaurant in six months.

STOP #7

We want to bring my mom a pie, and I remember there's a great pie place in Marion. Or rather, there was a great pie place in Marion. So we go back to YELP and find an "artisanal bakery" about 10 miles away. We're in no hurry. It's an overcast, rainy day. So we follow Google maps and end up at a house with a bakery in the garage, and a sign that says it's open only by appointment. We leave not feeling like we missed out.

STOP #8

We pick up an apple pie at Crabapple's, not too far from my mom's.

FINAL STOP

We arrive around four — to my mom's bright smile and exuberance. It feels so good and so right to be here. It's been a long summer away.

the results are in

I decide to get a COVID test.  

Saturday, as it turns out, is a good day for testing at Metropolitan Hospital — a hospital I had previously never heard of.

I arrive, and only two other people are there to be tested. And, there are more than enough, appropriately-suited staff to help.

While I'm there, I am told that if I want, I can also have the antibody test. Though I doubt I have any anti-bodies, I decide to get the test anyway. It's a simple blood test with results that day.

After all the intake forms are completed, I'm shown into a small curtained-off room. The slightly uncomfortable-but -quick nasal swab (both nostrils) and blood test are completed in minutes.  

A few hours later, I get the results from the antibody test. Negative.

The COVID results take longer.

In the meantime, my friend Zelia goes yesterday;  she gets her results today. I got tested two days before Zelia (same place) and am still waiting.

I call to follow up. I am re-connected three times until I finally reach some guy who is clearly working from home. I hear his kids in the background clearer than I hear him;  I think he may be home and underwater.

Basically, he knows nothing more than I know and it's a waste of a call.

I hang up, and an hour later I get an email with my results (totally unrelated to my phone call).

As expected, but still good to hear — negative.

Looking like I may visit my mom after all. She, by the way, also tested negative.

drama on the M-15, or when saying nothing is by-far the best option

 I decide to take a bus to the lower east side.

It's a long bus ride but I wear my N95 and feel protected.

Even still, I'm not comfortable seeing two women in the back who are using the bus as a traveling restaurant. And one appears to be an essential worker; she should know better.

But it's the bus ride home that turns nasty.

I see this guy, talking loudly on his phone. 

Across the aisle from him is a policeman.

"Officer," I say. "Shouldn't he be wearing a mask?  I mean, it is the law."

He responds, "He has one on."

So I point out the obvious, "Yes, but it's around his chin."

The policeman than — almost apologetically — says to the guy, "Hey, this lady (and points to me) wants you to put your mask on." 

The helpful officer exits at the next stop and the passenger's mask comes right off.

Soon after, this woman and her child get on the bus. I'm blurring their faces and tattoos for reasons that will soon become obvious.

I ask the woman to put her mask on. She ignores me. I take her picture.

"Hey, bitch," she says in high volume. "Did you just take my picture?"

"No, " I lie.

"Well if you did, I'll come and break your f*c*ing phone."

I am sending the picture to Alexander when suddenly she grabs the phone out of my hands and throws it across the floor of the bus.

Then she starts screaming, "This bitch just took my f*c*king picture." 

Now that first dude joins on. "She's crazy (meaning me), man. She should be arrested. But you can be sure that even if she is she'll get off."

For the record, I've committed no crime... taking someone's photo without their permission is not illegal. Stupid, maybe, but not illegal.

I grab my phone off the floor, while the two of them are screaming about me.

Then some riders try to calm the woman down. She has no interest in being calmed down. 

I say nothing throughout this shouting session.

The bus stops and I get off, fearful she might follow me. She doesn't.

I am fine but shaken and call my son.

I get zero sympathy.

"Are you crazy?" he asks.

"First of all, you should treat everyone on the bus as if they all have COVID. You definitely don't want to do anything to provoke them. And what do you think is going to happen? They'll appreciate your telling them to put their mask on? You think they don't know? THEY DON'T CARE!"

He's right.

Four good lessons learned:

• Don't tell anyone to put a mask on.  Just move.
• Some people don't care what's right for the public good, and who am I to convince them otherwise?
• Avoid public transportation.
• And don't expect help from the police when it comes to COVID-19.

Plus one more:

This mother can still get great advice from her young and sometimes-wise 27-year old son!

a touch of country on the upper east side

Every Saturday morning a Farmer's Market arrives in my neighborhood.

Different vendors sell everything from duck, to flowers, to vegetables, to fish, to butter, eggs, and cheese, to baked goods and fresh apple cider.

Since COVID, the organizers have done a great job of keeping all the shoppers socially distanced. There are multiple lines, each marked with chalk indicators, so it's clear where to stand.  

Everyone is masked and polite. (Unlike the bus I was on later today where an unmasked passenger sat with his similarly clad girlfriend.  When I pointed out that the law requires masks on busses, he smiled and gave me a thumbs up — a polite f**k you.)

I meet my friend Zelia. We easily find each other, even with our mostly covered faces. 

We buy our usual: a half dozen ears of white corn; a box of small tomatoes, a half-pound of dry scallops, and six ounces of tuna—sushi quality.

It's nice to be able to do this only three blocks from home. 

And the reward is a well-priced, simply cooked dinner.

Addendum:

Scallops are so simple to cook: Dry thoroughly. Remove the muscles. Coat with a little flour. Season well with salt and pepper. Cook for 2 minutes one side in grapeseed oil, flip and cook another minute and add butter and lemon.

As for corn: place it unshucked, in the microwave for two minutes. It's so easy to peel this way, and it comes out cooked perfectly. And not one single pot or dish to clean afterward. 

Not that I'm the best cook —far from it — I'm just doing it more.

the city: good and bad

Today Mayor de Blasio announces a .24 percent positivity test rate for COVID-19 — a rate that once hit 71 percent.

That would be incredible for any city, but particularly one that was so devastated in March and April.

With a .24% positivity rate, I am genuinely amazed to see most people still wearing masks as they go about their lives.  And outside it is not even a requirement.

But inside it is. And stores are getting sloppy in their definitions of what "wearing a mask" means.

In Duane Reade today I see at least two employees wearing masks with their noses exposed.

And we all know that those masks with the valves on them do nothing to protect others; it only protects the wearer.

At Agata I see a man with a paper towel scotch-taped to the sides of his face, right below his ears. When I point this out to a store employee, she responds, "Oh that's okay. At least he's wearing a mask."

I fear for the immediate future of NYC.

Crime is increasing —through July, shootings were up 72% vs. last year.

People are exiting the city in droves— my building is filled with vacancies.

Stores are closing everywhere.

I see this sign today as I pass my next-door nail salon. They had opened back up just a month ago. 

 

The city will be cutting crucial services as major budget cuts are needed.

More restaurants will close when eating outside is no longer an option.

Theater —both on and off-Broadway— doesn't exist right now.

And will there even be a screening season?

I know more people on unemployment today than at any time in the past.

Who knows what the fall will bring, but I fear we are in for a very bumpy ride.