What You Don't Get in New York

As a native South Floridian, I have never known a snowy or even cold Christmas-New Year's combo and every year I get more and more okay with that. In the winter, A1A, the beach road in Fort Lauderdale, is decorated with shells and starfish formed from Christmas lights. There's a giant penguin with a surfboard welcoming visitors to Fort Lauderdale Beach. I turn down Oakland Park Boulevard and breeze along with the windows down, blasting The Pointer Sisters' "Jump! (For My Love)" on the radio. The ability to do this is one of the things I miss most about South Florida, but I appreciate them so much more when I'm here.

But there are other things, of course.

Driving in JS's SUV to and from the Dadeland Mall while singing "Hotline Bling" and "All I Want For Christmas is You" at the top of our lungs. Waking up in her guestroom at 6am and looking at the view of Miami. Trying to take pictures of her dog that she calls a "lap giraffe" but failing because he doesn't stop moving. Sitting on the beach with her and wearing our big sunglasses, listening to her say things like "God help me if I see another sonogram on Facebook. Congratulations, you're giving birth to a fucking squirrel."

How JL's apartment, decorated in Jim Morrison posters and Grateful Dead wall hangings, always smells vaguely of weed. How she makes her mother's fudge every Christmas, occasionally throwing in walnuts or peppermint sticks. Drinking white sangria at the utterly epic I-Pic movie theatre and eating buffalo chicken springrolls while watching Sisters. How, even after 23 years of friendship, she still remembers things I've said even when I don't remember saying them.

When my mother makes potato latkes when I am home in December even if Hanukkah has passed. How every year I try to flip them at the right time but often end up burning myself with oil, taking them out before they're done or after they've been too done. Flipping them onto paper towels to sop up the oil so my mother has a chance to eat some herself. Watching my dad crunch into the ones that are especially crispy because those are his favorites. Doing all of this at a time like Christmas, a time when in the past we might also be out for Chinese food and a movie.

Sitting at the dinner table with my family for a meal, cutting into things I can't afford to eat in New York like steak and baked potatoes and roasted brussel sprouts. Laughing at my dad's jokes, complimenting my mother's cooking, and really meaning both of those things when I do them. How my dad always leaves a cup full of the diet soda he hasn't finished on the table when he clears his place. How my mother instructs me where everything goes in the refrigerator when we're done eating.

Tending bar on New Year's Eve, leaving out my tip jar imprinted with my alma mater for guests. I will make my dad either a piña colada or a white Russian because he's not a big drinker and only likes things that taste like dessert and are topped with whipped cream. My mother will have a Cosmopolitan in what she refers to as "my glass," her oversized martini glass spun through with turquoise. "Use the Grey Goose Orange," she'll say, "and make it VERY. COLD." And champagne. Lots of champagne. Preferably Taittinger, but Veuve Cliquot or Perrier-Jouet will do, to be drunk only by she and I from the glasses from my grandmother Evelyn's set, the short ones rimmed with gold leaf. Everyone else gets regular champagne flutes.

Sitting out by the pool in my bathing suit and reading the back issues of New York Magazine I haven't gotten to yet. Coming inside when it gets too hot and lying around the house wrapped in a towel, still in my bathing suit, then going back outside later only to repeat the process all over again until it's dark outside.

Staying up way too late with my mom watching movies on Turner Classic Movies. Going out to dinner with my dad and talking about marijuana reform, his past life in the Bronx, and "whether or not I'm seeing any men."

Brunch on Sunday morning where my mother will make something a little more complicated than cereal, like French toast or Ebelskivers. Sitting there at the table in my pajamas with my parents, looking out at ponytail palm tree in the driveway my parents have nicknamed "Maxx II," after "Maxx I" was replaced a few years ago.

Trying to turn correctly out of the curved driveway but having to instead attempt it two or three times, rolling over the grass and maybe even hitting the house before I do it correctly. Not getting it right until the day before I leave, rolling my eyes at myself at how terrible a driver I am. Being proud of myself for never hitting the mailbox, chiding myself for hitting the neighbors' bushes covered in Christmas lights.

Doing my laundry in my parents' washer and dryer and not having to pay for it. Wearing clean jeans on the plane home after folding everything else neatly in my suitcase. Making my bed, or doing my best to do it, before I leave so my mother doesn't have to reach too much. Kissing my parents goodbye, saying "Bye Maw, Bye Paw," before I head into the airport and come back to New York.

Paw Manhattan Visits Saks Fifth Avenue

This weekend, Maw and Paw Manhattan have come to visit from sunny Florida. The first day of their trip involved a torrential downpour, but also a visit to legendary department store Saks Fifth Avenue.

In the 1970s, Paw Manhattan worked at Saks Fifth Avenue, at 611 5th Avenue in Manhattan, selling men's shirts. He received a 30% discount on all merchandise and, he says, was thereby quite well dressed at the time. Today he is no different, in his classic uniform of button-down shirt tucked into dark jeans with a brown belt and matching loafers. Wisps of grey float by his ears and his bluish/greenish eyes swirl about the first floor of Saks, passing over colognes and lipsticks and handbags that weren't there before. Men and women behind the counters chat furiously with each other, some offer him spritzes of cologne he doesn't want. We're walking toward the elevator and he whispers to me, "I don't understand these haircuts on the men."

Paw Manhattan smokes cigar,
wears same shirt as Prince William

Save for the brief time period in the 1970s when Paw had a perm, he has never been much for trends, hairstyle or otherwise. In pictures from 25 years ago when he is holding moi as a baby Miss Manhattan, his haircut is the same as it is today when we are walking past the cosmetics counters. "What is that, a mohawk?" he asks, confused. "What's with all the hair on the top and none on the sides?" The visual conversation gap is understandable: the men working at Saks are, of course, of a rather trendy, outré variety--they wear skinny, knit ties and shiny, sheen-y suits--and Paw prefers to wear the same shirts as Prince William, he jokes. Paw is a traditionalist, a classic dresser. He has never seen the need to pay $300 for a t-shirt, like the ones they sell in the Dolce & Gabbana section upstairs, or have a brand name embedded on a wallet, of all things. "Why would I need to tell people it's Ferragamo?" he asks, looking at the leather goods in the men's accessories department on the 6th Floor. The wallet he is replacing today is the one he got on his honeymoon in Caracas, Venezuela with Maw Manhattan, a brown leather fold that's lasted him nearly 28 years.

There only used to be one floor for men's furnishings, he says, with a small department of men's shirts and shoes on the first floor. Now there are two floors, floors 6 and 7. The 7th has designer boutiques--Michael Kors, the aforementioned D&G, Ralph Lauren, etc. The 6th floor features those shirts Paw used to sell--walls of them, across from the wallets and jewelry, next to the ties. There's a man with graying temples helping Paw, and I wonder if Paw still worked here if that's what he would look like--suit, nametag, shiny shoes. I don't know if I have ever seen Paw in a suit. But instead of staying at Saks, Paw went to live in Israel for a while and worked on a kibbutz. He thought about becoming a dual citizen and joining the Israeli Defense Force. Eventually he came back to the states and started working in finance. He has always had good taste in shirts.

Eventually Paw finds a wallet he likes. It's black, not brown like he originally wanted, and is devoid of visible branding. A perfect Paw wallet. He wants to switch wallets right there in the store but Maw says he should wait, so he does. Back on the first floor, we head toward the exit, but Paw pulls me aside. "Come here," he says. "I want to show you where men's shirts is." He says it more as if he wants to show me where he came from, his old neighborhood, where he grew up. In many ways, this is exactly what he is doing.

We walk toward the first floor Chanel boutique. Women in black stand behind the counter while women in not black peruse their wares. There are bags in a variety of oranges and pinks and reds for spring. Bright white fluorescent lights beam onto grey carpeting and I see a few of those legendary gold double Cs out of the corner of my eye. "This was men's shirts," he says, pointing at one section of the boutique. "And this was men's shoes," he says, pointing at the other. I think of the shoe department I saw upstairs that was almost exploding with oxfords and wingtips and loafers, an entire room to this singular wall. I see Paw thinking how times have changed since he worked here. "We used to have a lot of celebrities come here," he said. When I ask who, he names Howard Cosell, the famed sportscaster--which is fitting because Paw has always been a big football fan--but doesn't remember anyone else's name. "You know, famous people," he says. "Actors, politicans." He stares thoughtfully at the space for a few moments. I wonder if he's just had a vision rush of perms and polyester and wide-lapel collars or if he's proud of how far he's come or both. Eventually he turns to me. "Ready to go?" And we walk out.