Mist

When I moved to New York, I put my wide-leg jeans in the back of my closet, marrying my legs to the skinnies that were de rigeur almost 10 years ago. The wide-legs have gone in and out this last decade, and they’re back again, with everyone’s body pretending it’s 1978 all over again. I’ve periodically felt like someone’s out of date grandmother when I’ve worn them, but not today. They hung over my cowboy boots in this misty weather, paired with the grey cashmere turtleneck sweater I stole from my mother that I’ve now worn two days in a row. When I wore it out with LM she said I “looked like a goddamn cup of cocoa.” I hear that in my head every time I wear it now and I love it.

The rain hung just enough in the air to not warrant an umbrella, though many people walking in front of me today would have argued with me about that as they held their open nylon protectors upward toward the sky. I sweater-jeans-and-cowboy-bootsed my way to the main branch of the New York Public Library today, held captive in the house earlier by a phone interview. I want to go somewhere quiet where I can write, I said to myself, and moved myself past Patience and Fortitude, the library lions, up the marble staircases to the Rose Reading Room. It was silent save for the periodic shuffle of tourists’ arms moving against their puffy vests as they held their phones upward to take pictures of the really quite epic chandeliers and ceiling. I only wish they allowed coffee, or that I was crafty enough and not clumsy enough to figure out a way to bring some without spilling.

At first I am distracted by the fact that Peter Hermann, who plays Charles on TV Land’s Younger and is Mariska Hargitay’s husband, is sitting directly across from me. But, in true New York fashion, I shortly forget about him because I am too focused on myself. Later, there is a young couple--late teens, maybe-- sitting across from me--she is taking stickers out of a millennial pink book that teaches you how to identify various cacti and he is sketching her without looking at her.

The writing happens, but barely. A month ago I realized I had not had a proper vacation in four and a half years, and while I am rectifying that situation next week, I am in the unusual, regular situation of having to pluck the words from my brain rather than having them flow freely through my fingers.

There’s another group of tourists when I leave after two hours. I wonder if they’re looking at me the way I used to look at people when I visited the library: Wow, a real live New Yorker! I wish I could be her someday! But I am her now. Some days I am too lucky; other days I try to use the bathroom at the library but don't because I notice a toilet has overflowed, covering everyone’s shoes in water.

I sometimes forget what a daily commute looks like for most people--I’m often one of a few on the downward escalator when everyone else is heading upward. But I’m in midtown now, and everyone goes every direction at once. Getting off at 23rd, I’m desperate for a snack, and find my way to Foragers, an upscale grocery store, and wind up with things that don’t need to be purchased at an upscale grocery store: a banana and a cup of coffee. I spill some coffee on my shoes on the way out because of course I do.

I see Joel Meyerowitz speak at Aperture. A legendary photographer, he tells stories about making portraits in Provincetown, getting into arguments with Richard Avedon and photographing Norman Mailer. His voice is soothing, one you’d believe without question if it told you you could do anything. His hands are long and spindly. I can see bones and veins when he moves them while he speaks, these hands that have printed thousands of photos, held countless cameras, moving seamlessly over their shutters, focusing their lenses, loading their film. People line up to see him, to have him sign their books. He lives in Italy now and I didn’t even think to bring mine. I don’t know what I would say to him anyway, aside from the fact that his parents bought my first baby carriage (they were clients of my dad’s some 30--at least 31, as of this coming Sunday--years ago). A man asks me if I am a photographer and I say yes. He doesn’t feel comfortable calling himself one yet, he says.

On the way home, a man is sitting with his legs up on the subway reading a newspaper and I audibly whisper “asshole” as I walk in the other direction. Transferring to another train, there’s a woman in a grey pashmina and matching beanie with a shiny square diamond on her ring finger. She wears pearl earrings and cropped black pants and tortoiseshell glasses. Her ring looks like one I tried on a few weeks ago. Doyle was having a viewing for a jewelry auction and, always excited to ogle jewels up close, I walked in. Peering in the ring case, I saw this classic small square with a platinum band. “Would you like to try anything on?” a woman with glasses and fluffy, graying brown hair asked me. People don’t normally ask me that question when I’m perusing fine jewelry, instead ignoring me for someone who looks like they have more money (after we part ways, her colleagues do not disappoint). I was so taken aback someone asked that I said yes, I would, and tried the ring on, just to see what it felt like. I’m annoyed by the part of me that wonders this, that makes me a single woman cliche. But it almost fit aside from two small bumpers inside the band--apparently my ring finger is just a bit larger than a size 5. It was from 1920, the woman said, showing me the auction catalog, and estimated between four and six thousand dollars. A steal, I chuckle. When I show my mother a picture later, she says I should have something bigger. I disagree, I don’t want something bigger, but instead of arguing I say “we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it,” offering up the bastardized expression we have come to love.

At home, I’m too tired to use a knife and fork so I rip a chicken breast apart with my fingers. I went grocery shopping at Trader Joe’s yesterday and I love it there but I hate that there’s one on Delancey Street now next to a Target. I wonder what New York will look like in another nine years.

Engaging

For their first date, Addison and Aggie were supposed to get hot cocoa and meet in Central Park, but due to rain they had to make other plans. Today though, a few years after they met, hot cocoa wasn't exactly on the menu.

Addison had initially reached out to our mutual friend Cassandra to see if she would take surprise engagement photos of them in Central Park, but she had recently moved to Stockholm. She was kind enough, however, to refer Addison to me. Would I be interested in taking on such a project? I definitely was.

The beautiful vastness of Central Park and the fact that I had never actually met Addison and Aggie became our dilemmas. How would we be able to meet up so I could photograph them and capture the big moment, while still recognizing them and not being seen? I would take some time to plan and plot. I felt a rush of my inner James Bond.

"If you can pick out a particular entrance of the park you'd like to go through, I could be there and I can let you both walk past me, then just begin casually strolling behind you after a few minutes, secret agent-style," I wrote to him. My fingers trembled with excitement and anticipation as I even wrote the words. We'd have to be totally stealth, but if it worked out, it would be amazing. He could text me selfies of he and Aggie under the guise of posting them online so I knew what they were wearing. I would do the same back to him, and tell him exactly where I would be standing so Addison and I would see each other, then I'd know to follow him into the park. We ultimately decided to meet outside the Museum of Natural History.

Even as I write this now, a week later, my heart beats faster. I couldn't sleep the night before. There were so many variables out of my control. What if the bus broke down on my way there? What if their train got stuck? What if Aggie wanted to stop inside the museum? What if I sneezed too loud as they walked past and she noticed me? I tossed and turned all night.

I set my text ringer very loud so the next morning when Addison texted me, I'd be on the move. Around 9:30, he assured me everything was going to plan. Not too long after, I got pictures of he and Aggie. She was wearing a long, light pink coat and he was wearing a grey puffy vest. I'd have no trouble noticing them.

And then, my checklist to myself began. Did I charge all my batteries? Yes. Did I have enough room on my memory card? Yes. Did I have every lens I'd need? Yes. I was originally going to use the longest lens I had, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself--a very long lens protruding from a very short person's face and/or frame is by no means stealth--so I went with my second longest, the one I had used before I had the other one. If it worked on ballerinas far away at Lincoln Center, after all, it would work for Addison and Aggie.

And then what would I wear? I had to be noticeable enough so Addison would see me, but inconspicuous enough that Aggie wouldn't think twice about some chick leaning on a street corner. It was not the day for my favorite leopard coat, in other words. I decided on a black sweater and black jeans with an army green jacket, tan high-tops, and a black beanie. I carried my gear in a green leather bag. I'd blend in perfectly with the scenery. I texted Addison photos so he'd know what I looked like, too.

I arrived probably way too early, but I decided I'd rather be chilled out and waiting for them then scrambling to get there. Texts from Addison were on schedule, though at one point they got on the wrong train and had to come back around to the right stop. Texts resumed after they got off the train. They were now rounding the south end of the museum. I kept my eye out for a pink coat as I leaned, rather shadily, if do say so myself, on a gate on the corner of 80th and Central Park West. Then I saw the coat. I made eye contact with Addison. It was on.

They crossed Central Park West and headed down into the park. I was a cool distance away from them until they rounded a bend but turned back around and walked right back to me. The sidewalk had ended and led into the street, so they had simply moved in another direction to actually get into the park. My innards melted. NOOOOOOO! my brain screamed. I HAVE FAILED. I stood immobile and, by the grace of RuPaul, remembered the millennial stereotype of always being in your phone like an asshole. In a swift movement I reached into my bag for my phone as they were stepping back past me and tapped on the screen indiscriminately until they were safely far enough away from me to not notice. MISSION RESUMED. No failure to speak of. Addison was totally casual and never made eye contact with me, bless his soul.

I had assumed a safe distance again, and my lens length was perfect. Every so often Aggie would turn around and marvel at nature and I would slowly turn away from her, pretending to take pictures of trees. I felt my heart pound, like at any moment she would notice me, turn to Addison and say, why is that strange girl in all neutrals taking pictures of us? At various points I darted into bushes and pressed myself up against trees and warily rounded corners so I would remain unseen. I followed them into various paths, over the Oak Bridge and into the Ramble. We went up and down stone steps, through which my brain cried out, knowing full well my propensity toward falling, Do not trip, you idiot! Keep your limbs together just once for the sake of their engagement!


As we crossed up the stones and deeper into the park, another couple maneuvered in between us. Who the hell are you? I wanted to say. Get out of here, you fools, Addison and Aggie are trying to get engaged! But eventually, thankfully, the couple disappeared. Addison led Aggie to a beautiful area covered in almost a canopy of fall leaves in gorgeous colors. They stopped walking and Addison turned to her. THIS IS IT, I thought. THIS IS THE MOMENT. My hands shook and my shutter snapped wildly as Addison got down on one knee and Aggie's hand flew over her mouth. I caught it all. She said yes, and they kissed, and she jumped into his arms. My heart rate slowed. Addison waved for me to come out and I said hello and congratulations and gave hugs and took more pictures. Addison explained I had been there the whole time. "You're so sneaky!" Aggie exclaimed. She had  no idea the engagement was coming, but Addison had been planning it for months. They laughed and smiled and danced like Drake in "Hotline Bling."

We did a couple of posed shots near the lake and the skyline. In between shots, Addison told Aggie that the ring had 26 stones in it, one for each year it took for her to get to him. My brain sputtered and died and I'm really happy I held together a speck of professionalism and didn't start weeping into my viewfinder. They are such lovely people and I wish them a lifetime of happiness (and thanks so much for letting me write about this on the blog, guys!). It was such an incredible experience to be a part of this once-in-a-lifetime moment, and I will always cherish it. Congratulations again!

Fall on the Rocks: Zabar's and Central Park

Thankfully this is not a post about tripping on painful objects.

As I have said many a time, try as you might to find it, there is absolutely nothing that compares with fall in New York. There's a cool rush of breeze that runs through your hair and kisses your neck, on top of none too few days of sunshine if you're lucky. What I find interesting, though, is that I don't get to see the changing leaves nearly as often as I thought I would; that is, I'm not in an open green space on a regular enough basis. I did have the pleasure, recently, of walking past the beautiful McCarren Park in between Williamsburg and Greenpoint in Brooklyn, though. Walking along the western edge of the park felt like I was walking down a corridor paved with yellow leaves, upon which walked hipster parents in matching flannels and their unwittingly hipster children similarly adorned.

You would think, too, that living close(ish) to Central Park, I would have taken a gander there on my own in the past few weeks, but to no avail. This past Friday, however, MDP took it upon himself to show me what I was missing. Leaving his workplace at Columbus Circle, we went for a stroll up Broadway to the one and only Zabar's to get supplies for a picnic. It occurs to me now that I have never actually written about Zabar's, one of my favorite places in the entirety of New York, so I will briefly inform you of its magic now. Zabar's is a gourmet and kosher grocery store on the Upper West Side that has been in existence since 1934, an almost entirely family owned and operated business since then. They roast their own coffee, they have a stupendous prepared foods section, and hand slice their smoked fish. I will admit, my fascination with Zabar's began with a drawing by genius caricaturist Al Hirschfeld, pictured below.

The drawing is of the famous prepared foods counter, dotted with celebrities waiting for their numbers to be called, salamis hanging overhead. I wanted that quintessential New York experience, to buy my groceries where New York's literati and glitterati did. I don't know if the drawing was based on truth, or if he just inserted celebrity friends who lived in the area into the drawing (which he may well have done). But I wanted to go where the people were, not just to some chain that was easy to get to. Zabar's is priced extraordinarily reasonably for New York (and even not for New York), so it's easy to love. The store is always bustling with people, the food is fresh, and my bags are always brimming with goodies when I leave. As it was on the day when MDP and I left: salmon meatballs in an herbed cream sauce, Thai curry chicken salad, eggplant bruschetta, fruit compote and, of course, a famous bagel with Nova and cream cheese (which I have schlepped all the way to the Upper West Side for on multiple occasions). MDP had never been, and to my delight I found he enjoyed it as well.

Next, it was my turn to see something I had not previously explored. "I think the entrance is here," MDP said as we wound our way around the south end of Museum of Natural History and across Central Park West. Police barricades were already in appearance in preparation of Sunday's famous New York Marathon. But inside the park we went, following winding paths practically drowning in beautiful colored leaves--yellows, oranges, reds, and even the occasional misfit green--to a small beach of large rocks right next to a purple gazebo. The rocks overlooked a large lake surrounded by trees upon trees upon trees. A bright red one looked like it was on fire. Buildings seemed far away. The sun sank lower in the west and through candy colored clouds, fluffy tangerine, lavender and cotton candy streaming through the sky. High school kids blasted Top 40 radio, a man in a bowler hat and red suspenders took self portraits, two girls held a photoshoot near the water.

MDP and I sat near the water and dove into our trove of goodness, watching the sun set. As the sky grew darker, we left the park. In darkness, just before we got on the train, fireworks popped and burst through the sky in celebration of the upcoming marathon. Blues and reds and golds glittered through the sky, as if somehow planned just for us (and everyone else standing on the corner of 81st and Central Park West watching along with us). Somehow feeling warm in the chilly autumn air, we got on the train and headed downtown. I smiled. Every year, I fall in love with New York fall all over again.