Out and About--New York

    Our usual running route along the Hudson takes us by the World Financial Center, comprised of three huge skyscrapers and the Winter Garden. In front (“North Cove”) there’s a dock, where we noticed several sleek racing boats had been tied up. A little investigation revealed that there would be an attempt to set a sailing world record from New York to Barcelona and that the boats were in fact Spanish. Patriotic loyalty demanded that we present ourselves and offer our good wishes. We learned that they’d be leaving in several days, but that the exact time depended on the weather. During the next few days we passed by several more times. Finally, on our pass on Thursday morning, we saw a crowd and a television camera and determined that the boats would be off within the half hour. While we waited, we made friends with several Spaniards and the TV cameraman, who shot us cheering and assured us that we’d be on national news in Spain that evening. (It didn’t happen.) When the final whistle started the Estrella Damm and W Hotels were off toward open water, we jogged along the river toward the Battery, keeping the red sail of the Estrella in sight as they disappeared under the Verrazano Bridge. Follow the race at: http://forums.sailingworld.com/showthread.php?p=10120 http://www.sail-world.com/USA/New-York---Barcelona-Sailing-Record---Day-3-and-still-at-maximum-power/68387

   Once at the Battery, we zig-zagged through the streets of the Financial District. We did another walk around Ground Zero, which remains what’s it’s been since the fateful day: a huge hole filled with ant-like workers excavating endless piles of dirt and rubble. There’s a bridge over the site, which takes you into the World Financial Center. There are impressive views of Ground Zero as you cross from one building to another. We emerged near where we’d seen the boats depart and headed back uptown.

   Bedford Sty Aida’s Café de Java (“Brooklyn’s Own Coffee House”) on Van Nostrand Avenue.

   Crown Heights The Crown Heights neighborhood, which borders Bed-Sty is predominantly black and Hassidic. The latter are centered at the corner of Eastern Parkway and Kingman Blvd., where the Center of the Labavitch sect has its temple. Walking through the neighborhood is to enter a time warp: close your eyes and then reappear in 18th century Poland. We stopped in to a bagel deli right in the heart of the action. We were the only goyim in sight. See what’s it’s really like on this great video: http://video.about.com/brooklyn/Crown-Heights-Broooklyn-Tour.htm

   Astoria. Our previous visit to Queens didn’t include the northern neighbor, Astoria. It’s another extremely heterogeneous place, with a large representation of Greeks, Asians, and Hispanics. We took the subway to the end of the line. A few blocks to the west takes you to the a large park right under the Triborough Bridge (now known officially as the RFK Bridge). The views of Hells Gate Bridge and the Upper East Side of Manhattan are spectacular. We strolled back under the “El” and ate falafel at an Egyptian restaurant. We crossed on foot over the 59th Street Bridge, and then up along the Upper East Side into Yorkville. Blanca loved Carl Shurtz Park and Gracie Mansion, especially with the flowers in full bloom. I also took her past my old digs on East 88th Street as well as the site of my former hangout (“Eric”), now long gone, opposite Elaine’s.

   Back home, we opted for a delicious Spanish meal at El Paso.

   New Jersey What better way to spend a Sunday than to make a pilgrimage to New Jersey? We got on the PATH train at Christopher, and emerged, after passing Jersey City and Hoboken, in the extremely depressing industrial wasteland near Newark. We walked around Newark a bit and then over the bridge into Harrison and then back to the PATH train to Manhattan.

   Trump Hotel As we happened along Spring St, and Varick, we passed the huge Trump Hotel, which dominates the skyline of Soho and Tribeca and is the most obvious point of reference from our balcony. It had just opened, after a history of much controversy. Two dapperly uniformed young men stood guard outside and responded with unexpected warmth to my questions. They insisted on inviting us in and giving us a tour of the place.

   Antonio Munoz Molina is one of our favorite contemporary Spanish writers. He’s a member of the Real Academia de La Lengua, the board that watches over the purity of the language and makes sure that no rabble corrupts it. He is also the author of Ventanas de Manhattan, a wonderful, loving meditation on the city that clearly had captured his heart. The first chapter describes his anxiety-wrought wait for an unnamed woman with whom he’s set up a tryst. Last night, I read his wife’s (Elvira Lindo) piece on New York, which describes the meeting with Munoz Molina from her point of view. (It turns out that she was the woman coming to meet MM in New York.

    We’d seen Kenny Werner at the Blue Note when he’d accompanied Toots Thielmann’s. Now he was heading up a quintet with some stellar pals, and we couldn’t resist.

   The Crash. On every life a little rain must fall. We woke up to the realization that Blanca’s hard dribe had crashed, which was confirmed by the “Geek Squad” at Best Buy. After a considerable “Alphonse and Gaston” act, I came to the realization of what I would have to do.

   Malcolm Forbes The headquarters of Forbes Magazine is at 5th Avenue and 12th St., and it houses the personal collection of Malcolm Forbes. There are thousands of tin soldiers (from every army and war one could imagine); model boats; Monopoly sets from the inception of the game, in various languages. The highlight for me was an exposition of paintings on “Women Reading.” http://www.forbesgalleries.com/picturegallery.html

   “El Faro” Martin Talapia is a young Argentinean who’s here on an internship from his bankin Buenos Aires. He’s rented John’s studio apartment above us. We took him to dinner at El Faro, on Horatio Street, where we’ve made friend with the gregarious owner Jose. We gorged ourselves on the “mariscada” and “paella valenciana,” and it was a wonder that Martin was able to get up from the table and rush off to Queens for a soccer game.

   Grant’s Tomb. Seeking to verify who was in fact buried in Grant’s tomb, we went there. Yep, it was Grant all right. We even had a private tour by a Park Ranger. (The mausoleum is now a National Park site.) I raised the question of Grant’s drinking, and the Smokey assured me that revisionist Civil War scholarship had cast doubt on the claim that Grant was a “real alcoholic,” as opposed to a casual binge drinker. I let on that his having been a genuine connoisseur would not have necessarily  been disappointing for me.

   Bells. We wandered across the street to the cavernous Riverside Church. Blanca had told me that she wanted to see the stained glass and hear the famous carillon. When we entered, we discovered that shortly there would be a three-pronged presentation: the carillon, an organ recital, and the Festival of English Bells. I could tell that she very much wanted to stay, so I encouraged it, although I was about as enthusiastic as I might have been at the prospect of a Christmas Carol Service with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Boy was I wrong. The bell concert was an incredible treat. There were five separated bell choirs, about 60 people in all. Imagine the first few riffs of a Ravi Shankar morning raga: someone gently pouring out thousands of golden coins onto a metal surface. The melodious tinkling was magical.

   Ana Moura. Fado nearly wrecked Blanca and me. On our first trip together, many years ago now, we drove to Lisbon. Once ensconced in Estoril, we set out after dinner in search of an advertised fado joint. After a few minutes of walking on unpaved, unlighted paths, she in ultra high heels, and puffing as might be expected from her two pack a day cigarette habit, she started to kvetch. Whine, whine, whine. I thought to myself, “this ain’t gonna work.” But somehow, I forget the details, it did work. She quit smoking, traded her spike heels for running shoes, and, on the next trip to Tenerife, climed Mt. Teide, the highest point in Spain. Anyway, she hadn’t yet seen fado, so we  headed to see Ana Moura after a gargantuan meal at a diner on Broadway and 95th St. Some things don’t mix. (E.g., Haydn and hiphop.) Ana’s reditiioon of “Brown Sugar” was just unacceptable. (De gustibus dispuntandum est!)

   Museum of Jewish Heritage. This beautiful museum is located at the Battery, and there are many fantastic views of lower Manhattan bay. There are well put together exhibits detailing various aspects of Jewish life, especially as lived in Eastern Europe’s ghettos and sthels.

   Brooklyn Botanical Garden. This is a true gem, especially when the cherry blossoms are in full swing, as they were when we visited.

   Museum of the Chinese in America This is a nice small museum in the heart of Chinatown. It focuses on early Chinese migration and later on the treatment of the Chinese during the two world wars, the McCarthy era and into the present.

   Sorolla Hispanic Society I was able to wangle two invitations to the gala VIP opening of the refurbished Sorolla Wing at the Hispanic Society. The event was incredibly richly done, with several huge open bars and a small army of waiters circulating with delicious canapés. There was a carver slicing a huge Serrano ham. The new home for Sorolla’s “Vision of Spain,” is simply gorgeous. The paintings had been gone for a year, traveling to various cities in Spain, where they were a great hit. Sorolla is “the” Valencian painter, and Blanca fought back tears as she entered the new salon. The invitees were, on the whole, “gente guapa”; among them was Blanca, Sorolla’s granddaughter. Blanca introduced herself and explained that her grandfather had known hers. She was extremely warm and friendly and was obviously enjoying herself to the hilt.