Felicitous

I have always been in love with with New York City. I  cannot ascertain the exact place and time where it all started nor can I, the exact event or specifically, the movie that started it all. It has always been one of those things that just is. Scorsese? Coppola? Spike Lee? Death Wish? Travolta in Staying Alive? Perhaps. Violent and gritty (or cheesy mediocre sequel) as they are, they have never seemed to repulse me from the city of my dreams. I know about the strippers in Times Square, the muggers and the infamous windshield washers. McCluskey's death scene in the Godfather just makes me want to eat authentic Italian pasta--you know none of that sorry swill of ketchup and hotdogs (tamis-sarap my arse). The moonshiners of those Charles Bronson flicks my beloved Tatay loves to watch made me long even more to stroll down Central Park. Woody Allen? Maybe. He is something that has gradually been ingratiated to me by my sisters, time and my maturing neurosis. My introd to him has been through his reputedly, relatively less stellar films, New York Stories and Everyone Says I Love You. The former in the Coppola ep made me & my sister want to name our unborn daughters, Zoe and the latter reminded me of my family- have we been living in New York, rich & Jewish and breaking out into song when left to our thoughts.







I have been too young for Annie Hall although I have no doubt I have unwittingly or not morphed myself into her over the years allargando. I've always been deluded enough to identify with, and mayhap moulded myself into the immortal New York heroines of celluloid & TV: Alex Owens, for the longest time as a kid ; Parker Posey's Mary in Party Girl, while in college raring to get out;

 Felicity Porter as a new grad biting reality in Singapore wistful of college days; Holly Golightly as a growing film buff in a quasi-intellectual escapist phase AND;
of course, as Carrie Bradshaw, as a wanna-be writer & closet celibate

. Hmmm? In a nutshell, so far in a span of three decades, I have been a potty-mouthed welder/stripper with lofty aspirations, a falafel loving librarian/raver who's a master at layering in cold weather, an intellectual virgin/stalker who loves coffee and writing letters to her therapist friend, a fashionably iconic waif/whore with a cat and a promiscous columnist with great friends. All these and an eccentric, androgynous dresser with a penchance for nerds and baggy clothes.

Going to New York feels less like a trip and more a homecoming. I feel a kinship with the so-called weird, rude New Yawker. As my Baltimore friend Bruce the Cabbie with the PhD puts it, I may have been one in another life. I've been there three times before and each experience leaves me wanting to roam its streets less the cheesy tourist and more its denizen--caffeine and commuting and all. My time. My leisure. My pace. My terms. My self.


As the Fates would have it, I live across the street from Baltimore's cushiest tour bus line to NYC. On one of my extended days off, I hatch a plan to run away alone as I've always fantasized. I gather up the courage to dial myself a seat reservation. On the day, as I cross the street to the huge Shoppers parking lot where the bus is at and took my seat inside, I feel like falling into the great unknown, a familiar recurring sensation when I embark from my comfort zones to acknowledge my gypsy tendencies. The tour guide tells us there are going be no stops in other parts of the county to pick up any other passengers. He tells us our drop off point is at the Rockefeller in 51st and 5th and of the importance of being prompt on the time of departure and that we are on our own once we are there. YES!

I expect for us to arrive there at around 10AM but because of uneventful traffic and the expert maneuverings of our driver also named, Bruce, inside the Lincoln Tunnel, we arrive at 9:15AM. Stepping off the bus and I get welcomed by the sight of the adorable Al Roker doing a segment of the Today Show. After taking his picture and inadvertently getting caught on camera myself, I dodge towards Dean & Deluca only to find waif-like Campbell Brown crossing the street in the same direction as I am as she gaily gets greeted by an NYPD officer directing traffic, only she heads for her next segment. I order a cuppa joe and a spinach & cheddar muffin that draws notices from the neighbouring tables. Ah NYC! One of the only places I know where conversations spark without unease, subtle or otherwise. A tasty-looking muffin is a tasty-looking muffin. Like everyone else cares to admit inside that cafe, I surreptitiously glance around for Matt Lauer but to no avail. I have my itinerary which is to roam the halls of the Guggenheim and the Met.

Outside, everyone is armed in tanks and wifebeaters for the probably the hottest day of the year. Bottled water in hand I step out of the air-conditioning secure in my years of training under El Nino at the mother country. After lighting a candle at St. Patrick's, I walk 2 to 3 blocks or so to the station at Lexington & 53rd to catch the 6 train Uptown. Yes, in my J-Lo hat that makes me look more like a Maoist than Jenny from the Block-- stopping only at yet another cafe to realize bathrooms can be hard to come by in the Big Apple.


Secretly referring to the map inside my messenger bag, I weave through strange new streets that are somehow achingly familiar towards 86th & 5th to the Museum Mile.

In the Guggenheim, I wander through its meandearing curves, gaping at the Picassos, the Pollocks, and the Kandinskys-- fighting back tears and voices that say, "You've once only seen this in books,"-- wishing one of my sister were there with their two cents' worth--two of the five people in my vast circle who truly get me and my geeky preoccupations. And oh, upon entry of the first galleries I get welcomed by a gi-normous nude (upon initial glance and by popular expectations) of a female. Realizing it of a male and according to the audio tour head piece, it turns out to be a nude of actor Sal Mineo. Then I realize Sal Mineo is not circumcised. Needless to say, it's my favorite piece.

I eat a snotty lunch of asparagus & smoked salmon salad, write a couple of postcards to my friend, Shivaun and to my sister Melissa and realize I have enough time to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Once there, I get artfully overloaded more. I move through the ancient Egyptian collections in disbelief. I harken back to the days where I used to marvel at these pieces on a calendar from the 70's, while already a good way into the 80's. If only my mom is here. By the time, I get to the Cezannes, the Monets, the Renoirs and the Van Gogh, the VAN GOGHS, I am about ready to be on my knees. Van Gogh's Wheat Fields and Cypresses, I have always thought as a happy scene. Looking closely, I realize the extent of his torture as the idyll contrasts with the violence of his brush strokes, as if he wants to drown whatever it is that racked him with paint. His more popular portraits of flowers like Irises and Sunflowers have been done while he was in an asylum. I see his self portrait, yet another that I used to just gaze in an outdated calendar our Aunt sent us. It has used to spook me a tad bit as a child but looking at it close enought to see the steam of my breath on its glass case, defying that art be admired at a distance, he seemed more like a sad grizzled man, no different from the characters I come across with on the streets or on the job.

The Met still begs for more exploration. I have to go back to Maryland. Seeing there is still some time to get lost, I risk a bus to Midtown Manhattan, trusting instinct and common sense and get duly dropped off in front of the Rock with more than enough time for one more stop: The Soupman at 6th Ave. better known to Seinfeld fans as the Soup Nazi. Eventhough I'm  the only customer at that point crazy enough to chug hot soup in 100 degree weather, I still expect to be screamed at, "Back in line!" "No soup for you!!" To my chagrin, the two fellas who man the cash register are awfully nice. I relish my chicken & corn chowder in quiet as some more customers filter into to the store but not before the servers snuck me a berry smoothie on the house. Wow! Not what I expect from the infamous soup nazi. Finishing my early dinner and waving good-bye to my buddies from my new haunt, I arrive perfectly on time for my bus-- a rarity for me. Smoothie in hand, I gaily say hi to our kindly silver-haired tour guide.

Once again, Bruce our driver gallantly slices our chariot through New York traffic. I look out the window unto the Manhattan skyline, silently I say to it, "Good-bye for now my lover, my New York," and promptly nod off into a deep restful slumber the moment we hit Jersey. I wake weaving in the familiar roads of Greenspring. We applaud our driver, our tour guide as I smile contentedly for the world is now alright again on this perfect day. Alone.