Doughnuts, anyone? How about pickles?

I was a bit embarrassed to go to dinner at a friend’s house last night (actually, make that dinner at two homes of four friends in one house), and drive myself there. Not only that, but Ian drove himself separately. This, after five days of the publickest of transport: the New York Subway (I would like to note that it is not generally our practice to take separate cars to places we are going together, but it is occasionally necessary when we are coming from different places, such as last night when Ian was at his accordion lesson). I like the New York subway. It’s convenient, dependable and cheap. For two dollars, you can go from Far Rockaway out past Brooklyn to, oh, let’s go with Van Cortland Park, in the Bronx. I can’t see why anyone would want to do that, as it would probably be a noisy, clattery, screechy ride of over two hours, but in a city of eight million there are probably whole tens who do it regularly, and spending such a long stretch of time on the train would, I imagine, allow for an almost complete experience of subway commerce (i.e. battery sellers) and entertainment (i.e. 15-second bongo-drum concerts). I also like how it’s a big social stew (sure, sure—the Trumps aren’t there on the subway, but lots of sub-Trumps are), and therefore allows for broadening experiences, at least for a sheltered Wallingfordite such as myself.

On Monday morning (our last day), we hopped on a train into Manhattan to experience an art installation that my friend, who works for a public art fund called The Public Art Fund, was going to let us do even though it closed Sunday. When we stepped on our transport, there were two seats left across from each other; one next to a dangerous-appearing gangsta-looking guy with giant clothes and headphones (ironically, he was dressed in shape-hiding attire much the way I was through much of my insecure high school years), the other between two less-obviously serial-killer types. Girding myself, I took the seat next to the gangsta. He didn’t immediately mug me, so I relaxed just a little. Maybe ten minutes later, he finished the paper he was reading and offered it to me with a friendly gesture. You know, like a normal person would. Duh.

Actually, I shouldn’t have been very surprised; New Yorkers, on a whole, seem to be quite friendly people. They seem happy to help you and they engage in small talk if you’re in their shops; they comment on your conversations on the street if they think they have something to add (okay, that one was a bit irritating); they tease you about wearing flip-flops to the Fulton Fish Market at 5:00am (I didn’t have any other shoes!). In all, they seem to be members of a community. I’m not sure if this is bred from proximity (which is intense) or shared heartache (we were in town at the fourth anniversary of 9-11), or maybe a combination of the two. The city is certainly much safer now than it was for years; perhaps people trust each other a little more.

Any trip to NYC is a gustatory journey as well as a physical one, and fortunately for us, my friend loves to eat. You wouldn’t know this to look at her; she’s teeny-tiny. On her recommendations, though (and those of her boyfriend), we ate excellent Mexican, South Indian and Chinese food, pizza, homemade (under the Brooklyn Bridge) ice cream (twice), fresh doughnuts in a shop that makes one set of batches a day and then closes when they’re gone, and fresh pickles from a pickle-seller (which was kitty-corner from the doughnuts). Ian, a fan of inconvenient souvenirs, even carried home a quart of spicy ones in a soft plastic container with a snap-on lid. On our own we also managed to do okay, adding Brazilian and Italian to the mix. We also went to some excellent bars, including the notable Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle Hotel (decorated by the author and illustrator of the Madeleine books himself), and the super fine Superfine, in the DUMBO neighborhood of Brooklyn, where I discovered the caramely, spicy joys of dark aged rum and Reed’s extra-strong ginger ale.

I do love New York, but I also loved the long hot shower with scrubby mitts when I got home.

And . . . I’m glad to not be flying anywhere for the next few weeks.