A Little Tea or Something

Dear Diary,

On seeing the Park Avenue loft I rented for my ten-day NYC tenure, one of my New York pals told me I had scored big.  Okey doke, well that is fine and dandy, and as you know, I am a princess.  But I discovered in short order that the kitchen was missing a few essentials.  Like a microwave.  And a tea kettle.  And a toaster.  (Who doesn’t have a toaster?)  There was also no pitcher for the gallons of iced tea I consume on a daily basis.  So a few improvisations were in order.  Of course, no microwave means no microwave; not much to be done there.  Thankfully, though, any old pot will boil water.  Iced tea, check.  And the blender made a handy pitcher.  (I ask you, would you rather have a blender or a toaster?)  Insofar as the toast, I had to make it the old-fashioned way under the broiler, and on aluminum foil, I might add, as there were no baking sheets to be found anywhere.  But it really did not take me long to settle into my new digs, and a new routine, minus husband and family.

Since I arrived a full day and a half ahead of my teachers’ intensives at American Ballet Theatre, I spent several hours exploring the ‘hood and taking care of essentials: 1) groceries, and 2) wine.  My building appeared to be rented chiefly by well-off NYU students whose folks could afford a Park Avenue loft, and a few young professionals thrown in the mix; I felt a bit like a dorm mother.  I must say that every single one of them I encountered was friendly and helpful, like the young man who pointed me towards groceries on my first day.

The grocery store was fine and convenient, just a few blocks north of my building and across the street.  But I realized only moments into my first jaunt that I did not have my big, gas-guzzling SUV to help me get the groceries home.  Oh, dear.  This made for some very, very careful selections that included a variety of Lean Cuisines and not much else.  Once I finished there, I set out to find a wines and spirits store, which happened to be only one more block north, and then around the corner.  I was feeling positively urban as I headed back to the loft, my bag slung over a shoulder, groceries in one hand, bag-o-wine in the other.  By then I had learned, kinda, how to navigate a crowded sidewalk and avoid being squished like a bug by kamikaze delivery bikes.  (I also learned that Southern manners really do not work on New York City sidewalks.  You can only say, Excuse me, Pardon me, Oops, Sorry, so many times before you realize it’s best to just throw in the towel and realize that bumping is inevitable.  And anyway, nobody appears to care whether you bump them, or they you.  But it is definitely fun to say “y’all” and “dang!”)

Then the bottom fell out of the sky.  It was not a gentle summer rain, mind you, but a bonafide gullywasher, right there in the middle of New York City, complete with gigantic bolts of lightning.  I fished out the compact umbrella I had cleverly stowed in my bag and popped it open, whereupon it immediately fell apart.  Those few blocks may as well have been a few miles.  When I finally made it home, my bags and clothing were drenched; the rain had, er, revealed some of my body parts that I generally prefer to keep private.  But I was genuinely happy to have accomplished my first actual foray into urban life.  I was a real New Yorker, if only for a few days.

The next day, armed with new and improved shopping habits, I struck out in a different direction and discovered a fabulous organic and whole foods supermarket with a very appealing variety of groceries.  It also had perhaps the world’s most Byzantine check-out system, which involved standing in one of many short lines while watching a color-coded screen light up and listening to your number being announced over the PA system; this was essential information, as this color/number combination was your key to the correct cashier.  You snooze, you lose.  Happily, I was not the only customer standing there with furrowed brow, trying to figure it all out.

I also found my way around the corner to the world-famous Strand bookstore (boasting “18 miles of books”), where I spent a long, happy time fingering new and used books; I found a dirt-cheap used Peter Mayle novel for bedtime reading, a messenger bag which would serve handily as a dance bag in the coming days, and a great little history book for husband.

Over the next week, my new life in New York took on this daily rhythm:  up early; toast, tea, news and WEATHER for breakfast; make sack lunch; shower; go to ballet school at 9:00 to learn from iconic ballet teachers at an iconic institution; come home from ballet school at 5:30; Lean Cuisine in oven; another shower; dinner; re-copy hastily made notes and study; sleep.  Maybe I was not so unlike those NYC students in my building.

Some dear friends in the city were kind enough to syncopate that rhythm a few times.

But that is a story for another day.

Until then I remain yours truly,

Urban Princess Deb

Filed under: American Ballet Theatre, ballet school, books, family, humor, travel by deb