Literary Readings

In June, 2019 I started a monthly reading series in Manhattan. Our next afternoon of literary readings will be Sunday, December 15, 2019 at Otto’s Shrunken Head (www.ottosshrunkenhead.com).

Our previous readings and speakers:

Hello Dolly

Where to go on vacation? I’m probably not the one you should ask. I had simultaneous reservations in three hotels in two cities in Switzerland, plus reservations in two hotels in London before realizing that where I really felt like visiting was Lisbon. I canceled the five hotel reservations in the two cities and began my search for a Lisbon hotel.

I liked the recently opened Pousada de Lisboa. It looked gorgeous, and I had read that the location was great. I made a reservation and was happy about it until  further research revealed that the bathrooms are glass boxes partially covered with a curtain, and though not necessarily a deal-breaker, given a choice I would prefer privacy in my bathroom. You know, just for the heck of it. I also began to rethink the location. The Pousada is in an enormous, magnificent square, near the river and transportation, but it looked un-neighborhoody, and I like neighborhoods. I  know there are people out there who get what I’m saying.

You guessed right: I canceled the Pousada. We now had airline tickets and no place to stay, until I found the Avenida Palace Hotel. It was love at first sight. It felt right, and it was: stunning, gracious, and the large bathroom had a door, a window, a view, and a bidet. Immediately next door to the hotel was the gorgeous Rossio train station. There used to be a secret door from our fourth floor of the hotel into the station, so people could escape via train during World War II. Also, there was no third floor button in the elevator, but there was a third floor. Hmmm, you might wonder. We sure did.

We wanted to go to Chiado for a special pastry shop, but that district is a long walk up a steep hill. We discovered that the Baixa-Chiado metro station, close to our hotel, was  the easiest way to get there without the climb. The way to avoid walking up, up, up to Chiado was to enter the station, ride down the escalator, walk through the station and then go up four steep escalators and voila! There we were.

(Not us.)

Chiado has the oldest bookstore in the world, and we knew that because there was a sign right in front of us that said so. Of course we went in. We bought Jose Saramago’s The History of the Siege of Lisbon.  

Chiado also had a store that sold nothing but dolls. If I hadn’t become a grandmother five years ago, I never would have entered. Never ever in a zillion years, because as a child and also as a young woman I never liked dolls, though several decades ago I began to collect only ethnic dolls because I loved the textures of their clothing. There’s another reason, but that’s a story for a future post. We found the doll store by bumping into a stroller pushed by a young mother accompanied by her own mother, the grandmother of the little girl in the stroller. I knew she was the grandmother because she had the same look of insane adoration toward the strollee as I do whenever I’m around my granddaughter.  

The girl was holding a doll, and I asked, in my fluent English, where to buy one. They walked us a few blocks to a small store and bid us bom dia. I said obrigada and we ended up buying Celia, who had brown hair. Most of the other Celia dolls were blonde – probably dyed. I bought an extra outfit for her. My husband, recently retired from a career in aerospace where he worked with atoms and molecules and other small stuff, asked for an extra pair of doll shoes. Just in case the first tiny pair, anchored firmly on Celia’s miniscule feet, became lost during our granddaughter’s characteristic play methodology. 

This endeavor had built up quite an appetite, so Bob and I had lunch at Sacolinha, followed by a few incredible pastries. Celia didn't order anything. We assumed she was on a diet.

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HI BLOG, I'M BACK

My heart attack in April had few warning signs, and they were subtle. Except for a nightmare. That wasn’t subtle at all. Everything dark, vicious and violent. Scary as hell. I awoke with my heart beating so hard I thought it would burst, and that feeling, and the fear, persisted.

So this is what I did. I sat in the living room, early in the morning. Four o’clock, five o’clock. And then, when I heard a thud outside our apartment I went to pick up the Sunday New York Times. As I was doing the puzzle I began to feel a slight pressure in my inner, upper left arm. As though I were pressing it gently with my right hand.

I thought, this really might be something. When the pressure spread to a small area of my left shoulder I called my doctor. It was the weekend, but the covering doctor called back within minutes. He asked a few questions then told me to come to the hospital's Urgent Care unit because the emergency room at NYU Langone still wasn’t operational after Hurricane Sandy almost two years ago, and an ambulance would take me elsewhere. And I wanted to go where my doctor is, where my records are. I called a car service.

The car arrived in ten minutes. A quick U-turn and we were on our way, a short drive on a weekend morning, from 23rd and Ninth to 30th and First. How long could that take?

Forty-five minutes, that’s how long. Due to a street fair on 6th Avenue, traffic came to a standstill with people clogging the intersection. Food stands on the corners, lines of people deciding on what to eat. I’m not religious, but I prayed in that car that I’d make it to the hospital before Italian ices, corn on the cob, or calzone killed me.

Once we arrived I was seen immediately. EKG, chest x-ray, CAT scan. Then a bed in a room with other people, a needle in my arm and blood taken, frequently. No pain at all, yet I was told I was having “an extreme cardiac event.”

A what the fuck?

I was told that my enzyme levels were rising.

My what levels?

I felt occasional twinges near my heart. Sharp little twinges that concerned me, but not nearly as much as they concerned my husband. He looked worse than I felt because I still had no pain, not even discomfort. And this hospital made me feel I was in the best hands possible. If I had a chance, it was here.  

I was told the next morning, after my stent, that I might not have had a chance. If I hadn’t reached the hospital in time, I might not have made it.

What does that mean, exactly? I asked.

And I was told: I could have had a severely compromised life style, or sudden death.

A sports term to describe how life can end. My life. I thought briefly of Agassi and Sampras and then forgot about them. Really.

Sudden death. I never would have known, that’s for sure.

Now it’s three and a half months later and my stent and I are doing well. The dark, immobilizing moments of terror that hit me in waves during some days and weeks that followed have mostly disappeared. I don’t want them to disappear, because they are a reminder of what I must now do to stay safe.

I didn’t plan to put this out there, that’s why it’s taken so long. Yet now, having completed more than two-thirds of my rehab, heard how it happened to others, seen the effects and how debilitating they can be, I feel compelled to post this. Maybe it will help someone. While a part of me says that this is nobody’s business, a larger part says that it is.

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Night of the Hunted

I don’t like winter. I don’t like it anywhere, but if I had to say where I dislike it the least, aside from certain semi-tropical paradises, it would be the Far West Village. I have a small studio there, with no internet or cable. And very few people know the number of the land-line phone, which begins with 212, which is why I keep it.

Until a few months ago I never imagined I would have such a place. A writing retreat. My second “second” home.

Years ago, Bob and I had a small cottage in the Hamptons, just off Three Mile Harbor Road in Springs. It was a 1,150 square foot rectangle with no particular grace or charm. There were two bedrooms, and the small, windowless bathroom was wallpapered in enormous pink and red Mario Buatta flowers. But the grounds…. There was a hidden glade in the back, and the front sloped gently toward the water. We had lily of the valley, tiny purple wildflowers, crocuses, daffodils, thick honeysuckle vines, and a butterfly bush. The sunsets over the harbor were glorious.

But that house was a bitch to get to, due to Friday night traffic on the L.I.E., then inching along Route 27, town after town. The mandatory stop for groceries at Jerry Della Femina’s Red Horse Market, for a six-pack of Corona, a cooked chicken, some fruits and vegetables plus a brownie or two, cost eighty bucks.  But everything was so good.

It all seemed worth it, once we were home. Such tranquility, with a fire roaring and classical music playing on our AIWA combination tape/radio/CD player.

So tranquil, until one night. As we pulled into our non-driveway, a grotesque creature moved extremely slowly across the snowy path in front of us. Its long, rat-like tail glowed an eerie pale pink in the headlights, and we stared at it in horror.

“What the hell?” I said.

“Probably a pregnant rat,” my scientist husband said.

“It’s two feet long,” I said, transfixed, watching the last of the tail disappear into the woods. For a moment, I thought that life as we knew it was over. We were tired and hungry, yet too cautious to leave the car until we were certain it was gone, at least for the night. 

“It could be rabid,” Bob said.

Oh no, not that. I’ve always been afraid of rabid animals, not that I’ve seen any, except in the movies. But I’ve read how they drool and leap onto their victims and bite them, and how if untreated, those bites lead to agonizing death. So we sat in the car for a while longer, the engine running and the high beams on, as the smell of our roast chicken permeated the car.

“I don’t think it’s coming back,” Bob said. “I’ll run ahead. You stay in the car until I signal that the coast is clear.” I thought he was wonderfully brave as he ran down the snow covered flagstone path to the sliding glass front door, carrying the shopping bags. He fumbled with the key while I sat in the car and watched the woods for the creature to re-emerge. It didn’t, and soon Bob waved me forward. I quickly turned off the engine and the lights, and with my heart pounding, raced to the house.

“We made it,” I gasped, hugging Bob tightly to me, as though we had just escaped Freddie Krueger on Elm Street. We turned up the heat, took off our coats and sat at our computer to do some research.

“It’s an opossum,” Bob said, after a few minutes. He sounded disappointed.

“Really? How could people eat such an ugly animal?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bob said.

“I’m not,” I said. “They make possum stew from road kill. In the South.”

“You’re making that up.” 

So, before we put our supper together we looked up some ‘possum recipes. There were tons of them, mostly served with yams.

“See?” I said.

I never saw another opossum since that night, but I know they’re not far. They hang out in Prospect Park, along with raccoons. That’s why I never go there. They’re also in Green-Wood Cemetery. Bob and I have a pre-paid niche for our future, ash-filled urns, but I’m not worried, as ashes can’t get rabies.

We bought the niche because we tend to think ahead. I even have my inscription ready. Thanks for stopping by. Ours is in a large wall of niches inside a white building, directly below that of Richard Yates, author of “Revolutionary Road.” We should be eternally safe from wildlife, though one never can be absolutely sure. I read somewhere that several years ago, a raccoon entered an apartment in Park Slope and squeezed into a cutlery drawer. I’m not sure I could survive an encounter with an armed and rabid raccoon.

That’s why I love our studio in the Far West Village. No long drive stuck in traffic. Just a lovely walk past the worn cobblestone streets of the Meat Packing district, nary an opossum in sight. 

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Wish I may, Wish I might

I am not prone to wishing. Not for the antique Kazak rug I saw in ABC Carpet, or a black Citroen. Not even for a small cottage on Cape Cod with pale pink roses cascading over a low, white picket fence.

Not me. I don’t wish for those things, but there is something I do really want. It’s not much. Just a slightly larger living room, not much larger than the one I have now. The one I have now is lovely, a corner room with five windows, filled with sun when the sun is out, and wide open views east and south. I used to be able to see the Hudson until Barry Diller’s IAC building went up and blocked my view, but I’m okay with it now, okay with the whole parade of new buildings near and along Eleventh Avenue.

Eleventh Avenue. Who would have thought?

If my living room were just a few square feet larger it would be large enough for me to host salons. An afternoon here and an evening there. A welcoming place for musicians, singers, poets, writers to express themselves and share their gifts. Their voices, in music and in words. And I would serve fruit, a selection of teas, brownies without nuts and a surprise treat.

I would if I could and here’s why:

This past Sunday afternoon my husband and I were in the parlor of a house in Chelsea where we, and about forty other guests, had come to hear, see and be blown away by Ljova and the Kontraband.

This band is way beyond good. They are also likeable, and the vocalist’s voice is as sweet as an angel’s.

Not that I believe in angels. But if I did, they might sound like Inna. Her voice was sweet enough that at times it brought me close to tears. Vibrant enough for me to want to stand up and dance. Or hug her.

Ljova’s gifts are multiple, and the music is life affirming. With all the ugliness that’s crept into our country, the proliferation of stupidity and bigotry, it’s a relief, a privilege to be swept into the world of this music. Joyful, wistful music of dreams and of our past, with the future weaving through.

I sat in the front row on an orange sofa, close to the band. It was hard to shift my gaze from the musicians, each one so gifted, so intense. But I did look away, now and then, at the half dozen guests within my range of vision, and I could see happy surprise at the surfeit of talent in that parlor in Chelsea.

One reason I like to sit in the front row in an intimate venue is that I am short. In case you are wondering, I don’t often wish to be taller. Only when I can’t reach something on a high shelf, or when sitting behind someone with a big head or big hair in the theatre. And even then, my issue is more with them, not me, so it doesn’t count.

But here’s the main reason I like to sit in the front row in such a setting. It is thrilling and also humbling to see, close up, the raw effort that goes into being an artist. 

The young couple who hosted the band do a great service. They open their home to artists and neighbors, and the small fee that they charge goes completely to the performers. It is generosity on so many levels. So necessary in this world, where few people take the time, or have the desire, to do something thoughtful. 

That is why, if I were a wishing kind of a person, I would wish for a slightly larger living room, just large enough so that I could comfortably host afternoons like the one I attended this past Sunday.

They matter.  

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Into the Millennium

We saw the building in which Mikael Blomkvist lived. We saw it, almost by accident. We were walking to a Lebanese restaurant recommended by the concierge at our hotel when I noticed the street name. Registered the street name.

“Bellmansgatan,” I said. “This is the street. Blomkvist’s street.” So we followed the numbers, up up up the steep, cobblestone street until we reached the end. Number 1 Bellmansgatan. And there it was, a bold, beautiful red building.

We stood and admired it. Admired ourselves for being there.

A location come to life. Fiction realized.

A woman walked toward us, pushing her bicycle the few, final feet uphill.

“I live around the corner,” she said. “You know, that is where he sometimes wrote,” she said. “Up there, in the tower.” She pointed to the tower at the building’s corner.

“Blomkvist?” I asked.

“No, no, Stieg Larsson,” she said. “He liked the views over the water, to Gamla Stan. Blomkvist lived there,” and she pointed to the door reached by a bridge. “But they used the lower entrance for the film.”

Oh.

“It’s really number 5,” she said.

What?

“They started filming in May,” she said. “Finally, winter was over and it was warm outside. Finally, it was warm outside. Trees were blooming. Then one morning we stepped outside and everything was covered in white. White paper covered everything!” She laughed. “So our winter was not yet over.”

Paper?

“Stieg Larsson wrote in that tower?” my husband asked. He seemed as surprised as I was with that bit of information. And pleased, as I was.

“Well, enjoy our Stockholm,” she said as she walked away, around the corner.

“You think it’s true?” I asked Bob.

“What? That he wrote there? Wouldn’t you, if you could?”

I nodded. It was quite a tower.

A couple was walking up the hill. Young, maybe late teens.

“Is this the place?” the girl asked us.

“Yes,” I said. “Right here.”

 “Oh, wow,” she said. “Where are you from?”

“New York City,” my husband said.

“Oh, wow,” she said again. “And we’re just from Hong Kong.” 

“Hong Kong’s not a just,” I said. They smiled, sweetly, took some pictures, walked away.

A slightly older couple soon appeared. Maybe mid-twenties. “Hi, we’re from Paris,” the woman said. “Where are you from?”

“New York City,” I said.

“Oh, wow,” the man said. “The Big Apple.”

We were wow-ing people right and left.

We walked around the same corner the woman with the bike had walked around. The street was cobblestone, lined on both sides with pale ochre-colored houses that glowed in the evening sun. We entered Tabbouli, a Lebanese restaurant where we had a delicious meal of shrimp, lamb, salad and lime sorbet. It was, we were later told, the Balkan restaurant where a shootout had taken place. In the book. Or in the movie. Either the Swedish or American version. It got confusing, maybe because we ate too much, or because we were so relaxed in that most relaxing of cities. We had read the books, saw both versions of the movie twice each, but couldn’t place the shootout at a Balkan restaurant.

It didn’t matter. We were here, well-fed and happy.

“Maybe we should have taken the tour,” Bob said. “Then we would know for sure.”

“Maybe. But then we would have to have been somewhere at a specific time…”

“That’s right.”

“So here we are.”

“This street is wonderful,” I said as we left the restaurant, stepped outside. “Look how it glows in the sunlight.”

“The setting sunlight.”

“We could live here, right here, in a house in the bend,” I said.

“You couldn’t,” my husband said. “There’s the winter. You couldn’t take the cold.”

We settled into a comfortable walk downhill, toward our hotel. It was evening, the tail end of August. It had been a gorgeous day, sunny, high in the 60’s, but now there was a nip to the air, enough so that I wasn’t the only one wearing a jacket. A sweater. A scarf.

One of the above. All of the above.

“There’s the winter,” I said.

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