NaNo NaNo

Fortune, Chinatown, NYC

Back on November 3, I entered NaNoWriMo. Which means that I’ve pledged, along with thousands of other would-be novelists, to write a 50,000-word novel in a month.

I know it sounds crazy.

But in the spirit of competition with one’s self, the purpose of NaNoWriMo (I believe it stands for National November Writing Month…?) is to get you writing lots of words everyday and fashion them into some sort of readable story — while simultaneously suppressing the urge to edit as you go along (impossible for me to do 100%, I have discovered).

The goal is to have written the first draft of a novel by month’s end.

At first, it sounded as if it might be do-able. But, as John Lennon once said: “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” And I’m not one to ignore life’s happenings.

So, there were four blackout days in which I did not write — and I did not write with good reason. My lovely stepdaughter happened to be visiting us from San Diego. During our time together, we showed her our favorite parts of the city and walked our feet off.

Here she is standing in front of the amphitheater on NYC’s great escape, the Highline.

In under three days, we must have covered on foot and by subway almost every neighborhood in Manhattan south of 86th Street and a couple in Queens, too.

Nearing the end of her sojourn, we made a point of stopping at my favorite Buddhist temple on Mott St. in Chinatown.

Before moving to California in 1996, I would visit that temple with the advent of each new year and, alternatively, whenever I’d fly into New York from L.A. — just to pick up my little fortune packet.

Now that I’m back in New York for good, I wanted to pay the temple an inaugural visit as a sort of rite of passage. Each of us dropped a one-dollar donation into the slot and chose our fortune from the scores of rubber-banded little yellow scrolls heaped inside a red lacquered box.

This is what mine said:

Probability of Success: Good

Pairing was done before the words.

Fruits are flown in by iron birds.

You just wait there until full grown.

Somehow, somewhere, you’ll be well known.

The beauty of these Chinatown fortunes is that you can read into them whatever you want.

For me, the fortune was all about NaNo NaNo — except for the line about fruits being flown in by iron birds. But, then, again…

Anyway, before boarding the iron snake that would transport us out of Chinatown, we bumped into some police action on the street. My stepdaughter got to witness a typical New York moment, first-hand.

THE SCENE:

Cop #1 was sitting in a patrol car, which was parked by the curb, while Cop #2 was trying to enforce a cease and desist order in front of “The Chinese Benevolent Association.”

An elderly Chinese guy in a sport jacket was attempting to advertise, via a plywood sign, a cache of illegal movies that he had for sale inside.

Bent on posting his piece of plywood, onto which he’d pasted an advertisement for his bootleg films, he was shouting — in Chinese — at Cop #2 non-stop while brandishing the plywood.

“This guy must have some very large testicles,” said Cop #1 from his spot by the patrol car, and said it loud enough so we all heard — and, of course, laughed.

Meanwhile, the Chinese guy’s obnoxious yelling had pushed Cop #2 to the limits of his patience.

“Okay, that’s it,” said Cop #2. “I’ve had it. I’m writing you up.” He pulled out his ticket book.

As the Chinese guy continued to shout and wave his arms in the air, the plywood sign slipped from hand and hit the sidewalk.

With that, Cop #1 jumped out of the patrol car, kicked the plywood, stomped on it and split it in half.

Ya gotta love it.

Back to NaNoWriMo…that is, until the Thanksgiving weekend.

The Brooklyn Bridge

The Brooklyn Bridge

The Brooklyn Bridge is also a band. I went to high school with band members Shelley, the trumpet player (he’s on the left, if you click on the hyperlink, above) and Artie, the drummer. You can also check out their hit recording — The Worst That Could Happen — on that same link.

I’d always wondered if they had chosen that name because of the bridge itself or because, like so many Long Islanders back then, their roots were in Brooklyn and the name somehow acknowledged that. Maybe a bit of both.

Since my own roots are in Brooklyn, the place of my birth and where I attended kindergarten from September through March, I’ve always wanted to walk across the bridge. Last Sunday, 62 degrees and a day tailor-made day for such an endeavor, J.C. and I took the E train to Lexington and 53rd, transferred to the #6 train and took it to the City Hall/Brooklyn Bridge stop.

We followed the signs until we reached the pedestrian walkway. Crowds of people had the same idea as we did. Everyone seemed to be in a joyful mood. And why not? The view was staggering.

There are so many reasons to love New York.

Moving back to the city, for me, was like getting a second chance at a relationship that I had somehow botched or not fully appreciated or taken for granted during the initial run.

Now, miraculously, it’s as if I’ve been asked back and invited to atone for my past indifference to all its wonder by embracing a little piece of it one day at a time, eyes wide open.

And as a reward, the Brooklyn Bridge, on this day, did its best to entertain:

Hello, Freddie Kruger Fruit Head!

 

Hola, Leg Man!

Coincidentally — or maybe not — I’d been re-watching a set of DVDs that were originally aired on PBS, from The American Experience series, about the history of New York. An obsessively fascinating historical saga of this great city, the night before our trek to Brooklyn we happened to have watched the segment on the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Which, of course, spurred us on. Crossing over to Brooklyn on this bridge — and, wow, have there been lots of modernization and changes in Brooklyn since I’d left 13 years ago (the DUMBO area, for instance, it’s gorgeous) — still feels like a walk back in time.

It never fails to stun me whenever I come across a plaque commemorating an event from the 1600s.

Since we were on the east end of the bridge, I wanted to walk over to Brooklyn Heights, always a lovely neighborhood to visit (it’s the area where one of my favorite films [for many reasons -- not the least of which is that I'm half Italian] Moonstruck, was set).

I also wanted to pass by the Hotel St. George, an historical landmark my father loved and once worked in back in the 1940s (I believe it was his first job).

Seeing the hotel in person was having him back for a tiny interval. I imagined him, a young man of twenty-one or twenty-two, proudly reporting to work in his white shirt, black pants and bow tie.

Brooklyn Heights is such a beautiful community — both of us remarked on how quiet it is (compared to Jackson Heights). And it’s proliferated by homes that look like this:

It’s not unlike the Castorini’s home in “Moonstruck” — and it brings to mind the funny exchange (written by John Patrick Shanley) carried on by John Mahoney’s character as he walks home Olympia Dukasis’s character:

“Wow, this is some house. What does your husband do?”

“He’s a plumber.”

“Well, then, that explains it!”

Before we headed to the Promenade, we stopped for brunch at the delightful Heights Cafe.

See the empty table next to the second bank of windows? That was our table. It was such a beautiful day, I could have sat there the entire afternoon and people-watched. But I wanted to show J.C. the view from the Promenade.

We were not disappointed!

Construction was underway all along the piers. Everywhere you looked, ground was being broken for a new park. You can say what you want about Mayor Bloomberg (who just squeaked through by 5% margin for another term), the city has never looked so beautiful and prosperous.

As we learned from The American Experience DVDs, parkland in Manhattan has always been paid for by New Yorkers (wealthy New Yorkers sharing their wealth with the city’s population) — and not the city government.

One final glimpse at the area before we go, in particular, at the River Cafe — an absolute gem of a restaurant that overlooks the downtown skyline, where I once had the most delicious vegetable lasagna I’ve ever eaten — and where, one day, I would like to buy a ticket for a table-side window on the Fourth of July and watch the fireworks over the river while enjoying a sumptuous meal. How about that?

Our plans were to catch the subway at Clark St. (inside the Hotel St. George — which, by the way, is now student housing) — but our walk to the Brooklyn side was so enjoyable, we decided to walk over the bridge again, back to Manhattan.

If ever there were a perfect day — this was it.

 

 

 

A Man Walks Into a Barbershop…(True Story)

On Saturday, J.C. goes to get his head shaved by the local Colombian barber. He arrives at the shop when it opens. He takes a seat next to the wall and waits for the barber to call him.

He is sitting there for a while when an African guy rushes into the shop and says, “Come quick! Somebody hit the Chinese guy’s new SUV parked right in front!”

As a crowd gathers on the street, three workers from the barber shop hurry out the door. The woman that hit the car is trying to drive away, but the crowd surrounds the car and forces her to pull over.

At first, the barber looks at the woman behind the wheel of the van and thinks she’s from India because of how she is dressed.

So when he comes back in the shop he says, “I  don’t know what’s wrong with these people. They come from other countries where they spend their whole lives riding a donkey and then they come here and buy a big car and they can’t even see over the hood. They’re always hitting people on the avenue.”

Then, he suddenly realizes that J.C. is waiting for him. He says: “Why didn’t you yell out that you were waiting for me? How was I supposed to know?”

J.C. takes a seat in the barber chair. But then the barber puts down his razor and goes back out into the street.

Shortly after, he comes back in and says: “You’re not going to believe this. The woman driving the car doesn’t have a license. Doesn’t have insurance. Doesn’t have any I.D. at all on her. And the best part is, she’s a nun from Louisiana!”

So everyone in the shop starts telling stories about the crazy things that have happened to them with car accidents in Jackson Heights.

The barber tells J.C. that only recently he was driving down Northern Blvd. minding his own business when an Indian guy tried to make a U-turn from a parking space and sideswiped his car.

The barber got out of his car and noticed from the logo on the Indian guy’s car that he worked for the city. When he walked over to him, the Indian guy broke down crying. The barber told the guy, “Stop crying. Don’t be so upset. Nobody got hurt. You can fix a car but you can’t fix people.”

Then the barber says to J.C., “You know, when I was outside before, I went over to the nun and said, What would you have done if you would’ve hit a person instead of a car? Then she tells me: But I didn’t hit a person, I hit a car.

“That’s no way for a nun to behave,” the barber mutters. “Nuns are supposed to think about stuff like that.”

Then he proceeds to tell J.C. how Louisiana is a bad and dangerous place and not as nice as people think, because he has a friend that moved down there, so he knows first-hand. His friend went down with $800,000.00 in his pocket — all the money he had in the world — and opened a hotel. Then, Katrina hit. The tourists weren’t renting any rooms in his hotel, so he was forced to rent it out to prostitutes.

And he still hasn’t made back his money.

“I don’t know about those people from Louisiana,” he says.

Suddenly, the Chinese guy, the one whose car was hit, rushes in from outside. He tells the barber, “I need some advice.” He’d been talking to the nun. “She’s offering me $500 not to call the police. I don’t know what to do.”

“Hey, man,” says the barber. “Take the $500! I know where you can get that scratch fixed for $200 and you can put $300 in your pocket. If you call the police it’ll get tied up in court for three years and you’ll never see that woman again.”

The Chinese guy thanks him and goes out the door. Minutes later, the African guy comes back into the shop. He walks over to the barber and asks, “Hey, how much do you charge to shave a head?”

Just another typical day in Jackson Heights.

How To Smile (Even When You Don’t Feel Like It)

1) Surf YouTube — I cannot begin to tell you how happy I became when I found this nostalia-laced video on YouTube. After spending most of the day hooked to my computer via headphones and listening to chapter upon chapter of a Saharan tutorial on the “awesomeness” of Microsoft Word 2007 (their quote, not mine), I was desperate to experience a little joy. And, then, like magic there was Sonny and Cher…

2) Scroll Through Your iTunes Library – now that I no longer have a car, I’ve been missing the many hours I’d spend cruising the freeway with my stereo at full tilt listening — and singing at the top of my voice — to my favorite songs.

Taking a break from “How to Merge Files,” I started scrolling through my iTunes library, headphones cranked up, clicking on MP3s, willy-nilly, and suddenly I, and my imagination, were speeding through the desert at 95 m.p.h. belting out songs. Here are the names of some that made me soar:

1. Sloop John B (The Beach Boys)
2. Make Me Smile (Chicago)
3. Don’t Be Cruel (Cheap Trick)
4. Respect (Aretha Franklin)
5. Fun, Fun, Fun (The Beach Boys)
6. You Should Be Dancing (The Bee Gees)
7. Cumbia del Sol (The Blazers)
8. Rock and Ree Ah Zole (The Bobettes)
9. Wasn’t Born to Follow (The Byrds)
10. On the Road Again (Canned Heat)
11. Sweet Little Sixteen (Chuck Berry)
12. Fortunate Son (Creedance Clearwater Revival)
13. Runaround Sue (Dion and the Belmonts)
14. Love Me Two Times (The Doors)
15. Express Yourself (Dr. Dre)
16. You Belong to Me (The Duprees)
17. Searchin’ (The Coasters)
18. Yellow (Coldplay)
19. I Only Want to Be With You (Dusty Springfield)
20. Pump It Up (Elvis Costello & the Attractions)
21. Hound Dog (Elvis Presley)
22. Farmer’s Daughter (Fleetwood Mac)
23. Every Time You Walk In the Room (The Searchers)
24. Baila Me (The Gypsy Kings)
25. Dreams (The Cranberries)
26. King Porter’s Stomp (Benny Goodman)
27. Get Up Offa That Thing (James Brown)
28. Dallas (Jimmy Dale Gilmore)
29. NY Pycho Freylekhs (The Klezmatics)
30. Take This Waltz (Leonard Cohen)
31. Cumbia Raza (Los Lobos)
32. Darlin’ Be Home Soon (The Lovin’ Spoonful)
33. I’ll Take You to the Candy Shop (50 Cent)
34. I’m a Soldier of the Army of the Lord (Lyle Lovett)
35. Dedicated to the One I Love (The Mamas and the Papas)
36. Let Me Blow Your Mind (Missy Elliot)
37. Across the Universe (Rufus Wainwright)
38. Love Letters in the Sand (Pat Boone)
39. Can’t Truss It (Public Enemy)
40. We Are the Champions (Queen)
41. Comme Facette Mammeta (Renzo Abore)
42. I Met Him on a Sunday (The Shirelles)
43. Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In (The Fifth Dimension)
44. Too Much Pork for Just One Fork (Southern Culture on the Skids)
45. Cakewalk Into Town (Taj Mahal)
46. Joy to the World (Three Dog Night)
47. It’s Hot in Here (Nelly)
48. Wild Thing (Tone Loc)
49. Theme from Sponge Bob Square Pants

This was a very self-indulgent post and for that I apologize. But it sure was fun! I hope you can relate.

Them Apples

So, how do you like them?!

Is there a better way to celebrate autumn than to visit a cider mill?

Yes! You can visit the cider mill you used to visit as a kid. In my case, it was the Jericho Cider Mill on Long Island, which is still thriving after all these years.

Oh, the memories that visiting the mill brought back to me. Memories of all the leaves I had raked during junior high school, hoping to attract the notice of the boy who lived next door. The distant scent of burning leaves in the crisp afternoon air, mulled cider cooking on the stove, the breathtaking vibrancy of the north shore of Long Island during this time of year (of which I’ve caught a glimpse).

As a result, since moving back to New York, I have visited this mill three times.

First, it was for Cameo apples, a gallon of cider, homemade blackberry preserves and baked apple crisp.

The second time, it was for more Cameo apples and, also, some Honey Crisp (m-m-m), another gallon of cider, and two apple turnovers for the road.

This third time, the crate of Rome apples were so gorgeous and so red, it took all my willpower to resist buying some of those, too.

But we’d already selected a juicy group of Golden Delicious and MacIntosh, another gallon of cider, jar of Orange Marmalade (I just love it on toasted wheat English muffins), and 3 Oatmeal raisin cookies to savor later on with our evening tea.

Not to worry. It’s only November 4th. There’s still time for at least one more car ride to Long Island. I mean, how could anyone resist the charm of this little cider mill. But, I’ll have to learn to do that, eventually. Either that, or get fat.

I’d almost forgotten that today had started out on rather a wrong note.

During the past 4 days, we have been without hot water in the morning for 3 of them (h-e-l-l-o, New York apartments), which meant no wake-up shower for me, which kind of throws off my whole day.

However, many good things did happen later on, the culmination of which was our trip to the cider mill — as a sort of celebration:

1.  This morning, J.C. finally was able to process his N.Y. driver’s license at the DMV due to the arrival of the coveted social security card in the mail (in N.Y., it seems, you are either a non-person or a “person of interest,” without that card). Someday — “and that day may never come” (so said Don Corleone) — the NY DMV may permit him to actually register the car and obtain the illusive N.Y. plates. If that ever occurs, it will indeed be a joyous day.

2.  We each found a stylishly attractive winter coat at the Burlington Coat Factory, which happened to be stone’s throw from the DMV.

3.  Last night — the unexpected events of which I will describe in the next blog post — we purchased warm and waterproof winter boots at Clark’s in midtown.

4.  And just for the hell of it, we bought a snow shovel at Ace Hardware (to dig out the car if it snows during alternate-side-of-the-street-parking days) and tucked it away in the trunk.

We are so prepared.

The last bit of good news is that I emailed the go-to-adminstrator-manager person at the law firm where I used to work right before moving to CA, who thought it was “great to hear from me” and said I should call him first thing on Monday.

So…maybe a job in the offing (fingers crossed).

This little vacation we’ve been on (albeit a working vacation — many hours spent at the computer watching tutorials and honing our respective skills) — is about to soon, sigh, come to an end.

But, as I blurted out last night as we were strolling down Lexington Avenue: “Don’t you just LOVE this city? I do!”

Oh, by the way, for those of you who’d been following the saga of my Saturn, right before leaving California — guess what was forwarded in the mail to me from Sacramento, CA today?

THE TITLE.

Arrrgh….guess what, California? I don’t even miss you. So there.

Looking Up, Down, and Sideways

I was in midtown the other day, walking down Lexington Avenue to meet J.C., who was finishing up an interview with a recruiter (which went very well!). We hooked up on the corner of 41st Street, deciding what we would do with the rest of the day.

Then, I lifted my eyes skyward. And, lo and behold, there was the Chrysler building!

Realizing that I was that close to one of my favorite buildings filled me with delight. Definitely a good omen. I’ve been doing that a lot lately, attributing deeper meaning to random sightings.

For instance, this morning I noticed a penny lying on the sidewalk, heads-up. Always a good sign. Several days ago, again, in Manhattan, I looked down at the sidewalk and  the Nine of Hearts was lying face-up right at my feet:

The tarot equivalent to the Nine of hearts is the Nine of Cups (above). The Nine of Cups is know as the “wish card.”

“Nine of Cups, wish come true/What you want will come to you.”

Since our afternoon was free, we thought: let’s go look at some art. The plethora of museums and galleries (and the city’s abundant rainfall) were the prime reasons I wanted to move back to New York. So we walked up to 57th St. toward the Pace Wilderstein Gallery, which is located right off Madison Ave.

The paintings of David Hockey, an artist I admire, were on exhibit.

I sneakily shot this with my camera — please excuse the slightly skewed angle…

Again, please excuse the lopsided framing of my shot (another sneak peak)…

We fell in love with the show so much that we just had to see its companion show down in the Pace Wilderstein’s Chelsea location. A couple of sneaky shots taken by J.C., who is much better at this than I am:

Notice Hockney’s more interesting treatment of the pathway in this exhibition….

Such fabulous Fauve color — can’t you just feel the “presence” of Van Gogh in this work…

…and, especially  so, in this drawing, I think.

The ground strokes in this one are so like Van Gogh’s.

Which is not to say that I am in any way accusing Hockney of appropriation. To me, it feels like a homage to Van Gogh, which is sort of wonderful.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my secondhand presentation of Hockney’s work (if you live in N.Y., then, lucky you, you can visit the exhibitions in person).

** Before signing off, I’d like to send out the very best of good vibrations (and hope you will join me in doing this) for our friend, Amanda, who was hospitalized today. **

May the Ojo de Venedo watch over you, Mandy.

Brick House Revisited

My childhood home, from age 6-up, in Hicksville, NY

The other day, we were driving out to Ikea on Long Island and I thought: since we’ll be in Hicksville, anyway, why not drive past my childhood home? So, that’s what we did.

I am pleased to report that, at least, from outside appearances, it hadn’t changed all that much.

The front of the house was still covered in brick — every one of which had been laid by my father and his friend Nick, an old school Italian and Master of Masonry — on one sunny Saturday, from dawn till dusk, back in the 1960s.

Trickling hose and trowel in-hand, wheel barrow at my knees, I acted as their assistant, mixing mortar all day long in the driveway. I guess I was about 11 or 12, and excited to help out.

Everything about the old house looked the same, except, perhaps, for the landscaping. The flowers were new and artfully arranged. As were the bushes. There was also a healthy carpet of emerald green sod.

If my father were still alive, he would wave his hand in irritation and say: “Sod? Come on! A waste of money, and I’ll tell you why…”

His secret formula for greening up the lawn was to stockpile the fallout of iron filings produced by his lathe in the garage, sift them into a sack of lime, and then disseminate the elixir over our property via a spreader. It must have worked well because our lawn was always pretty darn green.

As for the bushes, there used to be several yews planted in front of our house. But, one winter, long ago, the oil deliveryman spilled fuel on the bushes, which turned them brown. Not long after, they started to rot.

So my mother sued the fuel company.

A few months later, she and I rode the bus to Small Claims Court, where she was awarded $100, by default. No one from the oil company even bothered showing up.

My parents eventually received a check in the mail, but never replanted. The cash settlement went directly into the bank. The bushes got browner and browner and eventually morphed into a crusty eyesore.

Dead shrubbery aside, what mattered most to them from the very beginning were the bricks. Particularly, that they were “old.”

Back then, to incite the envy of your neighbors, bricks were more effective than painted shingles, no matter what the color. Bricks announced to the block that your family had money in the bank. My mother opined that embedding randomly placed flagstones among the bricks would add a certain panache.

What the neighbors didn’t know was that “our” bricks had been purloined from the front lawn of a house on the other side of town, which had been hit by the wrecking ball. According to my father, that meant they were up for grabs.

As a bonus, they happened to be the much coveted “old bricks” (weatherworn, slightly chipped, and in varying shades of terra cotta) as opposed to the spiffy, red, brand new bricks, which my mother eschewed as “lacking in character.”

My father and I made many a pre-dawn raid on the lawn of that wrecked house, stacking the back of his station wagon with scores of old bricks until we had amassed a sufficient amount of to get the job done.

Each one of our brick-runs was then followed up with a cozy trip to The Donut Man.

As a result, it seems that I have inherited from my parents a love of bricks. I love how they grow warm to the touch when heated up by the sun. How crepuscular rays intensify their color. I especially love the memories attached to them.

Here in Jackson Heights, whenever I look outside any one of my windows, I see bricks. The building in which I live is also brick.

So, I suppose it’s no wonder, then, that I like living here — ambulance sirens, thumping car stereos, and abundant rain notwithstanding. It’s all about the bricks.

Feelin’ Groovy

Tramway cables on the left, the 59th St. Bridge on the right.

I’d always wanted to ride the tram to Roosevelt Island — the narrow strip of land situated in the East River between Manhattan and Queens — mostly, for the view it offers of the city.

So, the other day, we took a breather from the job hunt and DMV hell and the social security card nightmare (it appears you need an actual “card” in N.Y., in order to apply for a job), took the R train to 59th and Lex, walked to Second Ave., and climbed the concrete steps leading to the platform where the tram was docked.

Whew. What an opportunity to rise above it all.

Since a Metro card will take you just about everywhere here in N.Y., two swipes got us each a four-minute ride on the tram.

There’s something magical about watching the ground and the people on it shrink incrementally before your eyes. It feels so peaceful.

A little bit higher now…

Hey, a techno dog park right next to the East River — lucky K9s.

I wished I could’ve kept rising higher and higher…

A spidery shadow was cast over the river on the approach to the rocky shore of Roosevelt Is.

Once our feet touched ground, a stupendous view was there to greet us. Don’t you love it when you stand beneath a monumental structure, like a bridge, and feel so small? I do.

Since we’d done a little googling before our visit, we knew what we wanted to see. We strolled south down the lovely Riverwalk toward the remains of an old small pox hospital.

Gothic and spooky, the structure instantly brought to mind Mandalay and Dragonwyck and Thornfield Manor…

Notice the funny Casper-like graffito on the left. It really did feel haunted.

In fact, the entire Island felt out-of-time and seemed to harbor an undertone of ghostliness.

Scarier to imagine than the small pox hospital is the New York City Municipal Lunatic Asylum, a mental institution that once resided on the Island. All that remains of it is an octagonal building called — what else? — The Octagon. It’s now an apartment building.

Can you imagine living in an apartment that once housed what the tourist pamphlet calls “woe-be-gotten inmates”? It like the stuff of horror movies.

Anyway, you can read more about the asylum in the February 1866 issue of Harper’s New Monthly Magazine by clicking on this link. It’s a fascinating, first-person account that’s definitely worth a visit.

The most interesting section of the Island turned out to be the middle coast, from the westside down to the southern tip. Still, before departing for good, we shelled out the 25 cents apiece for tickets so we could ride the red commuter bus to check out the Island’s northern tip and visit the lighthouse.

As lighthouses go — and I’ve seen lots of them — it was a pretty good specimen, but didn’t compare to the dramatically romantic lighthouses that inhabit the Oregon coast. I know, apples and oranges. But this lighthouse actually looks better in J.C.’s flattering shot than it does in person.

On the north end of the Island, the view underwhelms — off to the Island’s east side, you have Costco glaring back from the Astoria shore. From the west, the tableau is the upper east side of Manhattan — patently boring.

Still, I’m glad I made the trip and satisfied my curiosity.

To make a fun day even more fun, we headed for Greenpoint to meet our good friend, B., for dinner. Descending the steps down to Roosevelt Island’s only subway stop (the most deeply dug tunnel in the city), we waited on the platform for the F train to arrive.

A bit creepy waiting and knowing you’re standing so far under the East River.

We arrived in Manhattan, boarded the #7 train and took it to Vernon/Jackson Ave’s. Then, we walked over the Pulaski Bridge toward B’s painting and sculpture studio.

Before going out for Mexican food and a few beers, I gazed through the studio’s window as the sun set  over Newtown Creek, fantasizing about having a studio of my own, once again — now that I’m back in my very favorite city. Sigh.

Falling in Love Again with The City

I love that the NYPD, mounted on horses, patrols our block. Not that we’re so special…there just happens to be several elementary schools in our vicinity. It’s so much fun to see a horse going by just as you step outside the door.

On this day of the horse, we were on our way to “the city” (in case you’re wondering, I was born in Brooklyn, but moved to Long Island in the middle of kindergarten — a story in itself — as a result, like other Brooklynites and Long Islanders of yore, I’ve called Manhattan, “the city,” since, like, forever.

A sort of mini-mission I’ve undertaken after being back in N.Y. (at least, mentally, for now) is that I want to visit parts of the city that I’d either ignored and never seen, taken for granted, or simply forgotten about during all those years that I was living here before.

First on the agenda was The Museum of the City of New York. I’d heard about it, but never been. New York Magazine had recommended a photography exhibit they had on view.

Located on Fifth Ave. at 103rd St., we boarded the #7 train to Grand Central Station from Jackson Heights. At GC, we switched to the #6 local and got off at 103rd St. and Lexington Ave. We walked 3 blocks or so to Fifth Ave.

The MCNY is a stately mansion, fronted by White House columns, with winding marble staircases, mahogany ballustrades, and towering, sky-lighted ceilings. A beautiful, old building. We’d come to see an exhibit of photos titled: “The Preservation of Wilderness in New York City Parks.”

Above is a sample of Meyerwitz’s work, the photographer we wanted to see. The show was enjoyable from a native New Yorker’s standpoint. I recognized many of the landscapes, which, aside from their comfortable familiarity, induced in me tiny bouts of nostalgia for the days when there were more trees in the city, when N.Y. and Long Island were less developed.

But — the show itself disappointed in that I didn’t experience transcendence.

Another exhibition, however, called “The Edge of N.Y. – Waterfront Photographs” presented work by a husband and wife (Len Jenshel and Diane Cook) — both, photographers in their own right. That show was spectacular. Each haunting image, whether it was a monumental bridge, some pilings, or a scene picturing a desolate area of N.Y.C. transported me to an exalted place.

Leaving the museum, we headed north on Fifth, with the intention of crossing over to the westside at 110th St., which borders the northern edge of Central Park (also called Central Park North — who knew?).

It made me think of the 1972 blaxploitation film “Across 110th Street,” which featured an amalgam of NYC cops, the Mafia and Harlem crime bosses. It just so happened that I’d re-watched it on cable not long before moving to back New York, so it was fun to be “on location.”

Then, right inside the park, surprise of surprises, I saw a Knish stand. A N.Y. knish topped my list of foods that I missed and longed to eat.

Naturally, we ordered two-with-mustard (these knishes were baked and not deep fried, which, I suppose, is good…) and sat down at the table as soon as Mr. Typical New Yorker, above, kindly vacated. While knishnoshing, we gazed at the lovely tableau before us, another lake in Central Park!

Our appetite temporarily sated, we turned left on 110th St. and walked toward Broadway. Across the street on our right was a ten-story brick building with a large cage affixed to the roof. In my 2009 mindset, I thought: Oh, look. Condos with a tennis court on top. That’s nice.

But, then I saw the sign above the door: Lincoln House of Correction. A prison! Right in the middle of the city. During their one-hour R&R in the caged rooftop “yard,” the prisoners certainly have a pleasant view of the park.

We continued on down Broadway, which, as we reached 96th Street, become more populated with stores and less populated with sketchy characters.

One, sitting on a park bench, suddenly asked me for the time. My street smarts kicked in involuntarily, I’m relieved to report.

“Sorry, I don’t have a watch,” I told him, thinking wouldn’t he just love it if I dug into my purse and pulled something out. As if a twenty-something guy in an expensive sweat suit wasn’t carrying his own cell phone.

The Upper Westside was once a favorite neighborhood of mine (back when that most fantastic of bookstores, Shakespeare & Co., resided there). Now, it seems to have been taken over by too many Banana Republic-, Gap-, Target-type stores.

Too bad.

So, at 70-something street, we hopped on the downtown #1 train and rode to Hell’s Kitchen. It was about 2:30 p.m. and we were getting hungry. We stopped for lunch in a charming little Italian place called “Cara Mia” on Ninth Ave. at 45th St.

I made a note to revisit it for dinner sometime, maybe pre-theater, if I get tickets to “Jersey Boys,” which I’m dying to see.

W.W.G.J.

I apologize for taking so long to resume my blog posts. We’ve been unpacking boxes, moving stuff around, handling all the paperwork that a move entails — so much to do. You know how it is.

To friends who have been keeping up with the blog and emailing me asking: Where are you? — please forgive the following, rather abridged, version of events that transpired after we left New Jersey:

We arrived in New York on 10/8, called a couple of real estate agencies and set up an appointment for 10/9 with a broker and found an apartment the very same day! The first good omen.

At first, he tried talking us into renting in Astoria, but we didn’t want to live in a three-family house. We preferred to be in a building.

Sunnyside Gardens had lots of appeal — leafy streets, peace and quiet, and with its very own “mews” — but, in comparison, we both fell hard for the vibrancy and animated street life of Jackson Heights.

It just so happened that our arrival date had coincided with Jackson Heights’ celebration of Diwali — an Indian holiday known as the “Festival of Light” — which takes place every year to honor the victory of good over the evil that occurs within each person.

Auspicious beginnings — and, another good omen.

That’s me, soaking up some sunshine right before we boarded the subway into Manhattan and spent the afternoon with good friends in Central Park. It felt great to be back.

The very next day, on Monday — one day before the big move — we rented a cargo van and made a preliminary run out to Long Island to see where the POD had been dropped off.

There it sat, in a large parking lot, with many other POD replicas (just like in Invasion of the Body Snatchers). We loaded the van with furniture odds and ends, such as my desk and our dining room chairs. What had seemed, at first, a simple endeavor had turned into an exhausting day.

A view of our street from inside the van….

On Tuesday, we returned to PODS Central with a truck and three able-bodied friends to whom we’ll be eternally grateful for the help and laughs they provided all day long.The truck was loaded within an inch of its capacity.

Later that night, we celebrated with drinks and a meal at our new favorite neighborhood restaurant: Mehjil (which, appropriately, means “gathering” in either Hindi or Urdu — not sure which).

Since we’d sold mostly all of our furniture, book and cd cases, we’ve been fantasizing about buying some comfortable chairs, maybe a sofa, and shelving that doesn’t come from Ikea…

…that is, W.W.G.J. (When We Get Jobs).

In the meantime, here’s a mini tour of the neighborhood:

Our go-to place for curtain rods, kitchen and hardware odds-and-ends. The secret to staying in business in Jackson Heights?

Sell everything!

In keeping with that philosophy, at Casa de Buster Brown Shoes, you can buy big butt jeans direct from Colombia (a hot item here in the Heights), put in a call the Motherland, pick up a few t-shirts — and, by the way, they also sell shoes.

So much tastier than Gerbers…and the perfect companion to your lottery ticket purchase…

Like I said, these stores sell everything.