So tomorrow I fly to New York City, and it’s like coming home. Sure, I get to see my son Keith and his partner Chris. I’ll visit their company headquarters and meet the staff too. In fact, that’s the primary reason for my visit. But, secretly, it’s like a return to childhood.
I lived in NYC umpteen years ago, when I was in second and third grade. Back then, I lived with my grandparents in what was a beautiful apartment at 106th Street and Riverside Drive. I’ve never been back, so who knows what the neighborhood is like now; but I can tell you that when I inhabited it, it was unbelievable. A fairy tale for a seven-year-old.
The apartment’s windows overlooked the Hudson River, and I can still recall how the lights on the other side twinkled at night. I remember the upright piano in the living room, Sundays at the Central Park Zoo, the hair salon where my grandmother had a standing appointment, the Chinese lamp on my grandfather’s desk, Gristedes market, posing for a photo with Santa Claus with my two front teeth missing.
I remember Grand Central before its facelift, before the billboards that covered the windows were removed, before the Campbell Apartment was restored. In fact, Keith, Chris, and I have tried on a couple occasions to have cocktails in the Campbell Apartment, only to be turned away because we didn’t meet the dress code.
I remember Macy’s former glory, Wanamaker’s now defunct department store, Horn and Hardart’s automat at full tilt, Schraft’s splendiferous coffee ice cream (the only flavor our family ate), the ice skating rink at Rockefeller Plaza. Most of all I remember that, when I was a child, New York City was the capital of the world, the center of the universe.
Maybe that’s changed. I don’t judge. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that for a couple November days, I’m home again.
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