New York, New York

Last week, I spent a couple of days in New York City.

The occasion was the civil wedding of someone very dear to me, someone I’ve known since he was a year old. (Sam’s parents were our landlords, and we became exceptionally close to their kids.) Sam and Sarah are having a big splash destination celebration, but I’m not able to go, as the timing coincides with my niece’s college graduation. So they invited me to their City Hall tying of the legal knot. (Other than the parents, I was the only one in attendance.)

Anyway, I love New York, so I went down early and stayed over late to just plain hang.

When you come in on Amtrak, through The Bronx and Queens, the views of the Manhattan skyline aren’t all that inspiring. But the minute I caught sight of the Chrysler Building – my favorite building on earth - my heart went pitter pat.

Whether it was coming in on the bus, through Harlem, the first time I saw The City in 1967; or any of those  upon dozens of times I came in from LaGuardia or JFK over one of the bridges; or on September 12, 2001, when the train I was on from Orlando poked out of the tunnel coming out of Newark, and I saw the  black cloud over Manhattan, and the hole where the Twin Towers had stood, there has never been a time when coming into Manhattan wasn’t a thrill. Never.

I love Boston. It’s home, and it has been for pretty much all of my adult life. It’s a great city, vibrant and beautiful. But it’s not New York. No place is.

The vitality. The hustle. The commotion. The diversity. The energy. The zoom.

I stayed at a small boutique hotel on the Chinatown/Little Italy border so that getting to City Hall for the wedding would be easy. (It was: I was about a two minute walk away.)

On the night of my arrival, I walked up to The Village for dinner at a place that my husband and I always ate at when in New York.

I had to laugh when I saw that the reviews said that North Square was an excellent spot for “the olds.” Hah! But the truth was that, other than grandkids, I was one of the younger people there. Anyway, I had a lovely dinner, and nice pre- and post-dinner poke around The Village.

I walked back to the hotel through Little Italy and Chinatown, the narrow streets teeming with people. All those restaurants, all those stores selling junky tourist crap, all those odd-ball businesses – especially in Chinatown. (My one regret from the trip is that I didn’t take advantage of a Chinatown foot massage.)

For someone who wants to experience echt New York, and America at its diverse best, I highly recommend showing up for City Hall weddings on a Friday, the most popular day.

The weddings actually aren’t in City Hall, but around the corner in the City Clerk’s office.

What a scene!

I arrived before the bride, the groom, and the parents, so had plenty of time to observe. Brides and grooms. Brides and brides. Grooms and grooms. Wedding dresses. Tuxes. Best duds. Over the top outfits. Casual clothing. An occasional slob. Whatever.

African American. African Africans. Blacks from the islands. White natives. White immigrants. Hispanics. Chinese. Koreans. Vietnamese. South Asians. Gay. Straight. With kids. Without kids.

Some couples on their own, some with major entourages.

All queuing up to get hitched.

Lots of noise, lots of commotion, lots of joy.

You don’t make an appointment. You just show up and it’s first come, first served.

While I was waiting on the steps for someone I recognized to arrive, I realized that I had forgotten to throw a Kleenex into my pocketbook. And I knew I was going to need one.

A couple was walking up the steps, who appeared to be about my age. I asked the woman if she had a Kleenex to spare. Indeed, she did. Turns out it was the Sarah’s mother.

Soon enough, we were all there.

Sam bought Sarah a bouquet of peonies from the flower vendor out front, and we were on our way.

It took about two hours. Quite an operation. After you make it through security, you get assigned a number – Sam and Sarah were C31 – and wait to get called to a clerk window. (I think there were about 20 of them – all fully occupied at any given time.) You then get ushered (jammed) into a waiting area – again by number – and then into a quiet, blissfully private room for the ceremony. All very sweet. And yes, I did need that Kleenex I got from Sarah’s mother.

We all took pictures – a must is one taken in front of a mural of City Hall – and then headed out to a celebratory luncheon. One of the nicest weddings I’ve ever been to.

I spent the evening moseying around Chinatown and Little Italy.

The sheer commercial hum. The share variegation.

Tons of tourist shops, mostly staffed by South Asians, all selling pretty much the same stuff – caps (including, yuck, MAGAs); personalized fake license plates; snow globes…You do know that you’ve hit Little Italy, however, when there’s a shift to The Godfather and Sopranos-themed crap. And t-shirts that say Bada-Bing, and Fuck You You Fuckin’ Fuck. (I took a pass.)

I had dinner in a noodle shop, where Shallow was playing on a loop. As in Shallow was the only song on the loop.

I topped the noodles off at an outdoor gelato stand outside an Italian bakery. The fellow working the gelato stand was a Latin American (Mexican, I think). The woman working the cannoli stand flanking the gelato stand was Chinese.

All come, to look for America.

I did some meandering around, hearing a lot of yammering in Chinese – Chinatown is still full of Chinese immigrants. Little Italy seems to have fewer Italian immigrants in residence. Although I did hear some Italian spoken, it was more common to hear Soprano-speak being barked out by guys trying to woo people into their restaurant.

On Saturday morning, I walked over to the Brooklyn Bridge but not over it, then stopped by the Seaport area, which may well be the only boring section of Manhattan. Yawn.

The only cool thing was looking up and seeing the new World Trade Center, reaching up to the sky.

Then Ubering off to the ugly and always chaotic Penn Station for the train back to Boston.

Saturday evening on a perfect spring day – 60’s, not a cloud in the sky – and Boston is plenty crowded. But Boston-crowded sure ain’t New York City-crowded.

I walked through the gorgeous Public Garden, where all the flowering trees were flowering, and the beds are full of tulips, and it was packed. But it was Boston-packed, not New York City-packed.

My husband wanted to retire to New York City. Not me. I don’t know if I could live there. But there’s no place like it, and I sure do love it.

Already looking forward to my next trip back.