"I want to be a part of it, New York, New York"

I used to go to New York City a lot. 

I went there a lot on business.

And I went there a lot for fun.

My husband and I went to NYC several times a year for long weekends. The last trip we took, in September 2013, five months before Jim died, was to NYC. He wanted to see the city he loved (in a way that only someone who grew up poor in a small town in Vermont could) one more time. He slept a lot while we were there, but we walked around a lot, too. 

In December 2013, when Jim was in home hospice and definitely winding down, we investigated doing a short term hospice transfer so that we could get the support we needed in NYC. It's actually something possible, but our hospice nurse pretty much advised against it, as Jim was too weak to travel at that point. 

Just like the song says, when it came to NYC, Jim's mantra was definitely "I want to be a part of it, New York, New York."

I'm not quite where Jim was - he wanted to retire there! - but when it comes to places I love, New York is right up there. Maybe tied with Galway, maybe Number One.

Since Jim died, I've been to New York a few times, but it's not the same. One of things I miss the most is the long walks we would take up and down Manhattan, especially on a Friday or Saturday night. Nothing like it. 

Last summer, I spent a few days in NYC with my sister Trish and niece Molly. The trip was great, and reminded me of what I have always loved about the city. So vibrant, so colorful, so noisy, so intense.

We were in a hotel on the East Side and one morning, when Trish and Molly wanted to sleep in, I went out and took a solo walk in the light rain and wandered by an old haunt: P. J. Clarke's. 

How many times had I been to P.J.'s? A lot. Especially when on one many trips when I was in my twenties and thirties, we never took a trip to New York without popping into P.J.'s. Sometimes it was just for a drink at the bar. Sometimes it was for lunch, sitting on their classic rickety chairs at a rickety table covered with a red-checkered tablecloth. 

What did we eat? Spinach salad. Chili. Burgers. I don't remember ever having anything else, and we were there a lot. And for dessert: apple crisp with vanilla ice cream. Always. 

The food wasn't spectacular, but it was good. And we never had a bad time hanging out at P.J. Clarke's. Our one famous person sighting there was Jack Nicholson, who we watched going in and out of the men's room a few times. (Blow?) He caught me checking him out and gave me big "thanks for the ogle" grin straight out of The Shining. (I can't quite remember the deets, but there was something unusual about the urinals at P.J.'s. I never saw them, but they were old-fashioned, outsized, and used some sort of unusual urinal cake in them. Alas, Jim is not here to ask.)

Other than last summer's stroll down Memory Lane (or, rather, Third Avenue), I haven't given P.J.'s a lot of thought of late.

Still, I was delighted to see an article on P.J. Clarke's pop up on my screen. 

Sitting on the corner of Third Avenue and 55th Street sits a New York City treasure — P.J. Clarke's. The friendly pub has been a fixture amidst the changing skyline since 1884, emulating the "old New York" we hear so much about. While new locations of the eatery are located throughout the Big Apple and it even offers a raw bar at P.J. Clarke's in Downtown Washington D.C., we can't forget the original spot that shaped the city that never sleeps. (Source: Tasting Table)

The article noted that P.J.'s had a lot of "loyal and famous patrons." (And some of us who are just plain loyal.) It didn't list a lot of those patrons, mostly focusing on Frank Sinatra, who "always seemed to end the night at P.J. Clarke's."

While Sinatra may not have been a true NYC native [he was from Hoboken], he professed his love for the city enough to warrant respect. He did bring city lovers words to live by after all, belting out lyrics like, "I want to be a part of it. New York, New York!"

Start spreading the news: next time I'm in New York City, I'm heading to P.J.'s.