a new york weekend

After work on Thursday I drove straight downtown. Anna had arranged a small gathering of running buddies for Sara's birthday (the big three-oh, as they say) at Henry's. Argh, the Brewery Blocks in Portland-- it's the Pearl reaching out to tentatively touch downtown. After walking through the main part of the restaurant and working through the tanned-body business-casual crowd of the bar, I went outside to call everyone I knew who might be there, to tell me where they were sitting. I went in to ask the hosts if they had reservations for Sara or Anna, and ended up accidentally finding the group when I went to try the back entrance to the bar. It was a very pleasant get-together seeing some people I haven't talked to in quite a while.

We broke early, and I still had time to clean, take out trash, plant the last of the seedlings I started in my basement, and water the yard. I did laundry, finally packed, and Julie took us to the airport.

I could give the transcript list of what we did in New York, here, but other people's lists are never as fascinating as one's own. I will say that we landed at JFK at 8:30am and took a cab in to Tribeca. Instead of taking a nap at my cousin Kelley's house after the sleepless flight, we showered and headed right out. We zigzagged everywhere below 34th Street, and didn't return til our dinner appointment.

As with Vancouver BC two weeks ago, we went to walk around. New York is a feeling that you breathe through your skin as you try to visually take in everything around you. Possibility everywhere in the sticky air made thicker with all of those people wearing articles of clothing whose origins you can't fathom, tiny apartments with lacquered-over hardwood details hidden above crumbling storefronts, bricks in tall buildings that may not exist because no one notices them.

Walking around New York is also vastly different depending on whether you're on a street or an avenue. Avenues are what you see in all of the photos and tourist brochures. They're wider than dreams and lined with big stores. They're like miles of red carpet, rolled out to lead to those famous skyscrapers. Streets are New York's secret. They're quiet and residential, charming in their quirky stoops and shop fronts. The air is lived-in. You can feel at home, walking a long crosstown block.

I think it was Saturday night when Erik and I were strolling one such street, maybe walking the dog (Julie's cousin Kim's, Berlin), and the wind picked up the scent of rain just hinting at breaking the edge off the humidity. The back of my mouth had a sudden tang, and I knew that my eyes were about to tear up. It was the breeze of my youth, early summers in Maryland. At that moment, I wanted to move back to New York, and in my desire I believed that I could make it work this time for Erik.

It was a beautiful moment, and then it was gone. We had a great time, too little of it spent with loved ones, and then a consumerism overload panic hit us early Sunday. Mine hit in the subterranean H&M on Broadway-- the low-- and resounded in the multi-story, glittering, white glassy vastness of a brand new Japanese tshirt chain store-- the high. After that we wandered, listless, and waited to leave. Returning to the quiet green backwaters of Portland never sounded so good.