GOES TO NEW YORK CITY!

What it is like going back to the love/hate city that taught me so much about life and love? Going back to the good and the bad, the best and the worst. Everything is exaggerated in a big city. Joy is unbounding, depression is grossly grim, success is counted greatest, failure is looking suicidal. Things taken naturally in the burbs, of small town South, are brutally difficult. If you did not grow up on the city streets, you are completely unprepared for that kind of life. The energy and grind of the city-machine, is compelling and auto-compulsive, there is no rest. No stopping. The conveyer belt is as compulsive as the escalator, movement is the fact of life. Nothing stops. Even sitting on the park bench, in a stall in the library, nothing is at repose, really. Your butt may not be moving, but your mind is racing with the swirl and rage of the scene around you.

Arrived in Newark: two or three swipes the plane made, before it could get landing permission. We passed the edge of the Hudson, across which the towers of commerce were seen among the clouds. Lonely Liberty lifting the torch aloft. O hurry up. Get a move on. My friend won't wait forever!

Finally, down. Just about 10 minutes behind schedule. And outside the safety gate, Wimberly, looking greatly middle-aged, from the last time I saw her some thirty one years back in 1970. But GREAT! Intelligent and irrepressibly friendly! And Istvan, looking like always, not a hair less, no noticeable gray, the facial angles as crisp as ever, no wrinkles, or few, the wonderful accent undented by the years, the same! The mad Hungarian! how great, to pick up the friendship pieces and find that it is just as easy to carry on the relationship, as if just a summer had passed. Well, the summer of our youth, that sweet bird, has been in flight for some time now, but living daily, we notice it not. The wings of our desire get tired, worn down, less sensitive, whatever. The beat beat beat of day-in day-out existence. Not yet, though, the thoughts of aging, the relentless "always coming on on night"

At the Mohos' comfortable home by the lake. The land slopes to the water. A flat bottom boat in the yard, Wimberly's recreational yacht, for fishing solitude. Istvans many projects shop in the basement. The flowers carefully tended, the vegetables in high gear of the high spring of late April. And the April showers that prevailed the whole trip. Ah, Spring in the East. (I now remember one sad April in College when the sun did not come out from the clouds the whole month.) Compost has grown big broccoli and tomatoes, chard and rhubarb.
Istvan, the irrepressible violinist. Taking a brake while cooking a great joint of pork in some magical savory sauce. We had great fun catching up on what had gone on and all since 1970:

We called Ceci, now back from fabulous France and living and studying in Connecticut. Wimberly's pretty sister, who actually was a contender in the Miss Alabama events in the 60's. She is a beauty and smart enough not to win, but to be runner up, and get her college grant award. A violist, and student at Manhattan School of music, as were my hosts, and a few other refugees from UA in Tuscaloosa, including Jimmy Carter, (not the Georgia boy who became President), from Salisbury, N. C., who found a 40 dollar a month apartment in the polite slums of Yorkville, and where Istvan and I, and several other southern hopefulls, crashed for some time. David Daniel, now deceased of cancer, who became a writer, music-art-dance critic of some renoun, Roger McAllister, who entertained us by setting recipe's to music, as we cooked delicious pots of pot-luck chow. And others I have forgotten. The musicians played in Leopold Stowkowski's American Symphony, and the old Maestro himself took a personal interest in the music studies of the young players. Later Mark and Chal joined the stew.

Dumb me. I had forgotten to bring the important notebook with the phone numbers of the other people I was to visit. Had to call Ronnie who dropped me at the airport, to find the document, and read out the numbers. Chal at work and home, Mark at home. After getting these, I had to make the important calls to them.

Since I had not brought my camera, another oversight, Istvan kindly lent me theirs. It was digital. We had fun taking pictures around the house, (see above), sending them out in e-mail, (I sent myself some), and made arrangements for me to use during my visit, and they would put the shots on a disc and send them. This happened. Finally, before bed, transportation arrangements. Wimberly would drive me into Manhattan, introduce me to Quinton, their son, living on 86th Street, where I would return the camera at the end of my stay.

Into Manhattan. We left just after rush hour. Across the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. Yankee Stadium still up across the Harlem River. Down the East Side Highway, the FDR drive, so familiar, hardly changed. The old nabe of the 90's, the park and Gracie Mansion.

We were to meet at 12:30. The rain continued. I met Quinton. His apartment hung with many images of cartoons, impressive collection of quality prints and originals. I recognized a fellow geek, but one more knowledgeable. He was downloading and working with advanced flash graphics. I was impressed.

Wimberly had to get back to work, and I went on down to 53rd Street, checking my bag at the "left luggage". The old Lexington Avenue to Grand Central, the Library, a little hike past the Modern to the CBS building, the famous Saarnen slab where Chal worked. 42nd Street: I am here, aren't I? Chrysler building and all. The Lions and the Library.

Chal met me and we went to the little park with the waterfall from the old Bond Clothing sign, take off the Times Square building during some renovation in the 50's. The park is just a hole, a cave, with just a hotdog concession, and tables over the flagstones, the size of a small building. It was always a favorite place, one of the few I could afford to eat, after a movie at the Modern, and I was so glad to see it still in business.

I heard about his sucessful fishing trip to NC with Maury.

Chal went back to work, after we arranged to meet the next afternoon for dinner with Nancy, the wife I had not met, and Alicia, Chal's daughter, whom I had not seen in 8 years. He got me free into the Modern and then went back to work.

The Museum of Modern Art, MOMA, and I go way back, since I haunted that place in the 60's. It is undergoing a major expansion, and just some of the very cream of the collection was on view.

Actually; Cy Twombly is one of the more contraversal works on view, but Van Gogh's Starry Night was up and the Sleeping Gypsy and Monet's monument, Water Lilies.

Then a call to Sonia, and she says that I should go on up to Mt Vernon. Mark will meet me at the station. She gives instructions for Grand Central and the train north. I have a great time running around and missing trains, buying tickets, retrieving my bag, etc. etc. Finally get on the train for two or three stops. It is close.

Grand Central Station has changed some since I was last there. A vegetable market? Did I get that right? and an interesting little food court. And, of course, the famous Oyster Bar. I had fun being confused, looking for "left luggage" and finding the track for the train, missing the four o'clock, etc. To Mark's Place: NEXT