London Calling

So, I went to London for a few weeks and stayed for months and months - as one does.  I was staying with a good friend, Margo, from high school who lived south of the River Thames in Clapham.    Margo and I were friends with two Brits, Val and Christina.  Margo, a talented musician, led a band that played in all the right places and had a hit that was moving up on the charts.  

Our little clan would go out, look fabulous, dance, laugh ourselves silly and cause all sorts of havoc. 

Val, an artist, had that fabulous David Bowie, Tilda Swinton, British androgynous look.  Christina was born in Africa, her father a general in the British Army was stationed there.  She had polio when she was young, Africa being one of the last places to eradicate the disease.  She has one leg shorter than the other and wore a shoe to correct the height difference.  After the first second of meeting her you forgot about it.  Christina was vibrant and alive.  Christina's sister circulated with the royal crowd.  Christina had a little shop in Clapham that sold buttons (called badges to the Brits) and everyone congregated there.  At any moment of time someone was making tea, drinking tea or clearing up the tea. Refusing a second cup of tea because I was a little speedy, Christina said, "You sound like a bloody foreigner." To which I said the obvious, "I am a foreigner!"  

One special night we were heading to a party, given by a friend of Val's.  Supposedly it was to be a great party and we were particularly sparkly.  It was on the outskirts of town and Christina drove her van.  We got a little lost, circled back, reviewed the map, and traveled and traveled.  It took quite a long time, but finally we arrived.  We charged up the stairs to the party.  It was fun and not quite what I expected, but what is?  

After about an hour or so, Val said, I have to tell you something.  We're at the wrong party!  Somehow after all that searching we landed on a party, just not the right one. Whose party was it?  The Hells Angels.  Of course we didn't blink an eye at the preponderance of motorcycles or leather pants. They were fun and welcoming, and no one asked how we knew the hostess, including the hostess.  We aimed for a party and we found one.  So we stayed.

I'm not sure how we made it back home, perhaps the Hells Angels gave us a convoy.  Seek and Ye shall find.

Going Your Way - All Hail The MTA

Oh, what adventures one can have traveling in NYC.  The ins and  outs, the ups and downs.  I’ve had some very special adventures on the buses, and in particular the M20.  The M20 takes me to many of the places I need to go to.  It goes down from Columbus Circle on Seventh Avenue to South Ferry, and up again on Eighth Avenue.  

It was a Friday evening, not too long ago. I had to wake up very early the next morning, and be perky.  I needed to get home in a timely fashion. The M20 picked me up and began it’s journey uptown.    We made a couple of turns and then we came to a standstill.  We needed to make a turn on Hudson Street (which turns into Eighth Avenue).  The problem was traffic backed up from the Holland Tunnel.  And we were waiting and waiting.  No one was letting the bus make the left turn, and the driver was not taking the initiative.  There seems to be many traffic cops in NYC, but somehow they never seem to be in a location that might actually need their help. 

I remember someone telling me that she waited on the M20 for an hour and half before the bus started moving.  That hadn't been my experience and it certainly didn't fit into into my schedule, so after about 20 minutes of waiting,I thought, this isn't working!  I walked up to the bus driver and said, “Do you want me to stop the car and then you can make the turn, and then let me back on the bus?”  The bus driver nodded his head affirmative.  So out I went.

I stood in front of a car, which contained a particularly angry driver.  He kept yelling at me and inching his car towards me.  Everyone was watching so I wasn’t that worried.  Okay so I was worried, but everyone was watching.  He inched and inched at me and cursed and cursed.  Eventually, traffic had moved a bit, and by now the bus driver was able to maneuver the bus so that we could finally make the turn.

The bus driver opened up the door and in I went.  The bus driver thanked me and then the other passengers broke out in full applause.   

We rode up Hudson Street, and  as I got off at my stop, the bus driver thanked me again.   A frail elderly lady was moving towards the bus stop as the bus started to inch away.  Elderly Lady, “oh he won’t stop.”  Me, “Oh, he’ll stop.”  I knocked on the door.  The bus driver opened the door and the Elderly Lady got in. 

I got home feeling satisfied.  Gotham can rest well tonight.

Clara and the Wolf

So, I first met my little cousin Clara when she was 7 weeks old in Strasbourg, France where she was born and raised. She’s the daughter of my beloved cousin Corinne, who passed away several years ago.  I think of Corinne often.  Corinne and I met when we were 18, on my first trip to France, when I met a lot of the French side of my family. Corinne and I had adventures, lots of laughs, read the same books and bonded instantly. From the get go, Clara was very much her own person and wonderful, as you will see. On this trip, Corinne, Clara and I went to visit our Great Uncle who lived in Germany (we are Jewish and I never really understood it, but everyone gets to make their own choices). The EU borders weren’t as porous in those days and there were checkpoints.  Midway, I suddenly remembered I had forgotten to bring my passport.  Corinne said, “I will kill you.” Corinne always had her American idioms down.  Well, 2 women with a baby - we weren’t stopped.

 I ran the Paris marathon, and Corinne, Clara and Martine (another cousin) were there to watch.  I had given Clara a leopard Beanie Baby called Freckles. Clara’s 7-year old French tongue could not quite manage that name, but she was really cute about trying and trying. Clara even brought Freckles to cheer me on. They were waiting for me at the 13^th mile, and here too Clara tried, “Frah Kols.”

Corinne and family were in New York. Clara, 14, would be taking an exam to gain entrance into an English school, and she needed practice. What Clara particularly wanted my help with was the difference between - Would, Should and Could. I tried my best, but I don't think I did the greatest job. However, Clara got into the school, went to University in England, and is now working on a Law Degree there.

My favorite time with Clara was when she was 4-years old. It was a brutally cold snowy winter in France, especially in Alsace.  Clara, her Dad and I were taking a walk in the Black Forest, the land of Little Red Riding Hood and Hansel and Gretel. The forest was dark, grey, the pine trees blocking out whatever light there was and we could hear wolves in the distance, or was that the wind howling?  When told about the dangers meeting a wolf might present, Clara said, "Well, maybe he is just afraid. And maybe he is afraid because he doesn't know me.  So, if I introduce myself to him, then he won't be afraid."

I imagined - Je m'appelle Clara, to which the Wolf would give a low bow and the world would be righted.  And so, once again the innocence of youth leads us to a softer place.