Thanksgiving In New York City

Bargaining a taxi fare.                                                                                                                              

Sharing a turkey meal with a homeless man.                                                                                   

Petting a dog at the opera, and using a gender neutral toilet. 

My luck! When in New York, the city was officially named the most expensive city in the world.  Even if tied with Singapore, it did not make it less painful for my budget.  Coming from Brazil, I was expecting a financial shock but $ 20 for a glass of champagne was nonetheless a provocation.  This year, I have visited three of the ten most expensive cities to live; the other two are Paris and Copenhagen, still rock-bottom bargains compared to New York City.

I tried to beat the odds as soon as I landed at John F. Kennedy (JFK) airport.  Arriving one day late through a long-winded itinerary, I was rebooked through Sẩo Paulo because my original flight had been delayed by 48 hours.  At JFK, yellow cabs charge a flat rate of $ 52.00 (apparently going to $70 next year) plus tip, toll and all kinds of add-ons.  The Pakistani driver offered me a bargain price of $80 in cash!  We haggled like in a Karachi market and I got the price lowered to $65; a $5 saving on what I would have paid by credit card.  We chatted and he was worried about the soon to be implemented congestion pricing effective below 60^th Street in Manhattan.  It is not clear whether taxis will pay the full rate. 

So many migrants toil in New York City that the city always had a third world flavor.  It is estimated that some 20 000 undocumented people work in the city, and the underground cash economy is not restricted to seedy sectors like gangs and prostitution.  During the 1980 and 90s, I lived in Manhattan and my successive cleaning ladies were undocumented Latinas who hardly spoke English.  They wanted to be paid in cash.

Friends and I decided to celebrate Thanksgiving in a famous diner.  As anticipated, the turkey was dry and bland, I hardly touched the meat and ate the stuffing which was tastier.  My friends who have been living in the same neighborhood for many years reported a change in its homeless population, a new guy was now occupying a coveted street corner.  My turkey became a doggy bag for the homeless man, a token of holiday solidarity.  The new homeless man may not enjoy his new abode for long.  There is little sympathy for homelessness in NYC and the mayor is planning to forcibly remove people with visible mental illness from the streets.  Early this year, one man known for his erratic behavior pushed a woman under the subway tracks.  Public transport anxiety has risen in NYC and when riding the subway, I made sure that I stayed with my back close to the wall. 

“Culture vulturing” is one of Manhattan’s draws.  I manage to keep my cultural budget low thanks to the generosity of my friends who have museum membership cards.  I saw three blockbuster exhibitions: the Tudors, Edward Hopper, and Alex Katz.   The Hopper exhibit was at the Whitney Museum in the West Village.  I had booked online a time slot and to my disbelief, I was let in for free.   Something free in NYC is unheard of, fearing an oversight, I never asked why it was free.  I like Hopper (1882-1967) and Katz (1927) very much.  Both were quintessential New Yorkers; they hardly left the city which was the source of their inspiration.  Their works did not evolve that much over their lives.  At least it seems to the untrained eye.   They kept repeating the same scenes and people, an iconic image of solitude in desolate environment for Hopper and solitude in the crowd for Katz.

                                                                       Hopper, Automat

The Hopper exhibition is good at showing the man behind the artist.  Maybe because Katz is still live, the Guggenheim did not endeavor to dig into his private life.  Incidentally, Hopper’s and Katz’s wives have a lot in common too.   Both abandoned their successful careers to assist their husbands; they became assistants, non-paid models, muses and eventually a mother (Ada).   Ada del Moro, Katz’s wife seems to have made the best of her new role; however, Josephine Nivison, Hopper’s artist wife, was all her life very unhappy and frustrated. 

In New York, I always patronize the Metropolitan Opera.  Luckily, I attended the second performance of the hyped, newly created opera the Hours composed by Kevin Puts.  Having successively enjoyed the Pulitzer Prize winning novel of Michael Cunningham and the film (Stephen Daldry), I was excited to see this new production packed with opera divas: Renee Fleming, Kelli O’Hara and Joyce DiDonato as Virginia Woolf.  Woolf is in the process of writing her novel Mrs. Dalloway which, incidentally, I never read.  These three disparate women are desperate, frustrated and even suicidal.  Woolf’s novel is the thread which connects the three women.  The Hours is a dreamy, meditative opera with a nice music, but it did not have a great dramatic impact on me.   All the same, I found refreshing to watch an opera where women are not murdered by jealous and dysfunctional males. 

                                                                         Opera lovers

Without diva power, will The Hours remain in the Met repertoire? The jury is out.  During the intermission, I went to visit the photo exhibit in the lobby.  To my surprise, I noticed a young Asian man with a lap dog in his arms.  I have seen guide dogs at the Met.  A decade ago, one of them, named Ven, was so well behaved that he became a celebrity.  I asked the owner whether the dog liked opera, in approximative English, the reply was “she slept through it” like probably many two-legged viewers, I dozed a bit during the first act too.  This doggie had not been smuggled in a bag and must have been checked in; was the young man affected by mental health issues?  Puzzled, I did investigate but I couldn’t find any info on the opera house’s rules regarding emotional support animals (ESAs).  Before the pandemics, ESAs on airplanes had become so out of control, that strict regulations were made for them.  Without them, planes were becoming flying zoos. 

A friend and I like to meet for lunch at Le Pain Quotidien, a chain of casual bakery restaurants.  I particularly like their vegetable soups.  I went to the lavatory to wash my hands and a new sign on the door attracted my attention “gender neutral toilet”.  Since there was only one toilet for patrons, be they women, men, children, handicapped, transgenders or gender diverse individuals.  I missed the point.  In Europe, most bistros have only one restroom; in France WC is posted on the door.  I imagine the jokes if a similar policy “sexe neutre” was implemented.

Two days after my return, I got sick with a fever, cough and running nose.  After three negative Covid tests, I was diagnosed with flu.  Manhattan flu? Probably.  I spent a week under the weather.  Most of my friends and family have had Covid.  They refuse to believe that I escaped, but they think I was an asymptomatic case!