"In front of your door," I responded and, to my delight, she agreed to let me in. She was the assistant to the director and acted as my personal guide through two floors of Gross’s expressive wood and bronze sculptures, accumulated drawings and artist’s memorabilia. She answered questions and offered anecdotes about Gross and his family as I wallowed in the extraordinary feeling of having discovered an offbeat treasure.
Friends have lured me to Off Off Broadway — performances in theatres so tiny that I feel the actors’ breaths and am subsumed by intimacy. They’ve ferried me away from midtown—to the Rockefeller mansion Kykuit in the Hudson Valley, to stroll through the dazzling Storm King Art Center and the dynamic Dia Center, to wander at the Bronx Zoo, Wave Hill garden, the New York Botanical Garden, and eat my way through Arthur Avenue and dine at Blue Hill at Stone Barns.
And I, who really hates shopping, nevertheless can entertain myself for hours in the tantalizing bazaar of the necessary and the frivolous offered along every Manhattan street. I careen from elegance to decadence — Bergdorf’s and Saks, the Lincoln Center Crafts Fair, the gift shop at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the street fair at Columbus Avenue and 75th St, occasionally succumbing to overwhelming temptation for a souvenir of my visit.
I’ve become mostly comfortable on the subways and bus routes and I frequent a certain neighborhood cleaner and wine shop. If something breaks, I know which hardware store will have the solution and if I’m alone at night, I stroll to a neighborhood restaurant, depending on my preference for Turkish, tapas, Cuban, or a dozen other possibilities that are unavailable in my Cajun-Creole landscape. I could order in — the mainstay of a real city dweller, but that would mean I’d forgo one of the attractions of my neighborhood.
I am playing New Yorker, taking advantage of what the city offers, without condo fees or the distraction of a job. Which means, I admit, that I’m not really home—it’s only a grand vacation.
Some years ago, Happy the cat died; I tried to act sorrowful even though I didn’t much like him. When Eva died several years later, however, I was truly saddened. She was a delightful cat and I would miss her company. (I had forgiven her for wading through the cocktail party paté on the dining room table and mewling sadly and long when I tried to make her sleep in the living room). But I was especially unhappy fearing that my New York gig was over. No cats — no cat-sitting — no pretending to live in New York. I promptly offered to buy Wendy another kitten.
But it was unnecessary; Wendy found another kitty on her own. Sheba is a personable young thing who looks a lot like Eva and needs to have a sitter when Wendy goes to Maine. Sheba has proven to be a perfect feline companion these past years. In fact, I rate her now among my very best friends, at least among those who live in that special city I wanted to call home.
©2010 Mary Ann Sternberg for SeniorWomen.com
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