Lately I've been hyper-aware how much noise I'm exposed to in my apartment. The windows and walls seem to let in everything. My brother sent me an email last week saying that they were replacing the windows in the room where I stay when I'm visiting him and that the room should be much quieter from now on. Truth to tell, it's already blissfully quiet to me as it's much, much quieter than conditions here at home. All day and all night I hear every car that goes by in the street, every radio playing in those cars, every group of kids or other pedestrians, every motorcycle, street bike, lawnmower engine, grocery cart, etc. I hear it all. On top of that, my apartment— half a duplex house actually— creaks and groans 24/7. The temperature of the day causes it to make noise as it expands or contracts. I've noticed than even just walking around the house or leaning on a wall can cause a sharp creak or groan. I really need to move...
Back on the east coast, in New York city to be specific, Russell and I have left the News building and the sky is turning from late afternoon to evening. I told you that my camera stopped working in the News building. In fact, the battery was so dead that I couldn't even get the lens to retract to the 'off' position so I had to coddle the camera in my pocket the rest of the day. I was constantly worried that I might scratch or break it in some way. It's an otherwise nifty little camera that takes a high quality picture with little effort.
We began walking west again, but with a block or two we passed a building named the Chanin Building. If architecture is your thing, check out the hyperlink. It immediately caught Russell's eye, drawn as he is to art deco, so we went in and checked it out. Like the Chrysler Building it was a delight, an unexpected one this time. Quite coincidentally, I recognized one brass panel therein that is used as the design for the cover of the current (or recent) editions of Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged.
From the Chanin Building we continued westward until we got to the Public Library. This is the iconic and instantly recognizable building with the stone lions out front used in almost every film in New York city. We went in— past tight security!— and made our way to the map room. After leafing our way through an interesting map book, we both leaned back and relaxed in our chairs, as several other patrons were doing. I confess, I dozed briefly at this time, probably for five to ten minutes, and it was just the rest I needed. We perked up again when the librarian in the room announced that the library was closing in a few minutes. In fact, by this time, it was already too late to go into the enormous room of the general library, which I had wanted to see, so that's something that will wait for my next visit. We joined the line filing slowly through the security point to leave and re-emerged onto the street a few minutes after 6 PM.
The rest of our day was up in the air at this point. Russell wanted to see more, but his knee was visibly bothering him. I wanted to see more, but my back was sore and I didn't want to push Russell. We walked slowly around the library, along an iron fence enclosing a park on the back side. On the far corner we hopped up on some tall chairs intended for use by a coffee stand during the day. Sitting there we discussed our options.
From our spot, right near the corner, we could look north and see a marquee for Rockefeller Center. This was one of Russell's goals for the day. Another spot of interest for me was along the way so it was soon decided that we would slog on. It was turning into quite the walking day. We had bought the subway passes to cover all trips for the day, and then we ended up not getting their full value in use. Oh well, you don't have to walk the streets of the city long to see that everyone around you is thin, and this has to be a by-product of a lot of walking. So, we got on our feet and headed north.
I have said many times over the years that I am the reincarnated spirit of Dorothy Parker. Sarcastic wit in hand, there was no way I could pass by The Algonquin Hotel and not try to see the site of the famous Algonquin Round Table. It was just a half-block off our route so we detoured slightly to reach the front entrance. After a moment's discussion, we plunged in only to discover that it was immediately inhospitable to the tourist or casual observer. There was no large and empty foyer from which we could stand and look into the bar. Instead, we were at the edge of the lounge as soon as we stepped foot inside. Glasses full of alcoholic drinks were everywhere, and the smoke of many cigars hung in the air. There were no open tables, and had there been it would doubtlessly have cost us a pretty penny to occupy one for a few moments. So, with a shrug, we exited mere moments after entering. As consolation I recalled that Dorothy Parker herself had nothing good to say about the Algonquin eventually.
Onward and northward we then trudged the remaining blocks to Rockefeller Center. We turned eastward upon reaching the southwest corner and when we got to the southern entrance we joined a throng of people waiting outside the door. There were a few limos parked there at the curb, and it was quickly evident that this crowd was waiting for someone specific to emerge from the building. (The other option being that there was always a crowd waiting for whichever celebrity happened to enter or exit next.) We stuck to the back of the crowd, two or three persons deep on our side, and only had to wait a few minutes before a tall, graceful, African-American woman emerged. She was quickly hustled into a waiting limo as cameras— serious cameras!— suddenly emerged from every overcoat or bag. We were in a genuine crowd of paparazzi. Upon later discussion, Russell and I had had the same immediate guess when the woman emerged from the building— Michelle Obama. She had the same elegant hair and statuesque poise, but just as quickly we both knew we were wrong. After she had driven off and the photographer in front of me turned around to re-stow his camera, I asked aloud to no one in particular, "Who was that?" She turned out to be Serena Williams, tennis star. (I've just found a picture online that had to have been taken from one of the photogs standing right in front of us. I will make sure it accompanies this paragraph.)
From the southern entrance, we continued our path around the building and next saw the ice skating rink. There were many ice skaters having a good time, and a deep chill came up to us from the rink below. We stood there several minutes, admiring the view. Personally, I can't see this sight— as I had previously four years before— without thinking of the opening credits of The Critic, one of my all-time favorite animated shows. In that sequence, Jay Sherman, the lead character, steps on the ice of the rink, and the entire ice rink shatters, throwing all the other skaters off their skates.
I desperately needed to relieve myself at this point so we completed our circumnavigation of 30 Rock and headed back down to a diner we had seen next to The Algonquin. There's not much left to report about our day in New York city. After dinner, both of us numbed in different regions, we strolled back towards Penn Station, where we waited for the first train back to New Jersey. As much as I praised the train into the city, I was puzzled by part of the process on the way home. There are many, many tracks in and out of Penn Station, and the regular trains do not use the same terminals day in and day out. The 9:06 train back to New Jersey might be at track 8 one day and track 2 the next. To make this even more confusing the, the track does not appear on the departure board until exactly 10 minutes before the train's scheduled departure. This effectively means that you have hundreds of people loitering around the departure monitors until the departure track is revealed. At that time, these hundreds of people then simultaneously begin pushing their way through the hallways and down the staircases to reach the specific set of tracks. It's madness.
We reached Russell's parents' house again about 90 minutes or two hours after catching the train, and I hit my bed hard that night, stopping only long enough to discharge my camera battery from the camera and load it into the charger.
Part 10 and our trip to Atlantic City tomorrow.
Until next time!
"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."— Dorothy Parker, regarding Atlas Shrugged
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