Whether Report

Should I stay or should I go? The eternal dilemma nailed by the Clash was alive for me last week, on the horns of deciding whether to go to New York to see Jessi. Or not. I had an itinerary and the vacation days, but I also had a ton of things to do at home. You know how it is. You have to just go. Or not.

Gven couldn't find substitute teachers on short notice, so I would go by myself. Or not. The first weekend of May is garden planting season and comes but once a year, yet the forecast called for rain in central Swingstate, so I wouldn't get much done in the yard, and I might as well get out of town. It's good to know all those courses in the Department of Rationalization at The Swingstate University went to good use.

I get all the news I need on the weather report.
I can gather all the news I need on the weather report.
Hey, I've got nothing to do today but smile...
The only living boy in New York. (Paul Simon, 1970)

By the time I had baked a loaf of bread to take along, consulted Mapquest, made a list, checked it twice, read the paper, checked Facebook, done a taiji form and sat for 20 minutes, it was getting late. Gven says I have too many disciplines, and she is right, of course. So many must-do practices add up to one bad habit of keeping late hours.

So I slept a little later than usual, packed a bag, brewed a thermos of coffee, stopped at the bank, and headed up the road. A few miles up the interstate, I realized I had forgotten my sleeping bag and water bottle. Call me easily distracted. I was leaving an hour later than planned; the fan belt whined, I needed air, I needed water, and it rained in northeast Ohio and northwest Pennsylvania. Then it cleared and the countryside was beautiful. Central Pennsylvania looks a lot like central Michigan, except older; maybe it's all the pine and poplar trees.

A random barrage of music came through the air to Ranger Hank Ford from a succession of NPR stations. From WOSU to WKSU to WPSU to WVIA to WBGO, I heard the same news all day along with a Beethoven violin concerto, Pink Floyd's "Money," the Chiffons' "One Fine Day," and Booker T's nearly perfect "Time Is Tight" (from 1969) during an interview with Teri Gross. I didn't mind having to switch stations and take what they gave me.

Crossing New Jersey, it started raining again as it was getting dark, and I had trouble reading my directions on the bumpy surface of I-280, but roadsigns made it self-evident how to get to the Holland Tunnel. Coming out the other end in Manhattan, everything suddenly seemed more peaceful and orderly. Canal Street swept me along southward toward the Manhattan Bridge, and by this time I had to pee like a racehorse, but there was nowhere to stop with five lanes of one-way traffic jockeying for position on a Friday night in Chinatown.

After crossing the bridge into Brooklyn, stopped at a red light on Flatbush Avenue, a parking space miraculously appeared at the curb to my right. At the next corner I walked into a watering hole called Junior's Bar, and in my black jeans, boots, and T-shirt brazenly strode past tables with white tablecloths, up the stairs to the restroom, and found relief. I even tipped the attendant who handed me a paper towel.

It was a short drive down Flatbush, out Eastern Parkway, and around the block to Jessi's house. It's not as good as a bicycle, but driving through neighborhoods is a good way to get the lay of the land. Jessi and his housemates were grilling chicken, pork chops, and vegetables in their little back yard, and I got a nice reception and a Guinness. Besides Johnny, Chuck, Corey, Gabi, and Caroline, there were the cats, Lewis and Opie. Inside, the house was littered with musical instruments, bicycles and bicycle parts, books, and vinyl records. I found it remarkably livable.

It started raining again, so we ate a delicious meal inside. Jessi and I took the subway to Grand Army Plaza and walked up and down 5th and 6th Avenues in Park Slope, half looking for a place to stop but primarily walking and talking while getting a good look at a nice lively neighborhood. Jessi let me have his room, so I crashed early and slept like a rock.

It was cool but clear Saturday morning in beautiful Brooklyn. We went for a walk along a different route and saw another side of Park Slope, ending up at the Donut Diner for breakfast. It was early afternoon by the time we got to the MoMA and met up with Alex, who was working at the information desk in the lobby. She kindly got us complimentary tickets and took a break to go upstairs to "Compass in Hand" with geographical themes: spaces, directions, grids.

Jessi and I went up a couple of flights to "Tangled Alphabets," the exhibit I ostensibly came for, and it exceeded my expectations. Leon Ferrari and Mira Schendel have produced a lot of work with text, diagrams, equations, hieroglyphics, mobiles, floorplans, codes, scribbles. The web site doesn't do it justice, and I can't describe it either, so if you're interested in the graphic/spatial/visual qualities of language and symbols, you will have to go see it yourself. I was somewhat enthralled.

And somewhat exhausted, so at closing time a little walk in the park was just what the doctor ordered. Jessi and Alex indulged my need to take half an hour to do a taiji form in a perfect little grove of pine trees in Central Park, and I felt much better. I young man played a flute nearby. You can't plan these things; they just happen sometimes.

We found a bar in the East Village that looked inviting and watched a replay of the Kentucky derby. Jessi had a mint julep in honor of the occasion; I opted for a margarita, and Alex had red wine. Veselka was half a block away, so we enjoyed a hearty Ukranian dinner: beef stroganoff for her, cabbage rolls for him, bigos (hunter's stew) for me.

A quiet evening at home in Crown Heights included part of a Martin Scorcese documentary on Bob Dylan; I think they were indulging me again, but that's okay, it was worth seeing. I slept like a rock again. It was raining Sunday morning, but Jessi had a really big umbrella, so we walked to a bagel shop on Troy Ave. for breakfast. I am such a tourist; every street, every restaurant, every subway, every bookstore is another little pocket of New York culture in my midwestern mind, and it's all kind of welcoming. I had a good time. Thank you.

Even in the rain, the trip back up Flatbush, across the bridge, and Canal Street was smooth. Traffic? What traffic? Crossing Pennsylvania from the Delaware Water Gap into the Chesapeake watershed and across the broad Susquahanna River, I'm getting a different perspective on this big, wide, peculiar state.

The rain stops by the time I re-enter Ohio, and I meet my freshman roommate for our annual vigil at Northeast Swingstate University. Even after the fieldhand omelette at Mike's Place on Water Street, my expenses for the weekend are under $200. Hey, I could do this every few weeks. Or not.