Museum as church, church as museum

Our arrival in New York was delayed by the closure of the Pennsylvania Turnpike and a missed entrance ramp to the New Jersey Turnpike, but in the end our timing was perfect. We were traveling two days after the storm that dropped a foot or two of snow on most of the Northeast, and the evidence increased the farther east we got along I-70. By the time we crossed the Verrazano Bridge from Staten Island into Brooklyn, snow was piled up everywhere on major streets, and many side streets were impassable.

When we finally turned onto Dean Street, a couple of men had just shoveled an SUV out of a parking space two door down from our rental just in time for us to pull in. One of them was our landlord for the week, Niya [NAH-yuh] Bascom, who was kind enough to be out there to guide us in after a long drive. We didn't move our Toyota Echo for the next three days. By Friday some of the snow had melted and the plows had come through, so it was easy in and easy out, the kind of thing you can't plan.


Niya's house is a nice six-unit brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street a couple of blocks from where Crown Heights meets Bedford-Stuyvesant. Our two-room studio on the first floor had plenty of space and all the amenities we needed. He was a great host. In fact, we had only positive encounters in our Jamaican neighborhood. The civility of Brooklynites was impressive. Maybe it was the leveling effect of everyone having to deal with two feet of snow. Or maybe it's just Brooklyn.

What were we doing in New York, you might ask. Our son Jessi had spent the week of Christmas in Ohio, so Gven and I decided to drive back with him and stay a couple of days to see his new place and a bit of the city. When we got settled on Dean Street, we walked a few blocks up to Fulton and Nostrand, then up the four flights to Jessi's apartment. Yup, that's a lot of stairs for us old folks, but it probably keeps the rent low.

So part of our mission was accomplished. We met two of his three housemates, inspected their very neat, updated space, and verified that yes, you can indeed see the Empire State Building from the kitchen window. We went out to get a bite to eat, and the man at the juice bar on the corner knew Jessi and asked him how his Christmas had been in Ohio. Jessi grinned and asked how things are in Burkina Faso. He introduced us. We got a papaya juice and a chili dog and called it a day.

We slept like we had just driven for 14 hours and walked to breakfast at a bar called Bush Baby on Fulton St. Then, because the Franklin Ave. shuttle wasn't running, we walked about a mile to the Brooklyn Museum. The sun was shining, most sidewalks had a narrow path shoveled through the snow, and it was fine.


Each of us likes to move through a museum at our own pace, and it was easy to spend half a day there, take a break for coffee, and not get lost. I had never seen Judy Chicago's The Dinner Party, and it more than lived up to it's inspiring reputation. Gwen told me I should see the exhibition by Fred Tomaselli on the fifth floor, and she was right, it was stunning. He layers materials - leaves, feathers, pills, cut-out images of body parts - in acrylic with a collage-like effect that has to be seen.


Just as it was getting dark, we walked across a tiny corner of Prospect Park and down Flatbush to Cubana Cafe for dinner. Excellent mojitos, excellent service; bring cash because they don't take VISA. Then we walked around some more, but the really cool bars were too crowded, so we walked some more and found a great little bookstore. Why is there more of everything in New York? Because it's New York! And bring your walking shoes.

We had a definite goal the next day for breakfast. On our last New York trip, Gven and I stayed in the East Village and met Jessi at B & H Dairy, his favorite diner on Second Avenue, which is said to serve the best borscht in the universe. It was Saturday morning and the place was packed, but we found a small table in the back and drank coffee while observing the Polish matriarch at the end of the counter keeping an eye on the place while peeling potatoes. When Jessi arrived, there was nowhere to sit, so I suggested that we find another place to eat. Later I regretted this decision, so this was our second chance at the B & H.

It was totally worth it. I didn't see the old lady, but the young man waiting tables refilled our coffee cups and yelled our order to the cook: "Pierogis, cheddar-apple omelette, French toast, Mummy, Daddy."


It was a sunny day in Manhattan, and our mood was ebullient on the way to our next destination in SoHo. Gven wanted to look at knitting supplies at Soho Purl on Broome Street, a place she had admired online, and Jessi took me a block north to The Evolution Store on Spring Street, where among the fossils, stones, and bones I found a book about the natural forms of flowers, stems, shells, and skin that made my eyes bug out the way Fred Tomaselli's art had the day before.

We were beginning to figure out a few of the worst-kept secrets of the New York subway system and quickly found ourselves on the Upper West Side at a table in the back corner of a Hungarian cafe across the street from the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Am I in heaven? No, but it's probably a little like Budapest. I can still taste the almond pastry.


The cathedral itself is somewhat overwhelming, which might be the point of Gothic architecture in general and this amazing specimen in particular, built on a rocky outcropping in the most exclusive quarter of the wealthiest city in the richest country in the world. If the vaulted ceilings, tiled floors, stained glass windows, larger-than-life statues of saints, ring of chapels encircling the altar, and string orchestra rehearsing in the nave don't take your breath away, you might want to check for a pulse. Not quite a conversion experience, but close.

Did I mention that it was our anniversary? Yes, our last day in New York - and part of the rationale for the trip - was the 32nd anniversary of the wedding of Sven and Gven Golly all those years ago in Atlanta. We celebrated year 30 in Chicago and now year 32 in New York, maybe our 35th should be . . . in Budapest, or Prague, or Oslo! Let's think about that for a few years.

Our tour guide Jessi and co-conspirator Alex had picked out the perfect restaurant in Greenwich Village. Like kids out on a date in the big city, Gven and I navigated the A train to Washington Square and walked a couple of blocks to Bleecker Street and Trattoria Pesce Pasta. The lobster ravioli was righteous, the tortellini was terrific, and the wine was wonderful.

The Donut Diner in Park Slope was our final breakfast destination and another favorite place of Jessi's where they know him and welcomed us. The Greek omelette was average, but the complimentary glazed donuts were melt-in-your-mouth yummy. Long story longer, we emerged from our free parking place unscathed, crossed back over the Verrazano Bridge and out the Jersey Turnpike, and with the help of a rivetting book on CD by Nick Hornby made it home a few minutes before midnight to toast the New Year.