The City and the Snow

Tom’s text message said: “Do you want to stay in NYC hotel overnight Wednesday into Thursday? They are offering due to storm.”

My heart leapt into my throat. Of course, I do! But all the other things: the girls, the studio, shoveling? Probably Cinderella felt something similar when the king announced that ball and her stepmother said: “Of course you can. Only the pots, the floors, the plants.” 

Tom was like a fairy godmother: “ The girls are adults and as long as they have food, they should be fine. The police department posted a request to stay off the streets so schools and everything here will be closed. And the girls can shovel.”

All right! Avos. Byla ne Byla — not translatable from Russian meaning: Whatever. Taking my chances.  With that, all I can say: in your 50’s, escaping to the hotel from your children feels as exhilarating — if not more — as escaping from your parents in your 20’s.

Besides spending the whole night on town with the man of my dreams, I really wanted to see the city in the snow. During the NYU days, I’ve seen New York like this. But back then, other things were on my mind and I didn’t notice. This time, I was paying attention. And the city did not disappoint.

The Village was beautiful as long as you didn’t look down at the slush under your feet. Washington Square Park always brings the best memories and gives me such energy that it feels I can move the buildings around me. 

SoHo added some wind. But it was empty. The hip and hype slid into slush exposing the effort.

Chinatown was struggling to keep business going on Canal and occasional freezing ladies were trying to get me into their underground dungeons for “pokabook, pokabook, watch, watch.” Mott was literally “closed.” No vendors, no outdoor counters filled with greens and fish, none of that characteristic smell.

In Little Italy, no ice was offered at Ferrara on Grand but some maître d’s on Mulberry were still hanging outside trying to lure people in. Tables set on the streets looked like a little a parody on Ferragosto. They made me think of my friend Tanya who left me with the best memories of our day here during San Gennaro.

Downtown, the snow was sticking to both, the bull and the girl. I have never seen the girl before and wanted to see how she was holding up against that bull in the snow. The place of Hamilton’s last curtain call in Trinity Churchyard was quiet and slowly turning white as well. 

Broadway nightlife was going strong and the lines were long for bread and for circuses. That steakhouse, though… One of these days, when we win a lottery…

And the Central Park was pure magic. I happily flowed into the stream of people madly snapping pictures. No one was looking at anyone, everyone was trying to capture the moment. That did not seem possible but I tried anyway.

All this snow created a craving for the Russian fare of my childhood and we finished our snowy afternoon in Russian Vodka Room on 52nd street.  Somehow, this place did not meet the expectations. As usual, we ordered a bunch of appetizers — small plates that allow for better idea of the place and cuisine. Smoked trout seemed to come out of the supermarket plastic bag. Potatoes that came with it were probably cooked the night before and just taken out of the refrigerator. The horseradish sauce seemed to be a dijon dressing from a bottle. Pelmeni were good but they tasted and looked exactly like those we buy at Gourmanoff on Rt 4 only three times the price. In terms of vodka: I do hold my alcohol well but when one doesn’t feel anything after three shots on an empty stomach, one starts to think: Hmm, what am I drinking? Service was pleasant on the surface but the stuff members were engrossed in conversations among themselves and left us with the feeling that our presence was bothersome.

And by the way, Lizzie did shovel.