(A Christmas vacation vignette)

Lisa and I choppered onto Manhattan island yesterday morning. We’d both felt toasted—so we took naps—and yay! We awoke recharged.

Later that evening, Lisa and I were at the ‘Elsie’ Rooftop Bar, in Manhattan, waiting for Lisa’s boyfriend, David.
Ok, man-friend? More age appropriate I suppose, he’s 27, but that description doesn’t have the same bf slap.
Dave’s a Wall Street M&A guy and they’ve been together for over a year - a future for them seems very real.

Slinky, jazz-like versions of secular Christmas favorites were playing somewhere and it’s a groove I slipped into immediately. We had reservations and I’d misbegottenly hoped for a five-star, breathtaking city view, but the indoor tables turned out to have these uncomfortable, high-backed, bench-like seats that face away from the windows—***? I made a mental note to check website pix in the future. The place is in need of some serious feng shui-ing.

Disappointed, I asked for a side table where there was, at least, a pitiable skyline view and I placed my iPad, volume down, on the table so I could side-watch the Thursday Night football game—hey, I’m not meeting MY boyfriend, ok? As the official third-wheel, I figured I’d need a little entertainment.

After a few moments, a waitress came by and she paused to look us over with a cat-like indifference that signaled she was better than me, better than us really. She was just cooler.
I was delighted—why am I drawn to people who look down on me?
I suppose I need years of psychoanalysis—but who’s got the time?

I glanced at Lisa. We know each other at a cellular level. With a milli-second of lash flutterings and eye dilations, I asked “are you getting this?” And she affirmed that she was. Because we’re cyborgs. A couple of cyborgs.
Just kidding. We’re not cyborgs, neither of us. We wish we were sometimes—think of the advantages, you could complete college in a blink—wirelessly.

Anyway, back to the narrative. The waitress reminded me of when I was starting high school and my mom and I toured colleges, how snooty the Harvard people were, even though I’d been accepted and offered a free-ride scholarship—I mean, shouldn’t we all have been one, big, self-congratulatory snooty-group together?
(Of course, I chose Yale because the people were totally friendly).

“I better get used to it,” I side-bar’d Lisa, who got the reference to my upcoming, year-long, master's program at Harvard—because we’re cyborgs. I handed ‘Laura’ (our snooty waitress was tagged) my Black American Express card, which got her attention, and said, “start a tab please—someone will join us—run a 40% tip too,” I added with a smile. She practically jogged off to get our drinks and hors d'oeuvres and I turned my attention to the game, you know, to catch up.

I love Pro football—it’s not really fall without football—is it? Even though Tom Brady retired. This all goes to say that I’m a pro football ******. Lisa likes it too, though she’s not totally obsessed.

Just after Laura brought us our martinis and ‘poached lobster’ slides, a random, well-dressed man (he was wearing an expensive Brioni, wool linen silk suit), 35-ish, receding mousy-brown hairline, high-ball glass in hand, took the opportunity to stop by and chat. “SO,” he said, in a deep, jolly, ice-breaking salesman’s voice,
“You girls like football?”
I decided that the suit was too shiny for a Brioni—was it a Zegna?—I idly wondered.
“We’ve boyfriends,” Lisa announced, almost apologetically, nodding to include me—in case he missed the plural. Undeterred, he swiveled my way—as if he needed a second opinion—and asked me,
“What do you like about football?” He sounded somewhat condescending to me, so I did what I always do with condescending males—I played the ‘ditzy-girl’ card, “The costumes,” I answered.
“The uniforms,” he gently, fatherly, corrected—before rocking back a little on his heels and sipping his drink.
“And the hats,” I updogged, but before he could digest my reply, David, Lisa’s man-friend, arrived on the scene.
“Sorry to be so late,” he said, giving me a little, jiggly, 4-finger wave, shedding his coat and giving Lisa a smooch on the top of her hair.
The salesman wordlessly took his leave.
It’s a night on the town—let the 3rd-wheeling begin!
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Songs for this:
Diamond Dave by The Bird and the Bee
You Belong to Me by Vonda Shepard
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And a Christmas Playlist - because the big day is 8 days away!
http://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_24.mp3

Paris is so beautiful, that it’s emotional,
like the red tile roofs of Rome,
or the Kenroku-en gardens of Japan.

It’s a relatively large world.
Whenever you can fly over an ocean
you feel limitless, and godly,
like the world is there for you, on demand.

Speaking of God-like views, I’m headed
to Lisa’s (parents) Manhattan highrise again
this year for Thanksgiving—six, very-long days
from today—and I have to wait—but I can’t wait.

I’m starting to stuff things into my bag, like a turkey.
There are so many holiday things to do in Manhattan.
Things that invariably whip you up for a sparkly Christmas.
But these are only commercial attractions—planned distractions.

One frosty November-break morning, two years ago,
a tide of clouds had rolled in, like a trillion tons of cotton
candy had been dumped on New York city, overnight,
filling it up to the 42nd floor. It glistened there, below us,
in the klieg-bright sun, like Tiffany diamonds on cotton.

So, imagine that, then add a flock of geese, in military-like
v-formation flying just at the crest of the glitter, like dolphins
hopping in and out of the waves, as they passed above the
insignificant works of man. It took my breath away.

So, naturally I grabbed for my fancy phone with its super-duper,
high-res camera. The snaps did the glorious scene poor justice—
the majestic, wild geese came out as dots on glare.

I’m watching things carefully this year, not just the multicolor, cachet, window displays on Fifth Avenue and the decorations at the Chelsea Market (where Oreos were invented). I’m going to capture this year
—every intense, emotional second—with that most unreliable, 3D
gadget of all—Memory.
.
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A song for this:
Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham

i love that word, puttering, my adjective
of early morning rambling, world examining,
in the early AM, treading barefooted
from room to room, a list prestablished,
+ tidy up the prior evening’s laziness,
unload with complete silence the
prior nights dishwasher, homework,
prep the couch back to pre~beat~up presentability,

make the first 16.5 .oz of Blue Mountain
Hawaiian coffee, in my art history
McIntosh mug(1),
prepare the first of the day’s bitesized
edibles,
a:k:a, Kashi crunchies, so the coffee all
falls down  to a well~recv’d internal welcoming

the timing is off, the clock has changed,
it is early but not really, I’m constantly
recalculating ‘real time’ until confused,
substituting the internal locked-in clocking that ultimate divination of right and wrong,
the betting app informs us of the
under/over hours really slept line
set by Las Vegas oddsmakers

but as usual, the digression omens come
fast and furious, up in the sky apartment
is an oasis of cloud quietude,
(where the latitude and longitude
inter-sec, where the cleansed sun softly)

ah quietude, an envelopment noun
favored over the pedestrian quiet,
my ears,
fulfilled by music via noiseless earbuds,
fills the soul, it is the milk in the
morning coffee brew of the
crossover silence, tween the skyed division

check on the woman, deep asleep,
(pronouns: she/her/mine)
her arm thrown across my empty pillow, as if holding my place in line,
like besties in second grade, a warning to other potent interlopers,
so
withdraw silent to finish the routine that
is so comforting, the polit~noise chatter has
not yet invaded, all of its associated
malice’s tumult, kept away at bay
with forethought,
and instead, thus, I, write,

in this quilt of solitude, not alone,
write of this companioned morn~born~rituals that
will be one day,
be renamed,
as a

mourning ritual,

when
when life ruefully states in its
arrogant ~ don’t ~ care, no ways,
now that,

When,
one of us, be
sleeping permanent, and the
silence be reformatted, recalculated,
the coffee will taste different, and
the footfalls no longer unsqueaking,
no need, cause the solitude is just
renamed as loneliness, and though
the tears emanate from same tear ducts,
the causal reasoning is reversed,
no longer
celebratory, and with no one to show it off,
to share,
no punch in the arm gasp
of loving recognition,

I perforce new habit,
will read this puttering,
now stuttering poem

someday as a new summary,
a substitutable morn chore,
absent
a chorus of a
singly
singular
beautiful quiet but only
memorized,
silenced applause

Students everywhere feel a close relationship with summer. It develops early and you never lose it. It’s durable.

Let's  poeticize..
It was a youthful summer of unblemished mirth.
In play, our youthful hours were freely spent.
We bore such idleness - we were indulgent.
Until Lisa confessed she was less so content
and longed desperately for a ‘wholesome reunion’
with her love (Dave) and to resume that courtship in the same
fevered spirit as when they last parted, in Paris.

“Life’s complicated,” Lisa offered, at the end of our talk.
“So complicated,” I agreed.
It’s amazing how quickly a plan can coalesce.

ANNND, we’re back in Manhattan, at Lisa’s (parents) 50th floor residence.
I asked Karen (Lisa’s Mom) once, “If you own this (a floor of a building) is it called an apartment, a condominium..,” my voice faded on the question.
“A residence,” she answered after a moment’s thought. She’s a lawyer.

Georgia got too hot. Not to dwell on the grotesque side of girlhood - but enough sweat already.
Shakespeare (Henry IV) wrote, “sweat extraordinarily, if it be a hot day.” Yep, done that - for really.

In lieu of all our pains, we now want AC, high-end amenities, constant concierge services and stunning views.
We’ll be back in New Haven in nine short days - and back in class in eighteen.
Call 911, someone’s stolen our summer!
.
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Songs for this:
New York City Serenade by Bruce Springsteen
New York State of Mind by Billy Joel

Slang..
Chick-fil-a = the best place ever
jade = *****
brooke = gorgeous
mishin = the boss, as in “You aren’t the boss of me.”

We’re on vaycay. School is OVER, COVID is over. We’re in New York City and we’re doin’ the town this time. Lisa told me, “You showed me Paris last summer, now I’m going to show you New York City.” Her mom, Karen, smiled and gave a little sideways, “Yes, yes we ARE’ nod.

Leong and Sunny, two of my Yale roommates, and my BF Peter are staying in Lisa’s (parent’s) 50th floor Manhattan apartment for the week. The apartment is singularly stunning, with its all-glass views of Central Park and the city, but it only has five bedrooms - so we’re doubled up a bit.

One of the things that makes Manhattan chick-fil-a, is that the Broadway theaters are 15 minutes from Lisa’s door. You step out, whirl around Columbus Circle and you’re on Broadway! Minutes later, you’re in your seat, Oh, and don’t forget to get the cinnamon crusted almonds.

We saw ‘Bad Cinderella’ the night before last - that was only a ‘West End’ show (I’m learning to be a Broadway snob). Tonight, we’re going to see Hamilton. Last night, we saw ‘Hadestown.’ I didn’t know anything about ‘Hadestown,’ but Leeza (Lisa’s 13 year old sister) has seen it three times now.

We’d just finished lunch and Lisa started off a debate. “Is Orpheus (one of Hadestown’s leading characters, played by Reeve Carney) superhot - the hottest man alive - or is he the littlest jade ever?
“He’s brooke,” Leeza swooned dreamily, fanning her face as if it’s hot, “I’d definitely hit that.”
Lisa gasped, “shutUP, you aren’t “hitting” anyone.
Leeza’s been driving Lisa up-the-wall all morning. We had Pancakes and bacon for breakfast and Leeza’s been all rude and maple sugar buzzed ever since.
“You aren’t mushin,” Leeza snorted, and as Lisa gave her a threat-laden look, Leeza finished with, “that man can get it.”
I’ve seen this before - and these sisters are heading for it.

Leong adds “Orpheus sees a submissive woman in distress. What he thinks he sees, is a typically beautiful woman, by societal standards, who he knows nothing about - and he’s like, ‘I want to marry you.”
Sunny leaned into the conversation fiercely, saying, “He doesn’t KNOW her! Wouldn’t you just punch that guy in the face?”
“Probably,” I answered, laughing, “if he weren’t in a frigging MUSICAL!”

“Excuse me,” Lisa interrupts, “you’re telling me that this scene doesn’t perpetuate the idea that only looks matter?” As one of the most beautiful women in the WORLD, Lisa is sensitive to objectification.

Sunny adds, “One reason to cancel him - I assume we’re trying to cancel him now - is that he sees a woman in distress and says ‘that’s the one, the love of my life,’ - a beautiful woman who can’t survive on her own.”

“She didn’t need him,” I suggested, “he was a burden on her.”    
Peter, who’s been working away on his laptop, looked up and said, “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

Leeza, snarked, “Then go back to your little coding.”
I think I gasped and Peter looked a little shocked.

When Lisa, who’d gotten up to get some ice, heard that comment from Leeza, she said, “THAT’S IT,” in a steely voice.

Leeza, who was sitting with her back to the kitchen on the huge white sectional, had a millisecond to look over before Lisa pounced on her. She came in from her backside rolling over onto Leeza, trying to cover her mouth.

Leong, and Sunny, who’d never seen these to wildcats at it before, squealed and flinched out of the way. Peter, an only child, found this delightful and hilarious. He burst out laughing with glee, as he too, cleared some space.

“You’re trying to silence me!” Leeza yelled, giggling and grabbing Lisa’s arms as they got into a full, sister wrestling, flailing ball of hair and arms. Rolling off the couch and onto the floor. “SHUT UP,” Lisa demanded at the top of her voice.
“She’s trying to silence me!” Leeza howled again, “I will not be silenced!” This match continued for a hot minute until Lisa got Leeza’s arms pinned with her knees.
“Apologize!” Lisa said, out of breath, as she began to ponytail her hair.

“Excuse me,” Leeza yelled, herself gasping for breath but trying to blow strands of her red hair out of her face and wiggle free. “I’d like my lawyer - get OFF me - you ******* Karen!”

When that doesn’t work Leeza starts yelling, “HELP, MOM, ****!!” at the top of her lungs.

Karen, on a laptop in a glass walled alcove just off the living room, had seen the whole everything. Folding down her laptop lid, she stuck her head out and said, “Girls.”

Then Michel, their dad, is in the doorway, “What are you two doing?” He asked softly.

The fight immediately broke up, Lisa and Leeza sheepishly disengaging. “Nothing,” they said, together in near perfect union. Lisa gave Leeza a wide-eyed, tilted head look and Leeza said, “I’m sorry Peter, I was only foolin’ around.”
“I know,” Peter replied, chuckling, “but it was worth it.”

Sunday - drum roll please - this Sunday (Mother’s day), we’re going to see Taylor Swift in concert.
On Monday, Peter and I jet off to Paris (and Saint-Tropez) for 10 days. He’ll get to meet my Grandmère and Uncle Remy - I’m SO hyped.

I’m squeezing a lot into the first three weeks of summer. My fellowship starts June 1st, and that’ll take all of June and July. I can’t wrap my head around being a junior next year. Where’s the time GONE?

Ever snorted *******?
I watched some partiers snort ******* last night,
in a dark, Manhattan nightclub corner celebration.
But I’ve never crossed that line. The white line.

When offered some, with unctuous camaraderie,
I shrugged and said, “No, sorry, I’m allergic.”
What are you supposed to say, “Crack is whack,”
or “I prefer my coke with *** and ice?”
The white line. I don’t cross the line.

It’s not the first time, of course, I saw more drugs
in high school than I have at Yale. I’ve mostly seen
“study drugs,” there, like provigil, adderall and alza (concerta).
Do they give students an advantage? I don’t know, maybe.
Call me a boxcut or a squarepants, but my parents are doctors,
and I just don’t cross those lines - those little white lines.

Leong's watching TikTok on her laptop (as always) and she asks Lisa (a NYC girl) “Are you familiar with the the “downtown girl” aesthetic?”
Lisa’s dismissive, “Yeah, it just looks like Urban Outfitters grunge to me.”
Leong explains, “It includes headphones and it’s supposed to be a Lower Manhattan style.”
“Yeah,” Lisa snorts, “Because Greenwich Village and the Lower East Side are SO cohesive.”

Lisa considers herself an Uptown girl (like the song) even though 59th Street, where she lives, is the border between Uptown and Midtown Manhattan. I’m learning that these distinctions are culturally key to New Yorkers.

“And,” Lisa adds, “why would someone wear, and lug around, giant, clunky headphones when you can use AirPods??”
“Amen sister.” I proclaim and even Leong nods in agreement.

“Later, Sunny, Leong and I are on a study break, eating salads and talking about who we hope Yale invites to the next “Spring Fling” concert. We aren’t being realistic; we’re covering who we wish would come. I’d named Charlie Puth, “Kat-Tun!” Leong squealed (A Japanese boy band - apparently Chinese girls LOVE their boybands) and Sunny countered with Ed Sheeran.

“I don’t like Ed Sheeran,” I mumbled, making a yuck-face.
“Why no Ed?” Sunny gasps with shock (She’s a big Ed fangirl).
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “he’s a star by all measurable metrics,” I admit, “but,” I fade out.
“You want my theory on Ed hate?” Sunny offered, “He’s beyond talented vocally - whoever your favorite artist is, Ed’s probably not that far behind. He’s a stellar song writer and he’s making hit after hit; do you want my theory?”
“Too basic, too popular?” I guess.
“No, he’s not appealing to the gaze,” Sunny states.
“The gays?” Leong questions, stepping back into the conversation.
“No,” Sunny corrects, “the gaze - G-A-Z-E, he doesn’t try to look pretty all the time.”
“Ha!” I snort, “Gaze, I thought you meant gays too,” as Leong and I chuckle together.
“No,” Sunny laughs, “nothing like THAT. Ed’s just not trying to be a heartthrob, he knows that’s not his core strong point - and that’s why he’s discounted.”
“Like lesbians don’t comb their hair or wear makeup and wear pajamas to class” Leong observes, “they don’t want to attract the male gaze?”
“No, we’re not imbued by the male gaze.” Sunny states, “Ed just wants to lowkey.”