After a few wrong turns and a brief self-led tour of the wrong side of Yankee Stadium, we made it to Woodlawn by one and caught the 4 to Grand Central. We emerged from the subway like a pair of track mice set free, blinking in the chromed winter sun and staring wildly up at the gargoyles high atop the Chrysler Building. The scent of kabobs and roasted nuts whipped past us and glided down the busy streets, weaving in and out of traffic as quickly a bike taxi, smelling only slightly better. It was a long walk to Times Square, but our legs were fresh and seeing the ball set up for tomorrow night’s celebration made it worth while. We found a hole-in-the-wall pizzeria with outstanding pepperoni pizza and an ancient Italian man in a white apron who looked to be a relative of either Columbus or Colombo.
Our next stop was Chinatown. As we ascended the steps from the 9 station, we immediately became drops in the ocean. Canal Street was nothing but a writhing, bubbling mass of humans sweeping down the streets and avenues, splashing up against the buildings, swirling and eddying and carrying with it countless bagged and pocketed sale items, paper lanterns, folding fans, jade statuettes, silk kimonos, fat and happy idols, thrown to the horde by merchants. But the wild and unusual items in some of the open-air markets on Mott Street proved most interesting – dried sea cucumbers, bagged squid, puffed fish, almond and sardine snacks, shitake mushrooms. I even felt a tinge of sympathy for the piles of fish in cardboard boxes with their gills still pumping for breath.
Back up to 51st Street. We walked to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral and waited in line to catch a glimpse of the decoration. Another sea of people, only this time, they were producing fire and the sight was both spectacular and sobering—thousands of misguided souls. I couldn’t stay for long. Just outside and west a bit we found the enormous tree in Rockefeller Center preceded by a row of trumpeting light angels (announcing man’s glory I assume). Carol of the Bells began to play and behind us on the Saks 5th Avenue store an entire fiber optic snowflake show shimmered in time to the music. At the end, the tree flashed with miniature strobe lights above hundreds of sherbet colored people circling the ice rink below.
Any trip to New York City without a taste of its edgy annoyance would be incomplete, so we found our way to Ellen’s Stardust Diner, waited obscenely long for a seat, sat at a cramped, public table and got harassed by the manager well before our waiter said hello. Then it was off to another restaurant, another line, another hour long twenty minutes, another chance to rest our weary feet and watch countless limos pass by on the street below. A mouthful of steak, some green beans al dénte and baked potato soup before we marched out past a hungry crowd that we could genuinely sympathize with.
Determined not to let dinner spoil our NYC time, we hailed a bike taxi—for those who’ve not seen this marvel, imagine a modern day rickshaw weaving in and out of traffic making better time than the limos stacked four wide and Manhattan deep. A mere twenty dollars to mingle with the automobiles, see Times Square from the dead center and experience some of the most pleasant brushes with death this side of bungee jumping. What a steal! Our driver pulled up to Grand Central and we tipped him handsomely for covering our laps with an old blanket and taking our photo at a red light.
A laser danced around the station’s ceiling as we entered, inscribing in emerald light the word “mistletoe” beneath a poor representation of the same, as if we needed clarification. I thanked aloud the brilliant minds behind the idea and after taking a few photos for couples I did not know, we boarded the 4 and headed back to Woodlawn. Fortunately, we were much less misguided on the trip home and we arrived safely, a little more tired, a little less moneyed, a great deal happier. And we topped off the whole thing with a dollop of It’s a Wonderful Life—a tasty conclusion for any feast of a day.
