Earlier tonight the New York Philharmonic opened its 168th season and its guest artist was Renee Fleming but I tuned in too late and missed her. Instead I heard a lengthy piece, Berlioz’ Symphonie Fantastique (sic) and it is boring beyond belief. I don’t know if this was Alan Gilbert’s interpretation or what. He is their new conductor. I, the jury, won’t render an opinion yet. The musicians moped along, mostly in pianissimo, and occasionally an exciting drum roll, like a mountain rumbling. That was it. I still wanted to be there, damn it.

I happened on this telecast by accident, having started to watch Criminal Minds, a rerun, but I decided after the opening scenes that I wasn’t in the mood for another graphic depiction of a serial killer taking the life of a young prostitute while her brother was looking for her to save her.

While watching Gilbert and the Phil, I was overcome with an intense feeling of nostalgia and wished I was there in the audience and that at the end of the performance, I would walk out onto Broadway on a perfect New York September night, mingling with the dispersing crowd. Perhaps Ed and I would decide on a coffee and dessert and walk to Fiorello’s nearby before catching a cab. Or, in a more perfect world, we lived at the Ansonia (the poor man’s Dakota*) in a large apartment and could walk home.

But all of that was fantasy and instead I was lying on the floor so my back would not go into spasm and looking at the TV. Cats walked by and I'd grab at one or the other. Max (formerly Toots, a name I did not like – what the hell, he doesn’t come anyway) walked by on his way to the pool door where he scratched at the glass. But I don’t like to let him out at night.

I could actually smell the New York night air and, if you have lived there long enough, your nose automatically separates the exhaust fumes from the oxygen. Honest. Dick Cavitt said it best: “I don’t want to breathe anything I can’t see.”

Sigh.

xx, Teal

*the Dakota, for those not familiar with New York, is a landmark apartment building, a gothic fortress on Central Park West. It is an architectural wonder, with an inner courtyard that is immense and beautiful. John Lennon lived there and it is also where he was gunned down, at the entryway. Some apartments there go for $20 million. That is not a typo.