Once in the Bleecker Street stop of the Lexington line in NY, on a hot August day, I was musing on the wretchedness of the subway and then the train came in. The wheels grinding on the rails was a screech from Hell. My shirt stuck to my bod. I clapped my hands over my ears, trying at the same time to hold on to my tote bag. And I had this thought: There must be a God. This shit is not random.

Riding the subway every day in NY was exhausting and full of discomfort and once I moved to join Ed in his apartment in Queens, the journey was even longer to get to my classes and I had to change trains twice, with stairs in between. I would take the F train and often thought as it came late into the station, “they don’t call it the F train for nothing.” If I was running late for class, it was excruciating to know that all three trains might be having problems. Sometimes I would jump off the third train if I was anywhere near my stop and sprint to 57th St. and Broadway to the Broadway Dance Center.

I have often thought that if our apartment in Queens could miraculously be relocated into something like the Ansonia (apartment hotel, former home of Plato’s Retreat – sex club waxing high before the aids scare), on 74th and Broadway, we never would have left New York. From that location, you walk to Lincoln Center. Even a walk to 5th Avenue and 53rd St. to go to the Museum of Modern Art is no more than 35 minutes, and I easily walk an hour every day just to get to a modest park, let alone great art. And it is only minutes from Sophie, my much missed piano mentor. On our first meeting, she said, after a demonstration, that she didn’t know where to start. Thirty years later she said she was happy with me.

“My goal for you,” said Sophie, “is that I can sit on the sofa and you play for me without interruption.” And I said, “Sophie, my dear, Horowitz could play for you and you would stop him on the third measure.” That boggled her.

Speaking of great art, Ed came home from the Chamber of Commerce Friday after his volunteer stint and said one of the local artists had hung her work there. He opined to an unsuspecting tourist who remarked on them, “They make me want to go out and buy a cheap sofa.” They love him at the Chamber.

He said last night, as we were on our way to the wine tasting, that he would behave himself and not make any smart remarks. Don’t cramp your style, darling, I said, doing an imitation of my gracious self.

Because it was a wine tasting with a group we were meeting for the first time, I had high hopes. I thought there has to be some culture here because it isn’t Dr. Pepper they are drinking. And as I said in my post, it was a good group and I had a fine time.

They also had a piano and I was asked to play, but I did not because when I drink, my hands turn to spaghetti. Another time perhaps, when, if we continue, we may host a tasting.

Thas’ all.
Xx, Teal