Personal Yummy #4 (Part 1)

This past October, I traveled to my hometown in the middle of PA for its annual Fall Foliage Festival, a special event with homemade crafts, fresh cider, delicious food, and live music (look forward to more about this lovely festival in a future post). But instead of taking the Amtrak train (namely, the Pennsylvanian) back to the city from Altoona, PA, as I usually do, my mom and I drove back to the city together. She loves the city just as much as I do (we took trips here many times before I officially moved here), so she wanted to visit while the weather was still nice.

We left on a Tuesday and got up extra early to drive back, because we had tickets for a show that evening at Feinstein’s/54 Below, a supper club—known as “Broadway’s living room”—on West 54th Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue. We became a bit delayed because when we stopped to eat breakfast at the Iron Skillet in Carlisle, PA, as we usually do on our way to the city (a couple of hours into our trip), we had to wait a bit longer than usual for our food because the burners were temporarily not working. Plus, the traffic throughout our trip was a bit heavier than we had expected for a Tuesday, especially as we approached the George Washington Bridge a few hours later (the magical outline of the city in the distance).

Nevertheless, we eventually pulled up to the curb in front of my apartment building, as far in front of the bus stop as possible, and I unloaded our luggage—and several other items that I had brought from home (unwittingly, I keep packing more and more stuff into my apartment)—placing our things in the foyer of my building, going back and forth, and back and forth, from the car to the foyer, until the car trunk was completely empty. Then, as my mom took the car and parked it in the parking garage around the corner (we really didn’t have time to look for a spot on the street), I made quite a few trips up and down the stairs in order to get all of our belongings into my fourth-floor abode. Usually I don’t have much trouble going up and down the stairs (which are quite steep), but after having been out of the city for about a week—taking a break from my usual weekly dance classes and my walking around the city—I knew that I was going to feel it in my quads later.

We got dressed quickly, my mom in nice black slacks and a colorful purple top with interesting designs, and me in a glittery black sleeveless dress, a red cardigan, and black heels and stockings. We headed downstairs, grabbed a cab, and were on our way, ready for an evening of music, elegance, good food, and quintessential New York City nightlife.

In about 10 minutes, the cab dropped us off directly in front of the entrance, which is next to the theater that used to be the Studio 54 nightclub—where Warhol and Diane von Furstenberg and many others laughed and glittered and shone—and the theater where my mom and I had seen Cabaret with Alan Cumming a few years earlier. At the bottom of the stairs that led down to the tiny room outside of the underground venue, we were greeted by about three different individuals, one of whom was a young, pretty woman with a velvety voice who offered to take our coats and check them for us. Hearing her distinctive voice, I immediately realized that she was the one who had left me a personable message the previous night, confirming my reservation, which I had thought was a really professional touch. With a seductive voice such as hers, though, I also thought that she should be on stage somewhere, instead of being a worker supporting others who are on stage. But, then again, you never know what is really going on inside of someone, especially on the inside of a New Yorker who is working in a theatrical environment. In her mind, maybe she is already on stage, but it just hasn’t materialized yet.

Another young woman then led us into the main room and to our tiny table, which was located near the right-hand side of the stage and only a few feet away from it—“ringside seating” is their term for it—a bit more expensive than some of the other seats, but a perfect spot from which to enjoy the show (although all of the seats in the club are good). We sat down and I glanced around, noticing that it wasn’t very crowded yet, although the people who were already there were chatting and enjoying glasses of wine and appetizers, obviously so happy to be out on a Tuesday evening. There was a woman enjoying a cocktail and sitting alone at the table to my left, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she had ventured out on her own for a night of entertainment, or whether she was waiting for someone.

It reminded me of the time I had seen a woman sitting alone at Birdland, the intimate jazz club on West 44th Street—her drink, her food, the atmosphere, and the performers on stage were all she needed for company for the entire evening. In fact, I have even done it myself. I once went alone to see a Bruce Springsteen cover band at the B.B. King Blues Club & Grill in Times Square. None of my friends were free to go with me that night (or maybe they just don’t have a connection to Bruce’s music like I do), so I decided to go alone. To be totally honest, there were moments when I felt a bit awkward, especially because I was seated in the middle of a long table with people who all knew each other, but it was an amazing evening regardless. And, when it comes down to it, there is surely something beautiful about being able to experience what you want on your own, and despite what everyone else is doing.

More beautiful—without a doubt—is being out on the town with your mom at a beautiful place in New York City, and it was certainly beautiful and intimate inside Feinstein’s/54 Below, with its dark wood and tiny lamps and cushy leather booths and soft red lighting and walls, and a classy, fancy bar lined with comfortable chairs, nestled up a few steps in the back, behind an elegant railing.

In no time at all, a very friendly, soft-spoken waiter took our drink order, and I requested a glass of buttery Chardonnay. My mom wasn’t yet sure what she wanted (she’s not a big drinker), so she ordered a glass of water for the time being, but she couldn’t stop admiring the cocktail that the woman at the next table was drinking. No longer alone, but now joined by what seemed to be her daughter, her husband, and a good female friend, I eventually tapped her on the shoulder and asked her what she was drinking, per my mom’s request. “Oh, it’s the specialty tequila drink,” she said, pointing it out on the menu. “It’s delicious. I highly recommend it.” The drink was definitely attractive: pinkish-colored liquid (from the muddled gooseberries, I believe) with slices of jalapeño in a rocks glass with a pinkish salt (or sugar) outlined rim. However, after a lot more admiration and a bit of thought, my mom still wasn’t sure if she should order something that strong, so she decided upon a less risky 7Up.

We were quite daring with our food order, nonetheless, not holding back. To start, we dined upon peekytoe crab fritters with avocado, drizzled with roasted tomato vinaigrette. They were—in one word—scrumptious; and, to add a few more: moist and crunchy and flavorful. Next, and for our main course, I decided upon pan-seared arctic char with black pepper and lemon spaetzle, baby artichokes, olive oil, and thyme roasted tomatoes, and my mom chose the farm-raised Amish chicken with buttered parsnips and sautéed dandelion greens. Oh, and I mustn’t forget to mention the large bowlful of shoestring French fries on the side. All of the food was prepared well, beautifully presented, and very pleasing. The only problem was that the show began before we had time to finish our meal, so we didn’t have a chance to order dessert. That turned out to be just fine, though, because the group of bubbly young women sitting at the table to our right and slightly behind us thoroughly took care of that for us. On top of their table sat the key lime pie with brown sugar gelato and whipped cream, as well as the affogato al caffè—or, in other words, the vanilla gelato with a single espresso shot and a waffle cookie crisp. They each had a delicate spoon and were taking turns scooping up and enjoying the lusciousness in front of them.

The show itself—the highlight of the evening, for sure—featured Kate Baldwin, a pretty, blue-eyed, sassy (in the best sense of the word) performer who is a two-time Tony nominee and who appeared in the Hello, Dolly! revival with both Bernadette Peters and Bette Midler. She exuberantly came out onto the stage wearing glittery, gold, stretchy pants and a glittery gold jacket with a black chemise underneath, as well as impossibly high gold stilettos—certainly an indication of the fierce boldness she has exhibited in her life. To be honest, I wasn’t familiar with her or her career before I decided to go to her show, entitled How Did You Get This Number?, nor was I familiar with many of the songs she sang throughout the evening, chosen from the various shows that she has been in over the years, but sitting there and watching her and admiring her and hearing her stories of auditioning, striving, and performing, intertwined with her beautiful singing voice, her humor, and her confident stage presence, was just what I needed.

At the end of the show, Ms. Baldwin graced us all by singing “New York, New York.” That song always fills me with hope and inspiration, but it was even better experiencing it in such a romantic setting, and it was the perfect way to end a perfect evening shared with my mom.

As she and I were paying our bill and collecting our things to get ready to go, I took another look around, trying to take in more of the place before we had to actually leave (they needed to set up for a later show and another performer). As I did so, though, I couldn’t help but notice tears running down the face of one of the young women who had been relishing the desserts earlier at the table nearby. Obviously, she had been very affected by the show, especially the final song.

I knew exactly how she felt. Essentially, I had felt myself getting choked up quite a few times while Ms. Baldwin was singing and telling her stories. But that’s just an inevitable outcome for me whenever I see a performer on stage, living her life to the extreme—being courageous, being vulnerable, putting herself out there, sharing her talent and years of hidden, hard work with others—as we all should really be doing but, in too many cases, aren’t, and for reasons that we think really matter but, in all actuality, really don’t.

Sure, I held back my tears during the show, but the young woman nearby couldn’t. And that’s certainly okay, and—in all sincerity—probably the better outcome in this instance. Because, no matter how many times you hear it, “New York, New York” doesn’t let you forget about the endless possibilities. And what better way to honor those countless possibilities than with tears, the ultimate and endless representation of emotion.

 

Personal Yummy #3

The night before. Excitement at what lies ahead. Packing more than you need—just in case. Sleep interrupted by eagerness…

Sound familiar?

In the summer of 1996, I took a trip from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, with my boyfriend of one year (friend of two-and-a-half). I got up at six a.m., checked the oil and water in my car, threw my luggage in the trunk, and was ready to escape to one of my favorite places. So I picked up my guy, and off we went on our adventure.

Fortunately, unlike a lot of preparations and car rides to go on vacation, which are visited periodically—and sometimes, incessantly—by quarrels over getting ready to go, and, in fact, which direction to go, I am glad to say that ours were free from any of this. And, as my memory serves me, so was the entirety of our trip.

Yes, what stands out in my mind is nothing but fondness and contentment.

We left on a Tuesday and came back on a Friday. Short—you might think—but certainly long enough to enliven and rejuvenate the body and, most importantly, the spirit.

Everything about the trip had significance.

First of all: the motel. I had fears that it might turn out to be—well, in blunt terms—a dump. What—at forty-five dollars a night, in the peak of the season—could one expect? My fears, however, were nonetheless allayed. In fact, the place actually turned out to possess some character. It was painted yellow (my favorite color, believe it or not; the same as my car at the time) and had blue window panes and little black lanterns by each door. On top of that, the name of the establishment was quite interesting: The Fountain Motel. This would usually not be anything important to comment upon, but when the water in the fountain, which was located in the middle of the parking lot of the motel, has trouble rising into the air more than a foot, and reminds me—if I may give it human qualities—of a person trying to wake up very early in the morning, and never quite succeeding, then it is something to remark upon. At the very least, it gave both of us something to chuckle about. And you know what? The motel itself, although modest, was rather comfortable and became like home by the end of our stay.

Moreover, the beach. Nothing can quite compare to the warmth of the sand and the sun, and to the freshness, vitality, and ceaseless moving of the waves. The entire atmosphere of the place is wonderful—everybody mellow and laid-back, with no goal in mind except to enjoy the beauty surrounding them.

Furthermore, everything contributing to the area itself is special: the quaint and cozy beach houses that line the side streets, of all shapes, sizes, and designs, with their owners and their friends sitting on the front porch in the evening and playing cards, or simply chatting and enjoying glasses of red wine; the eclectic shops with both casual and fancy dresses, colorful dangling earrings, candles and soaps of various delicious fragrances, and all sorts of other delights; the busy and active boardwalk; and the intoxicating smell of the night air.

Thus, not only the beach itself, but all the myriad aspects associated with it, had an effect on me.

And—even though the boyfriend of this story is no longer in my life—the entire vacation was all the more precious because I had someone special to share it with. Our lunches at the diner across the street of our motel; the hours spent on cracking and eating hard-shell crabs; the moonlit walks on the pier; the dancing to an oldies band on an outdoor deck: cha-cha-cha-ing to “Blue Moon”; the enjoyment of the water; the waves lapping upon our legs; the refreshing, warm showers after a day luxuriating and reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover on the beach; and the gentle, yet passionate lovemaking under the covers at night… All the moments in life hold so much value, and mean so much more, whenever they are shared with someone you care about deeply.

In simple terms, our trip was magical. Being at a favorite place, and with your favorite person, the one you love:

What could be more perfect than that…

Personal Yummy #2

One sunny and breezy afternoon, on my walk home from having lunch, reading, and writing in Central Park—one of my most favorite things to do when the weather is nice—I arrive at the southwest corner of Eighty-Eighth and Lexington just as an elderly woman with a walker does so. We both wait for the light to turn, and when it does, I proceed to cross over to the northwest corner of the street, although I hesitate a bit, considering whether I should ask the woman, who seems to be in her eighties, if she needs some help pushing her walker over the grooves in the rubber ramp of the curb, because she appears to be struggling somewhat. I hesitate again, however, immediately remembering the time a few years ago when I was on my way up the stone steps to the entrance of Our Lady of Good Counsel on East Ninetieth Street, and having passed an elderly woman in my haste, I thought better of it and turned back around. Looking down at her (she was hanging on to the railing and was having a difficult time at the bottom of the steps), I asked her, in a very agreeable tone, I’m sure, “Do you need some help?” Quite unexpectedly, I must admit—it really knocked me off my rocker, so to say—she flashed angry eyes at me and then said—her voice quite laden with sarcasm—“No, I certainly don’t. Why? Do you???!!!”

Therefore, with my past unpleasant experience in mind (and given my current general attitude that it is usually best to let individuals be independent and fend for themselves unless you are certain that they need assistance), I decide to allow the woman to take care of crossing the street herself. So I don’t say anything. But, in all actuality, I’m finding it hard not to observe her, and I really can’t keep my eyes off her.

She is gripping the handles of her walker as she moves slowly over the curb and onto the street, but what is significant about her is that she is severely hunched over and has to crane her neck all the way up and to the right (her right ear toward the sky) so that she can see where she is going. But what is really significant about her—I just love it so much—is the way she looks. Because of the angle at which her head is turned, it causes her straight, blonde, fashionable shoulder-length hair to fall freely in the air, like a beautiful, shimmering waterfall. And her eyes are protected behind oversize, full, prominent, black Jackie Kennedy–like sunglasses. What’s more, she’s wearing a colorful, sleek, shiny, thin fall coat that she hasn’t buttoned, one that you would most definitely see Carrie Bradshaw showcasing.

Suddenly, I am so happy that I decided not to offer her help. She obviously wanted to conquer getting past the curb and crossing the street on her own, just as she has conquered her infirmities with her girlish, uninhibited style.

She eventually arrives next to me once again, and then the light again changes. I hesitate one more time, certainly not ready to stop observing her. But of course I can’t stand there watching her forever. So I smile in her direction and then go on my way, realizing that it was a beautiful thing to be in the presence of so much gumption, if even for just a moment.

Personal Yummy #1

For many years now, I’ve been a fan of taking walks. Not only does a walk clear my mind, but it gets my endorphins and imagination flowing. Lately—that is, ever since I quit my corporate job and have been working from home—I’ve been taking frequent walks on Madison Avenue (the Madison Avenue of New York City, to be clear). If I’ve been working at the computer for a few hours and I find that my mind is getting tired and I’m feeling a bit restless, I’ll change out of my shorts or sweatpants and put on a pretty dress and some lipstick, and then out the door I go, into the sunshine and on my way to observe all of the beauty that Madison Avenue radiates. I’ll start around Eighty-Eighth Street and then head downtown, and I’ll cover about fifteen or twenty blocks—sometimes less, sometimes more, depending on how I’m feeling and how much time I’ve decided to devote to this energizing activity.

There’s something about surrounding yourself with beautiful things. In essence, it’s as if those beautiful things rub off on you and make you feel beautiful yourself. And there are certainly plenty of beautiful things on Madison Avenue: art galleries and museums; chocolate, pastry, and wine shops; window displays of sexy shoes, elegant perfumes, colorful lipsticks, sleek coffeemakers, and gorgeous dresses; the attractive blond guy with the noticeable blue eyes standing in front of the men’s clothing store where he works, winking, saying hello, and telling you that he really likes the deep purple dress you’re wearing; coffee and tea cafés with sidewalk seating; a young black boy of about ten exhibiting his paintings on one corner, saying as you walk by, “Hello. I’m an artist. Would you like to take a look at my work?”; La Maison du Chocolat, the Paris-based chocolatier that takes chocolate to the next level; Ladurée, the upscale bakery specializing in French macarons in many flavors (you must see the stacks of colorful, Easter egg–colored macarons lining the windows, and the tiny, elegant tea shop with the elaborate tables just inside); La Perla, the fancy lingerie boutique, featured in the “Great Sexpectations” episode of Sex and the City (Season Six: Part One, Episode Two); and, my favorite—I never get tired of walking by it—the inviting façade of The Carlyle, the famous luxury hotel.

Furthermore, it doesn’t even matter if you currently can’t afford those beautiful things. Or even if you don’t have any aims to be able to ever afford those beautiful things. Simply being near them and observing them provides all you need. In fact, research has confirmed that beautiful sights and objects have therapeutic benefits, fulfilling your need for pleasure. Moreover, beauty ignites the relaxation response and spatial awareness.

So, the next time you’re in New York City, be sure to take a long walk on Madison Avenue. However, in the meantime—or even if you never plan on visiting The Big Apple—take a walk on your favorite street in your city or hometown, and enjoy all the beauty it has to offer.

I just bet it’s waiting for you to notice.

Personal (adjective): 1) of, relating to, or affecting a particular person; 2) carried on between individuals directly.

Yummy (adjective): highly attractive, appealing, and pleasing.

Personal Yummy (noun): pursuits and delights that bring me joy and—by sharing them with you—will inspire you to try them out and experience them for yourself, so that you can be joyful too!

About a year ago (one year, two months, and twenty-nine days, to be exact), and after many months of battling it over in my mind, I left my corporate job as an editor in the marketing department of a financial services firm to focus on my passionate pursuits. These pursuits include, among many others, landing a job dancing in a Broadway show, finishing my collection of short stories, vignettes, and character sketches that I’ve been working on for years (off and on, whenever I’ve had the time), and getting the collection published.

These are big dreams, I know. Thus far, I’ve attended countless auditions, certainly learning a great deal about the procedure of auditioning and, most importantly, about how to handle rejection and how to keep going. Moreover, I’ve made significant progress on my story collection (relishing having entire days at a time to devote to working on it, which rarely occurred when I was working at my corporate job), and I am looking forward to submitting the polished draft to agents soon.

What has been best, though, about this upheaval of my schedule and my daily life (it has really surprised me, but I am still adjusting to the change of not having a job to go to every day) is that I have learned to savor the process of attaining my goals, instead of constantly being frustrated by it. When you’re focused on doing that, all of the beauty in so many things—major and minor—shows itself in abundance. And I plan, on these pages, to share that beauty with you.

So get ready for lots of insights and good stories, and a sense of wonder to permeate all you do.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton