Diana & the City
“Joe, what are you planning to do today?”The phone call was a setup. It was a ploy. Far too calculated.
Had she wanted to casually hang out, Diana would have walked out of her mother’s house, cross the street, through my doorway unannounced, and plopped herself onto the couch. It was just that easy for her. A phone call required the effort—that was the first hint.
“Uh, nothing I guess. Why, what’s up?” I knew what was up, but gave the courtesy of a reply.
“Want to come into the city with me today?”
Rephrase that. That simple sentence revealed our entire plans for the afternoon. In Diane-speak, “Wanna come into the city,” translates into, “can you come into the city to help me run a few errands which may require heavy lifting.”
“Uh…” It was too far into the conversation to conveniently back out.
“Good. You can help me move a few things out of my New York City apartment, and then we can stop by Jody’s restaurant for lunch. My treat.”
I could have said no. I could have given her some lame excuse. Hell, I could have even hung up the phone, and then follow up with the lame excuse. But, the truth was she asked. I acknowledged. And that was that.
Besides, I wanted to be out of the house. New York seemed like a good way to get out.
Also Diana was quirky. I like quirky. She was the converse-wearing, retro-bike-collecting, Vespa-driving, lesbian-next-door. And I was her granola-crunching, guitar-struming, MacBook-toting friend. But somehow, we got along like bananas and peanut butter. She made for good company.So, how could I argue? Even if it meant being waylaid by a phone call now and again.
And again.
And…
To be honest, I really wanted to go… even with the prospect of manual labor. As if the lure of the West Village wasn’t enough, Diana promised to take me to her girlfriend’s restaurant where Jodi was head chef. It was a beautiful day in mid-June, and nothing could beat sipping cherry-lemonade and vodka mixed drinks out on the sidewalk.
Fifty minutes and a “small errand” later and we were sailing up the Jersey Turnpike in a beat-up Ford pickup with two leather chairs strapped to the back. Windows down, radio blaring the traffic report, with Newark’s skyline shrinking into the distance. We were approaching the Lincoln Tunnel in record time.
There is something intoxicating about the Lower Manhattan skyline. The city looms over the Hudson, over Jersey City, erect with so much steel, glass, and concrete. A silhouette of contemporary architecture. To think, that someone dreamed and dared to build blocks upon blocks of skyscrapers. Millions of people stacked, in cubic foot upon cubic foot of lower Manhattan office-space, like a Lego creation… of epic proportions.But to enter the city via the tunnel— to travel those soot-covered, fluorescent light metered tubes—is to emerge from beneath the island, thrust into the midst of the city. To be crushed under the density of shadows cast by buildings taller than the sun. Everything in New York is on a grand scale. The mobs of people. The restaurants and bars. The business and arts. It’s so easy to feel diminutive, lost in the enormity of all that is NYC.
The chores were minimal. Drop off this. Pick up that. In less time than it took to drive into the city, we were on our way to lunch. Ahhh, lunch.
June 21st- the summer solstice. And there we were on a Thursday afternoon, sucking down cherry-lemonade and vodka out of a tall glass. Fresh bread and olive oil. Chef Jodi came out from the kitchen and joined us for some appetizers: insalata di spinaci (goat cheese, pine nuts & raisins), fave e pecorino (escarole, fava beans, pecorino, mint & basil), and cacio e pepe (bucatini with pecorino & black pepper). We ordered a main course, dessert, and then Itallian coffee.
The food. The conversation. Watching the midday life of the West Village ebb and flow. The largeness of the moment. This was a great start to the summer.
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