I noticed stuff -- little things, really -- during our early October New York adventure that are worth mentioning.
Jenny and I had flown there when she was 10, to learn French. I'd noticed her aptitude for picking up languages, and felt the time was right. (Her elementary school gladly gave us a two-week leave of absence to pursue this, as she was miles ahead.)
Anyway, 23 years ago we'd found New Yorkers wary, impatient and insular. They'd hurry along, avoiding eye contact, in their own worlds. They'd ignore homeless folks sleeping on/under cardboard, rendering them invisible, and disengage from anything that hinted at possible trouble. "Help, help," triggered run, run. Our taxi drivers suffered "fried nerves" syndrome; offending vehicles were constantly awarded their middle finger. They'd scoff at any tip. Horns honked constantly. It was a relief to stumble into the relative quiet of the school.
This time the change was noticeable. People looked at us. They smiled. Natives willingly offered friendly advice and directions to bewildered tourists. Tips were received with cheerful thanks. Horn-honks had halved. People apologized when we bumped elbows. Two homeless ladies, toting enormous clothes-stuffed bags, acknowledged me on the train, and smiled. A pod of executives actually paused to listen to a street musician, then nodded appreciatively and dropped 10 bucks into the delighted young man's hat.
Surviving, and witnessing, mega-death has indelibly marked this city. Friends and family, just fine one minute, might be utterly gone the next. New Yorkers have learned to cherish the moment.
They will never forget.
This city loves its dogs. Especially well-turned-out dogs. I saw dogs so big they had to be shoehorned into cars. I saw tiny teacup-sized beasts, nattily dressed, microscopic legs a blur as they trotted beside their skyscraper-tall owners. There were tartan-clad, in-between dogs, wearing hair clasps to keep floppy, nattily groomed hair out of button-eyes. Each was connected to its owner by a fancy leash; one bore faux diamonds. The littlest guys wore beautifully fitted harnesses. All kept their barks tucked away; all were well-behaved. So were their owners. Do-do bags, prominently displayed, finished their look.
Veterinarians and dog-groomers would never go hungry, I mused.
"Parked" dogs waiting calmly outside shops for their owners to re-appear, daydreaming about trapped squirrels and treats as they sat, secured to special hooks embedded in the buildings. Passersby respected their spaces.
Some jog-dogs carried brightly colored backpacks that bore bottled water and paperback books. All the animals looked content.
Curiously, dog-men outnumbered women, but hey, it was the weekend.
The sillier New York tabloids, headlining messy pet-custody battles, did a brisk business.
Laughter isn't scarce around here.
While browsing a craft stand I noticed its vendor staring at my head, quizzically. Suddenly she reached past me, giggling, to snatch up a fire-engine red winter cap disguised as a ladybug. "This is you, dearie. Bond with it." I stared. It featured dopey antenna, black insect-eyes, and long, dangling tie-strings. Incredulous, I tried it on. Joe loved it instantly. Jen grinned. I checked the little booth mirror and sighed. She was right. This handknitwit cap was me ...
But wait! In for a penny ..."You need mittens!" chortled Joe. Smirking, the lady whipped out its matching red pair, with a bug atop each. There were no thumbs -- just two big mouths. Huh. Red-faced, big-mouthed and dumb -- this silly set suited my glum mood, as my stupid park misadventure was only minutes old ... Sighing, I bought both, partly as pork chop penance (see last Sunday's column).
Hmmm. Just perhaps, the cap might have a certain insouciant charm ...
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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