New Yorker Envy

I refer to New Yorker subscription envy. Not New Yorker resident envy.

Sure, it would be fun to live in NYC—maybe for a month or a semester. (It’s been decades, but maybe once again I’ll find myself with a syllabus.)

I see myself hitting up the museums I’ve not gotten around to. The Cloisters, for example.

The museums I’ve not gotten to the finish of. The top of the Guggenheim ramp, e.g.

And I would take the bus to museums that were closed on the day that I visited. The Whitney.

When I needed a break, I would sit on the stairs at the Metropolitan and eat a hot dog with sauerkraut while watching the tourists pass by on the Double Decker Bus. This is the only place where I eat hot dogs with sauerkraut. I’ll enjoy the hot dog as much as the martinis and the view of Central Park from the Met’s Roof Garden Cafe. Martinis make me tipsy. Very. Is that why I usually stick to wine? I think I’m now old enough to let my guard down.

Every night I would take a cab to Broadway and see a show, since I have never seen a Broadway show. Broadway cast shows on tour, yes. Actual Broadway cast, no. Yes, I have Broadway envy, too.

And when I missed rolling around in the grass, I would head to Central Park  with a blanket and a thorough spraying with DEET for a total immersion in their microcosm of nature, placed as it is like an open terrarium in the midst of Lego block skyscrapers.

I digress.

I love The New Yorker. I envy a friend’s subscription. The issues are stacked on her coffee table when I visit. I put down my glass of wine and turn to the cartoon. Why can’t I be so witty as that?

I read a paragraph or two, but then my friend has returned to her place across from me on one of her delightfully unique and artistic chairs. Her taste is impeccable.

She eyes The New Yorker in my hand and admits that she has fallen behind.

I, who have just read a wonderful fantasy of reading the stack of New Yorkers in a tropical location, pick up my iPhone and send her the link.

“Estás sola?” I’d been asked, at the airport, and on the bus, and when I ordered my dinner later at the open-air restaurant. Are you alone? I liked the way the word sounded when put to me in Spanish, like a woman’s name fashioned from the English word ‘soul.’”

I get that a lot, too. Enjoy.


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