The girls were stellar to me, cause it’s not easy to hit the boulevard with such a hazard. They gave me the city in every imaginable way. Dora and her miracle apps laid hands on Library Hotel, the marvelous printed word meets hospitality spot which I craved to explore from the very second it lit up on the sleek screen. At 299 Madison Avenue, with entrance on 41st Street, you are suddenly swept into a sanctuary of good taste, that kind of atmosphere where I surrender like into an embrace for life. The lobby lures you quietly with books and wood the color of slow love, and after I filled the senses with the hint of the promised land I was smoothly directed toward the elevator. I reappeared at the other end on 14th floor, only to lose my minds once again. Rain was beating on the beautiful terrace surrounded by shameless skyscrapers and the middle, covered in glass walls, gave an intimate respite from too fierce buildings, too maddening rhythms, too unforgiving seconds. But after resting for a while, the skyscrapers themselves became a safe harbor. This would have been a feast on a sunny day too, but given under the mood of rain, it couldn’t escape but become the very metaphor of relaxed intimacy, inviting privileged savoring and contemplation, indulging the dangerous, ohh so dangerous appetite of my soul.
We took the couches and unraveled menu and memories, far away from the unforgiving eye of time, above the maddening crowd, but still strong and stubborn accomplices to intricacies of life as an unexpectedly bitter sweet endeavor.
Cocktail names called the call of flawlessness and the glass contents rose above the human promise, same way intently sought after by the business world, in that perpetual song about exceed expectations. This time the promise materialized and then some. I bet my life on The Violinist and a few minutes after I saw the business of living as a different kind of exquisite affair. More pink, more pastel, more flexible. More full of possibilities. Around me a realm of indulging replaced the battlefield. Same brand of refined responses was also reported from concoctions lovingly labeled The Linguist, The Scientist, The Artist or no much room for doubt Lost in Paradise. Had they abandoned me there on Saturday, I would have stayed till Wednesday, return ticket time.
But I came to New York on business. I got here to check Campbell Apartment, a conspiracy institution tuned on low tones, rich dark décor and aromatic feasts in classy glasses, or at least this is what I’ve heard, cause all I’ve seen was a beautiful massive door securely closed into the direction of the curios traveling nose. How many nights have I spent playing the grand scene with me bending rules at the grand bar, in lieu of just grabbing a plane ticket before their leasing with Grand Central expired. I am still debating in my inner heart of hearts how on earth can you so un-joyfully sever operations of such an institution. I let my eyes wander on the gloriously closed door and got lost in Grand Central’s grandeur, armed with a full-force and meticulously-earned nostalgia for all instances when I arrived too late, too early or I arrived just in time but didn’t catch the script, didn’t cater to the director’s hand and I left solidly unsure whether it happened or not, plus I didn’t get exactly why we were in such a hurry or in absolutely no hurry at all. A vocalize of barely missed opportunities and a potent impulse at the roots of future successful endeavors, my encounter with the Missing Apartment at Grand Central had me sweetly swear that I’ll fine tune more intently to the musical opportunities reserved by the well-meaning universe.
But I wasn’t sad for long. It would have been such a shame. It was raining at Grand Central and I managed to avoid sleep for 50 hours, because in the transcontinental flight I felt it was my duty to stay wide awake like the pilot himself. I always feel that way. I feel that if he can do it, I can do it too. Not to mention that somewhere into my head the lure of the space in-between took hold of the game, that magnet of ambiguity, that not parting totally with the place left behind and not getting hold totally of the destination, a territory of speculation and anticipation, an inescapable fever. So it happens that I’ll insist talking about the hot coffee with which Dona has welcomed me while I was exiting the gate of Virgin America until the daughters of my daughter will send me to hell, fed up with listening to the landscape of the same story every time they are guests of honor at The House in Bermuda, where they dutifully come to spend for free beautiful sojourns financed by the literary relative. And anyway, main impression at JFK was that it is big, awfully big, and that reading the overhead instructions every once in a while generally helps. I still didn’t get how we boarded the right train to the city but something tells me that we’ll manage next time too.
In the whirlwind of my upper-addition I cannot get over the deeply seated impression that New York was waiting for me and gave me his absolute best. I’ll show you what I can do for you, said the city, and called my best friends, summoned the rain, send the lights flying into the sky and acknowledged me the branded lover of a rhythm shamelessly running through my veins too.
