New York, Part One.

Saturday morning, I took a Greyhound bus for the first time since 1990, and was surprised to find it was a decent way to travel--pleasant, quiet, and on time. I didn't get a seat to myself, but that wasn't a great hardship, as my companion didn't say a single word the entire way. I was a little disappointed, as she was reading Congreve's The Way of the World, a British Restoration play, and I wondered why; I've never seen anyone read a play on public transportation before. Was she an actress? A professor? A doctoral student? She then opened a Buddhist magazine, putting the play away and any opening for conversation with it. (Naturally, I saw about five people reading plays over the rest of the time in New York. I guess it wasn't that big a deal.)

The bus arrived twenty minutes early, and I lost most of that time waiting on the N train platform to get to Queens, where I was staying with my friends Bill and Andrea. They had kindly offered their futon in exchange for hearing some of my scintillating stories about D's potty training. At least, that's what I like to think, 'cause that's all I had to offer.

Bill and I went to high school together, and for a while hit the same career path. We diverged eventually, and now he's a playwright, whereas I'm just a failed playwright. Andrea works at Playwrights Horizons, so it's a match made on Broadway. And their cat, Buddy (no relation to our dog of the same name), attempted to bite my thumb off on the first meeting. I didn't hold that against him.

They took me to dinner at a nice Greek restaurant around the corner from their apartment, and it was there I learned that true New Yorkers never thank the waiters. At least, I was the only one in the place that did so. Of course, I thank 'em even if they spill hot soup in my lap. That didn't happen, but my point is that I may not be a good benchmark.

After that, we went our separate ways--Bill and Andrea to a show in Soho, and me to the Village, where Mike's show was playing at the Cherry Lane Theater. I got there extra-early because I had never been to the Village before. I walked around a bit, and wound up at a jazz bar called Garage, where I nursed two Cokes (heavy drinker that I am) and did my best to look morose.

(I suppose I ought to explain what Mike's show is about, but in that the vast majority of people who see this are clicking through from his own web site, it's probably not really neccesary. In any case, I'm not reviewing Mike's show in this entry--that'll come later.)

After Mike's show--which, I will say, was excellent, and you're a fool if you miss the opportunity to see it--he and his wife, Jean-Michele, gave me a tour of the theater, and then we went to a weird little restaurant down the street (click here for Mike's impressions of this place), where, after saying they were so relieved to talk with someone who wasn't involved with the show, they talked for an hour about the show. I should be charitable and note that I encouraged them to do so, as much for my own learning as for the not inconsiderable entertainment value (Mike and Jean-Michele are two of the most entertaining people I know). I think they just needed to get it out of their system (understandably) and after they were purged, they listened quite patiently to the same three D stories I tell everyone ten times.

We talked about their travails with the producers, which I am not at liberty to discuss (Mike's NDA with amazon.com may have expired, but not his common sense), and Jean-Michele made a trenchant point about being a main character in Mike's book and show: when she first visited the publishing house, everyone thought they knew her. Thank goodness I'll never have to worry about that. (Although it reminds me of something I wondered--how many of the people watching the show knew that this "Jean-Michele" character was in the back of the house, calling the cues?)

After that, I stumbled back into Bill and Andrea's at 2:30 AM, which is about five hours past my optimal bedtime these days, and collapsed onto their futon. I didn't sleep well, and woke up at 7:30, an hour and a half before my hosts. I had joked with them about this, being a parent and all, but I never thought it would actually happen.

They served the world's most amazing bagels (again, just around the corner; why don't I live there?) and we went and walked around the theater district for a bit, and then they bought me lunch, as I had subtly hinted they should ("I only have four dollars in my wallet and I'm starving"). I decided I wanted to take an earlier bus than planned, since, surprisingly, I missed K and D terribly.

Why surprisingly, you ask? Well, simply put, New York feels like home. I was born in Brooklyn, and though I only spent three years there, it burned itself into my brain. I had never wanted to leave in any of my previous visits, and I've always regretted that I never lived there. Yet that Sunday, all I wanted to do was see my son before he went to bed, and cuddle on my wife's shoulder.

I guess I'm finally growing up.