Saturday In The Park

I never got over leaving NY. I wasn’t any less in love with her when I left than when I came. So again I ask you — do we manifest our destinies? No need to answer. 

I thought I knew this city like the back of my hand back in my 20s when I called it home. I enter Central Park on 77 and CPW a block away from my newly acquired pied-a-terr. I’ve had trouble with that term. It sounds pretentious. But I’m embracing it now. I’ve come a long way. I’ve earned it. 

The sun is abundant. People are smiling. Birds singing in surround sound. Brides under cherry trees. Bluebells and forsythia. Kids on swings. So many swings. This is the kind of day Chicago’s “Saturday In The Park” was inspired by. Feels like the 4th of July. 

I’m on my way to meet my long-time gal-pal Alex for breakfast at EJ’s on the East Side — about a 30 minute delicious eye-opening stroll across the grounds. How lucky that we’re close in proximity again.

There are nooks and crannies, tunnels and meandering paths I never noticed before. Oh the things we take for granted when we we see/saw them every day. When they’re readily available. 

I people watch. Unfathomably beautiful women. Tall Girls who don’t stand up straight. Dogs in Easter bonnets. Dogs in booties. Tiny Dogs prancing beside huge dogs believing they’re the same size. Cats on leashes. (Nimbus would be so mad if I did this to him!)  

I eavesdrop on conversations. Or at least catch snippets. (People usually talk about other people. It’s human nature. It makes us feel better about ourselves.) 

“Yeah but if a woman orgasms first,” says a man on a Citi Bike. He’s on his phone. Under a helmet. Hmm, context please? He’s already gone. 

And a woman to another woman on a bench, “You’re gonna live forever. The genes you’ve got are amazing.”

I once thought about stringing all these snippets together and making a song. Not sure it would be scintillating listening but art none-the-less. 

Some ppl look like they’re talking to themselves until you realize (duh) those white Shrek-like “plugs” in their ears. Why would anyone choose to talk to someone they aren’t actually walking beside when they can be examining life? I know I should be used to it by now but I’m not. This behavior is not as ubiquitous in LA because we’re all in our cars talking to ourselves. THAT I’m used to.)  

I love to write while I walk. Truly you can capture feelings more clearly in the moment than u can from the memory of the moment. My songwriting students: if you’re reading this remember that! 

A French speaking docent with a blue torch in the air leads a tour group to a gazebo by The Lake. Note-to-self — a future meditation destination for certain. Why have I never noticed all the gazebos? Because… “Life in Our 20s” — the best excuse for anything is youth! 

I stand in proximity to the docent and try to pick out familiar words from HS French 101. My most memorable dialog starter was always, “La neige est belle aujourd’hui. Allons skier!” …which translates to “the snow is beautiful today. Let’s go skiing.” 😳 When I travel to Paris I greet servers in restaurants with these words just to see if they understand. They look at me quizzically especially if the sun is shining. I don’t care. 

And speaking of restaurants last night at Cafe Luxemborg (the place I wrote about in Confessions of a Serial Songwriter where my soon-to-be-ex sort-of-boyfriend relinquished his cocaine under the table) Nathan Lane was sitting at the 4-top behind me. I spotted him on the way back from a visit to the ladies room. I mean, the “they” room. This wasn’t the first time I’d been seated adjacent to Nathan Lane. The first time was 22 years ago at Dan Tana’s in LA. With me were Adam, Christina Aguilera and Ron Fair. Xtina had just finished her Mouseketeer tenure and was understandably smitten with anything Lion King…like “Pumbaa.” Her debut album (on which my song “What A Girl Wants” resided) was about to launch. She was telling us how she aspired to reach the same heights (and notes) as Mariah Carey (which eventually happened) when she turned her head slightly, saw ‘him’ and exclaimed…”OMG…it’s Pumbaa!” Adam, Ron and I froze and hoped Nathan Lane didn’t hear her call him “PUMBAA!” As if  Pumbaa alone defined him.  (Later we realized Nathan Lane actually performed the voice of Timon!).

And btw, what are the chances I’d be seated next to Pumbaa (or Timon) twice in a lifetime? Actually when I think about it (and I do) it’s not so crazy. If it had been a random (unrecognizable) stranger I wouldn’t have noticed, right? Nathan Lane — I notice. 

But I have deeply digressed haven’t I? 

Anyway…back to “the moment”…the French docent points to The Dakota, residence of the late beloved John Lennon. I wonder from which window he gazed. I can’t imagine (pun not intended) that he and Yoko, when investing in NYC real estate, wouldn’t have insisted on a park-facing view. I googled it. I was right. 

Central Park is a planet unto itself and it makes u forget the chaotic Mecca surrounding it. John knew this. (Although I think he also adored the chaotic Mecca.)  

Why on earth would anyone take a crosstown bus if they could walk across Central Park? Ok, maybe I’m slowing down. Smelling roses. Taking stock. Absorbing. Looking back behind from where I came. I’m grateful to be able to do that. 

Recently a colleague suggested that when I get bored enough I’ll figure out what I wanna do next. I’m actually not bored. I’m doing it. 

Well I’ve arrived on the East side. Why is the East side so much cleaner than the West side? I could speculate but I don’t want to be late for brunch. TTYL. 

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