No Place Like New York
How we spent our week in a heatwave
When I was little and my grandparents lived in an apartment building in Elkins Park, Pennsylvania, I would often visit them in the summer. The particular smell of the place—humidity rising off of mulched gardens and freshly mowed lawns, chlorine from the pool club they belonged to, the softly carpeted hallways of their building—has for decades lain dormant in my long-term memory (which I now think of as the dark and dusty memory graveyard where Bing-Bong commits a loving act of hara-kiri in Inside Out1). But this past week, we took the boys to New York City for the first time. We stayed in an apartment building much like my grandparents’, suffered through a heatwave replete with the kind of humidity these northern European children have never before considered possible but that Philadelphians know intimately, and took them out to a friend’s backyard pool in New Jersey where we ate hamburgers and played kickball at dusk in bare feet. And all those scent memories came rushing back.
Being back in the city was both wonderful and weird. I couldn’t help but look for my parallel life, the one in which I hadn’t moved away. I kept pointing out things from my old life to my children, who of course were barely interested. My husband kindly oohed and ached appropriately. Whenever we took a cab, I sat in the front, which meant I got to chat with the drivers, one of my favorite things to do in New York. No two cab drivers were from the same place. I chatted with an Indonesian, a Peruvian, a Bangladeshi and a Filipino. A Jordanian driver told me all about how much regular Jordanians hate the current King and Queen, that the rightful heir to the throne, Hamza, is locked away in a palace. Another driver told me that when Trump gets elected in November, he’s going to flee to his house in the mountains of Puerto Rico. The Senegalese solemnly explained all the new cab laws to me. Did you know that New York City buses now have cameras mounted both on the front and back to snap errant cab drivers in the bus lane? It’s an instant $350 fine.
When traveling, especially with children, I’ve learned to liberate myself from the tyranny of trying to get to The Best Place to eat. It’s a better way to travel, in my opinion, and makes everything good you stumble upon feel special and serendipitous. We stayed a block and a half from Kossar’s on 72nd Street so we had breakfast there most mornings. I had a great veggie sandwich2 at Lenwich. We had a nice sunset meal at Pier I Cafe3. We went to Barney Greengrass4, a place I’d never managed to visit when I lived in New York. We had an easy dinner at Tacombi that pleased everyone5. I introduced my children to Italian-American food at Parm6, which was very good. My agent took me out to dinner at Eléa, a Greek restaurant on 85th Street7. And this morning, we had the perfect diner breakfast at Old John’s 8 (I’d read about in a piece that Helen Rosner wrote for the New Yorker that reawakened my fond memories of diner meals with my dad when we would drive to Philadelphia to see those aforementioned grandparents.)
Those grandparents were born New Yorkers, both from the Bronx, and they never really got over having left New York for the lesser city of Philadelphia. But funnily enough, my Italian grandmother Ninì was also a born New Yorker. Her parents emigrated from Italy in 1905 and Ninì was born in a Lower East Side tenement in 1909. After suffering the death of a different daughter a year or two later, my great-grandparents threw in the towel and moved back to Italy (my great-grandfather would be killed in the First World War a few years later, leaving my great-grandmother a young widow pregnant with her fifth child). A guide at the Tenement Museum told me this week that Italian immigrants at that time had a 42% return rate. I guess my great-grandparents weren’t the only ones to reconsider their choice. At least they had a choice. Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe only had a 6% percent return rate.
The boys loved the American Natural History Museum and the Tenement Museum, but barely tolerated the Met9. We went on a wonderful Circle Line cruise at sunset. We explored Little Island. We took the ferry to Jersey City10 for lunch with friends from Berlin. A friend took us to lunch in the Conde Nast cafeteria where David Remnick attempted to josh with Hugo in the cafeteria line while Hugo stared back blankly and I nearly died11. We went to F.A.O. Schwarz and a hole-in-the-wall dumpling place in Chinatown. We visited the 9/11 Memorial12 and walked the High Line. We ate ice cream sandwiches in Washington Square Park. Our children raged at us in the heat. Hugo had a rat count going by the end of the first day13. We hid out in the air-conditioned apartment. We watched the sunset on the roof of the building. I thought about what my life would look like if I had stayed. Eventually, it was time to go.
I remember knowing from a young age, on one of the many visits to New York I used to take with my father and grandparents, that I was meant to live there. Oh, I loved it so much. It more than lived up to my expectations. It really did feel like living in the center of the world14. And like my American grandparents, I guess, I’ll never really get over having left New York. Sure, it’s easier to live elsewhere. It’s quieter and cheaper and greener, too. Sometimes, it’s even nicer. But there’s nothing and no place like New York.
This scene makes me cry Every Single Time I watch the movie. Drives my kids crazy!
Look for the Veggie’Wich.
Hugo is deep in his sandwich era and says the Hot Honey Chicken Sandwich was great; I got to blow Max’s mind with an order of Mexican corn.
Didn’t love the latkes, but the pickle plate was good and the challah French toast was perfect.
Fish tacos pour moi, an avocado tostada for Hugo, $4 rice and beans for Bruno, elotes for Max.
The mozzarella sticks with tomato sauce were surprisingly delightful; the spaghetti and meatballs almost as good as I make at home (only the pasta wasn’t as al dente as it should be, but that is the Italian in me talking, not the American). I don’t even like garlic bread, but it was fantastic here - a delicious sesame loaf encrusted with a frico-like topping.
The cauliflower fritters were outstanding.
The chilaquiles with green salsa were delicious, the buttermilk pancakes fluffy. The bottomless coffee was Lavazza, the orange juice was fresh-squeezed. A great diner experience.
We saw the Harlem Renaissance and Transatlantic Modernism show, which was extraordinary. I loved all of the paintings, but especially the pieces by Archibald Motley.
Jersey City! A unexpected highlight.
Then we went up to the 65th floor to ogle the city for free, thanks to our lovely friend. Did you know it costs $370 for a family of four to go up the Empire State Building now?!?
While there, we passed a bunch of Port Authority Police recruits being led on a tour. I overheard their guide telling them that every morning, the Port Authority Police check the records of the victims of 9/11 and place a white rose on their name in the memorial if it’s their birthday. Every morning.
Total rat count: 8 sightings in 7 days.
Though the subway conductor no longer drawls, “Times Square, crossroads of the world” when the 1 train rolls into the station.
You’re such a beautiful writer. I feel like I just spent a week in NYC without the hassles!
Oh, Luisa. I got teary reading this, especially about the scent memory. I can remember exactly how the home of my grandparents smelled in England, and the jolt I got every time I walked in for the first time on our biannual visits.
My Italian grandmother was also born in NYC! She was the youngest of eight, and the first to be born outside of Italy. She was born at home on Mott Street in 1897. One of her brothers drowned in the General Slocum disaster.
Your family is as beautiful as you are. Stay well and happy. I am impatiently waiting for your new book.