Winter Wonderwhirling: Day 2

Hearty Obsessions and Hungry Squirrels

Have you ever had an almond croissant? Of the many obsessions I have taken on, the soft and crispy, butter-loaded confectionary delight of an almond croissant has got to be my favorite. 

With “Brooklyn Bagel” crossed off my travel to-do list from the day before, I was all freed up to sink my teeth into an almond croissant from a little french bakery in Kelly’s neighborhood. I was still dusting crumbs off my sweater when I climbed out of the subway rabbit hole at Columbus Circle on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. 

Unfortunately, there were no more crumbs when accosted by the most obese squirrel I have ever seen in Central Park. 

“Excuse me, may I have a biscuit?” He said. 

“Sorry, no biscuits here, buddy,” I replied. He came a little closer and put his paws up in a begging pose. 

“Not even ONE small biscuit? His eyes were growing wider. “Not even in that bag you got there??”

“Sorry, not even a crumb of a biscuit.”

“I know you have one small biscuit!” I pulled out my phone to take a video of him so I could show his desperation and cuteness to Alex later, but I had to put it down when the squirrel scampered onto my shoe and started up my pant leg towards my purse. 

I wriggled my foot and he jiggled off into a plump pile of defeat. “No biscuits!” I scolded. He sulked off in search of the next tourist and I wandered on towards Bethesda Terrace.

Day Two Activity Map

The sun shone off the skyscrapers and sent crystals through the trees. An old man in a plaid cap was playing saxophone from a bench on “Bench Row” under my beloved statue of Robert Burns.  

Burns was a pretty rough guy and known for his philandering. It is boggling how someone so brash in the flesh can write such tender poetry as Ae Fond Kiss or John Anderson My Jo. One of my favorite albums is a compilation of his poetry put to music and sung by a Scottish woman named Eddie Reader. Burns reminds me of my mother. I think of the first taste of travel she gave me when we visited family in Scotland when I was seven. 

I said hello to the angel in the fountain and listened to a woman with a matching heavenly voice singing ‘Ave Maria’ under the mosaic ceiling tiled arches behind me. I walked on past The Boathouse, where a woman stepped into the public restroom wearing her warm walking clothes and tennis shoes. She reappeared moments later glammed out in a black fitted dress and stilettos ready for brunch in the cafe that would likely cost more than my entire trip. An old woman to my left had also witnessed the transformation. We shared a quick laugh as I walked toward Belvedere Castle. 

The view from the small stone castle is a somewhat surreal blend of urban and nature, with a still blue pond littered with the reflections of red-capped trees with a silver crescent of cityscape in the background. I took a few photos for tourists on their phones, encouraging couples to “one, two, three, kiss!” for their pictures because it elevates the fairytale-ness of the images and because it makes everyone smile more than “cheese!.” 

I made it through to the other side of the park near the Museum of Natural History. It’s the sort of place that is more fun with a partner so you can exchange commentaries, so I decided to venture onward in pursuit of my favorite used bookstore, Westsider Books. 

My hands were a little in need of a warm-up, so I sat in a little blue cafe nursing a turmeric latte until they had regained their feeling. I needed my hands to leaf through old books across the street and pet the resident shop cat. 

Inside the shop, you are immediately greeted by floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that climb thirty feet high. There are rolling ladders and a staircase to the oldest/rarest books and premium art books. The cat was less excited to see me than I was to see him, but he let me scratch his ears regardless. I flipped through a stack of art books and checked out the ornately decorated old-old novels.

Once outside, I felt inspired to track down the apartment of the old woman that I used to be a personal assistant for to see if she still lived in the city. She had been ill a few years back; I hadn’t heard anything in a while, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to see if I could find her place. 

I couldn’t remember the exact address and many of the streets look the same in that area, but after tracing a few key landmarks I was able to find her building. 

“Does Professor Jo still live here?” I asked the doorman, hopefully. 

“Ohhh yes. She. Does!” He said, exchanging an amused look with his partner.  

Professor Jo has a strong personality. I can remember how tightly her doormen were wrapped around her fierce, yet incredibly lovable, little finger. They wrang up for me to see if she was home, but she wasn’t. I left my card and headed back out, quite satisfied to find that my old friend was still living in the city that built her. Time and illness had not forced her out of her favorite place, with her baby grand piano and set of wedding china crammed into her 200 sq foot apartment near the Lincoln Center. We lost contact when she became ill, as I was battling my health at the same time, but our relationship, however short-lived, was one of the most impactful I have had to this day, and if I ever have a daughter, the name “Josephine,” will be very strongly considered in her honor. 

Very contented with my morning and starting to feel the fifteen miles I’d walked so far on my trip, I decided to take the hour subway ride to Coney Island. I read my book and rested my feet, nearly lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the train on its tracks, and in fifty minutes I got off the train at Brighton Beach to pack a small picnic to carry to Coney. 

Brighton Beach is the Russian version of Chinatown. I always feel at home among the crowds of small, dark women who smile and speak Russian to me because I look like I belong there. I delight in the emporiums of dried fruits, nuts, and brilliantly ornate candies and jars of honey. 

Another obsession I have fostered is for Russian candies at Brighton Beach. I've collected them like tiny jewels and drawn them into elaborate ball gowns in my fashion illustrations. I drew hundreds of Russian candy dresses, inspired by the bold colors and intricate motifs. I still have a bag full of them in my freezer, for perfect preservation, to this day in case I am ever in the mood to draw more of them. I’ve never eaten one, too afraid of tearing into their perfect wrappers and maiming their beautiful design. 

An old man sitting at a table outside a bakery licked honey and Philo crumbs from his fingers and pointed at the window of baklava gleaming behind him. 

“You really must get some baklava from this bakery!” It was more of a command than a recommendation, so I obliged and purchased a small box of offerings for a tea party at Kelly’s later in the week. 

Across the street was the bakery I had come for, where I purchased two savory buns similar to the ones we make in our bake shop in Oregon. One was filled with a chicken stew and the other was loaded with pumpkin and leeks. They came with a ketchup-vinegar sauce with fresh dill. 

I’d planned to eat them on the beach at Coney, but they were so fresh and warm that I decided to eat them as I walked. 

Obsessed I am too, shamelessly, with Coney Island. I had an entire Coney collection for one of my fashion classes and for a while I only read books and listened to music that offered some ode to my favorite place on Earth. Patti Smith wrote about Coney Island in Just Kids — it was a great cheap date for starving artists because you only required a subway fair and a few coins for a hot dog to get the most out of a day there. 

When I got to the boardwalk at Coney Island, the sun was starting to set and the entire sky had washed the sand and everything it touched soft baby pink with fiery streaks of orange. I sat and remembered all of the great times I’d had at Coney Island and all of the magic that had transpired there long before I was born. 

I thought about laying in the hot sand next to Alex, with mustard on our chins and bellies full of Nathan’s Hotdogs, and of taking my fashion illustrations and pens there to do my homework in college. I remembered that sleepy saltwater feeling you get after a day of splashing in the water. I thought of the first time I rode The Cyclone, which happens to be the oldest wooden rollercoaster, and I thought of going there with my mother to say goodbye before I left New York for Oregon. 

This day had been perfect and full, but there was still one more stop on my list. I took the R train to my old neighborhood in Bay Ridge where Michael’s family lives. They had a beautiful feast waiting for me when I arrived and washed the Coney grime from my hands. Michael’s sister and brother-in-law have four kids and his mom lives upstairs with her labradoodle, Scooter. 

We all sat around their full table, catching up and savoring each bite of Antonio’s roast. They know how much I love fresh mozzarella, and there was a full plate of cheese and tomatoes with balsamic waiting for me as well. After dinner, we paired up for a wild game of Dutch Blitz, where we were all annihilated by the pair of youngest girls, Miranda and Emily. I was proud of them because Alex and I had just taught them the game in July, and already they were pros. Ariana, the oldest, made chocolate chip cookies with ice cream and I left feeling so full I could burst. 

Back at the apartment, Kelly and her roommate were still out, so I took the opportunity to enjoy some quiet by ending the day with a hot hot bath, a cup of tea, and a few chapters in my book. 

There had been old friends, new friends (Charles the Fat Squirrel), delicious food, and the perfect sunset on my second day in New York. I wasn’t sure how so much greatness could fit into one day, let alone, two, if you counted all the pleasures of my first day, and I fell asleep ready to meet the activities of the day that followed. 

My last thought of the day was of the almond croissant, and I vowed that I would have another first thing upon waking in the morning.