Waiting In Line in the Big Apple

Posted: August 15th, 2010 | Filed under: Ruminations | No Comments »

It’s a vision that would make even curmudgeonly Steve Jobs sport a smile three time zones wide.

I’ve spent the weekend with the Film Babe in NYC. I got up early this Sunday a.m. to jog. From our hotel on 44th, I headed up Fifth Avenue toward the park. Right there at Central Park South, across from the Plaza is the entrance to the Apple Store.

The glass cube sits in a plaza like the famous pyramid that is the entrance to the Louvre. Except, of course, this is a square and the edifice in Paris is, like I said, a pyramid.

What’s not different: The lines to get in. Except the one at the Louvre is somewhat smaller.

As I headed by it the first time headed uptown about 8:00, there were about 100 people in line. Fifteen minutes later when I passed heading downtown, the line had quadrupled.

The demographic wasn’t too awfully diverse. About 15% more or less were distinguishable geeks. The rest were Japanese.

Jogging down Fifth early morning when it’s mostly deserted makes me think I’m going to run into Holly Golightly, staring at jewelry, eating a Danish.

* * * * *

It’s been almost twenty years since I’ve been to New York.

I don’t mind glorying in the touristy stuff.

What’s a trip up here without passing through Times Square at night? On our way back to the hotel from a show, we hit it about 11:30 Friday night.

The descriptor that came to mind when negotiating through the humanity, passing on a genuine Rolex for $60 as well as a ride on the full size Ferris Wheel inside the Toys ‘r’ Us store, having Joanie agree that zipping her purse was a prudent move and craning our necks gomer-style at the Ginza light show: Clusterfuck.

* * * * *

Which is the same word I’d overuse to describe Katz’s Deli at a little after noon on Friday.

It’s pastrami is reputed to be the best in this pastrami town. Still. And it is.

But getting to the sandwich counter where a tip in the jar adds to the girth of the sandwich was like getting a bet down on the Derby ten minutes before post. Squared.

Why didn’t we grab one of the waiter service only tables, you might ask? Well, I’d never been to Katz’s (on Houston in the Lower East Side), so I didn’t know. That’s why.

But we did pass on the other gomer move. We didn’t ask anybody where the table is that You Know Who faked her You Know What in “When Harry Met Sally?”

We went for that deli brunch again this morning. Eschewing the ordinary at the Carnegie, we ventured to the Murray Hill neighborhood, chowing down where the locals do at Sarge’s on Lexington at 36th. Their latkes won a citywide smackdown with those from the Second Ave Deli.

Delicious and abundant. Plus our food was served by an honest to Betsy older Jewish gal with a mouth on her.

* * * * *

If you’re coming up here any time soon, and want to head to the theater district, you could do a lot worse than “Fela.”

The musical about the Nigerian musician who invented Afro-Beat and managed to piss off the government with his politics at the same time is mighty scintillating. Amazing and unique song and dance.

* * * * *

Saw two movies up here. That’s right, came to NYC and went to the movies. Times two.

Because, well, there are a bunch of films here that aren’t now nor ever will play Louisville. And, hey, I do review films for a major metropolitan public radio station. And Joanie is, after all, The Film Babe.

To find out about them, tune into 91.9 a little after 8:00 a.m. on Tuesday.

* * * * *

It started to rain this afternoon.

At which point, as if sprouting from the pavement, vendors selling umbrellas appeared on every corner.

I swear, I haven’t a clue where they materialized from?

Which leads to my last bit of advice when away from home. Pocket parkas. They’re a good thing.

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