What Does Change Smell Like?

When I told her we were headed to NYC for a few days, mum suggested I blog about it on the fly. I considered this for a moment, but then I thought, if I’m writing about it, I won’t be out enjoying it. So a quick recap/travelogue is all I can proffer today. It was cold in NYC, as expected. Note to schools: Stop moving spring break up! In March you have to go to the equator to get warm.

March 22nd: After some in-flight medication that had no effect (no dizziness, no sleep crime), I insisted that the husband stay awake during the flight and listen along with me to Ricky Gervais’ Guide to Philosophy on my iPod. That series, which includes other topics too, is hilarious and available on iTunes. Somehow we made it to LaGuardia alive.

NYC is all about the food, and our first stop was Craftsteak, an ironic choice since the husband can’t tolerate red meat and I’m a quasi-vegetarian. If you order fish at a steak place, they show you some respect. If you order the vegetarian plate, they find the most absurd vegetables (e.g., parsnips) to give you. Still, the food was good. I ate some of the hub’s chicken croquettes, which were delectable. Disappointed not to see owner Tom Colicchio wandering about, but there were some brushes with fame on the trip. Wait for it.

March 23rd: Had a delicious brunch at Sarabeth’s, close to Central Park. During brunch, we got a call from the Letterman show that we could get tickets for that night. With no Monday plans, that worked out perfectly. We walked around the city, taking in the people (all interesting, many unusually tall, a preponderance of black coats).

As we walked around on slightly numb feet, we saw fewer street vendors than usual. Perhaps it was the chilly weather, or maybe the economy. At one table along Broadway the wares included cologne. Among the designer impostor brands was a bottle that bore Barack Obama’s face. It was called “Change. ” I asked my husband what he thought change smelled like. That question kept us ruminating all day.

We walked to the Ed Sullivan theater around 4:30 and thankfully, we didn’t have to wait long. The pages seemed to take pity on the freezing line and let us in. The girl who checked us in seemed to check our faces and our enthusiasm level and marked our tickets with an N. The husband said that meant we were getting some special treatment. He was right. They pulled us and one other guy aside and told us we’d be up front. I squealed like a cheerleader, cementing their choice for fervent audience member. This was the second time we got to see Letterman and be up close. One more will qualify us for a restraining order. The guests were Christina Applegate, Jim Gaffigan, and Norah Jones. If you’re going to NYC, call ahead for tickets. Plenty of things tape there, and tickets are free.

Dinner at Risotteria was the icing on Monday. A restaurant devoted to the gluten intolerant equals nirvana. Since going gluten-free many years ago, I’ve been deprived of the bread on the table. Risotteria has fresh-baked gluten-free breadsticks on each table. They have a delicious selection of risottos, pizza, and panini. If I lived in NY, I’d call it home.

March 24th: Tuesday we did have a plan – Guys and Dolls. I warned the hub that there’d be dancing and singing, but assured him that the show was about a male-centric topic — gambling. We arrived a bit late due to traffic, but that turned out to be a good thing. As we walked in, so did Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn. I casually brushed by Kurt, who has leathery skin, but is still very movie-star handsome. In his quest to be photographed with as many celebs as possible, the hub asked Kurt for a picture, but was refused. I told him they were late too and probably not in the mood. Still, he insists he’ll be checking the domain name for KurtRussellisanass.com. The person who should have been mad (and was) was me. I specifically chose Guys and Dolls because Lauren Graham was in it. Guess who had an understudy that night. Right. I’ll probably check for LaurenGrahamisanass.com, too.

March 25th: Killing time until we had to go to the airport, we walked around Rockefeller Center again. The people who work there have everything right in the building: dry cleaners, shoe shine, restaurants, a post office, etc. If I worked there I’d hang out in the NBC Experience, where they play 30 Rock and The Office on a loop and sell TV-themed crap.

Finally, God knows I love local color, and NYC has plenty of it. We’d had our share of near-death experiences in cabs, including one with a guy named Um, and Singh, who mumbled through the whole ride in his native tongue. I silently prayed that he had a Bluetooth under his turban. Still, nothing compared to the ride back to LaGuardia with Basher, a young cabbie from Bangladesh who repeatedly insisted he was an American, as if trying to reassure himself and us. To prove his new status, he recited all of the states in alphabetical order while negotiating afternoon traffic in New York City. Along with being a states expert, Basher was no stranger to the horn. He used it very casually, but as the cab weaved through traffic, narrowly missing others, we knew what it meant. As we sped along the freeway, I started to strip off clothing and turned on the air. I clutched my husband’s hand with my sweaty one. Relief swept over me when I saw the airport signs. Basher had to slow down now. Or maybe not. When we arrived at the terminal, both of us were carsick. Yet we tipped Basher. He told us he was studying physical therapy. We considered the tip an investment in his education and in the safety of others.