I just went up to my roof deck, just in time for midnight and the turn of the year.
The street sounds of the ringing in of 2007 sounded muffled. I expected more noise, given the rash of clubs that have popped up around the block in the past two years. Taxi horns honked, and I want to believe they were blasting away for midnight, instead of traffic.
And then I heard a female voice, "Happy New Year, New York!" (I ought to have written that in all caps, but I avoid such excess.) I heard the whir of helicopters overhead, and looked up. As I did, I saw holiday lights and parties in a handful of apartments among the recently erected high-rises along Sixth Avenue.
I looked south and heard the reverberation of loud booms. Explosions. The fireworks on The Battery. I confess, the sound of fireworks explosions coming from the southern end of Manhattan causes my stomach to start, and the rest of me to stop. I lowered my gaze from the sky and watched in the reflection of a distant glass skyscraper the reds and golds of the fireworks display. My breath caught in my throat. I hugged myself. It was wonderful.
I am not much for celebrating traditional midwinter celebrations. A history of lousy family gatherings, the pressure to act happy, the bloody expectation. Every year, now that I choose to spend the holidays quiet and reflecting, small kindnesses come my way.
This year, neighbors (they were friends well before they bought into the building) two floors below invited me for dinner last Saturday. It was lovely. The next day, the same friends hosted an impromptu brunch, and more of our neighbors joined. There are advantages to living in yep, one of these iconoclast New York City loft co-ops.
The following Monday, a "silver fox" friend invited me to his home on Long Island Sound for dinner and a stay-over. I adore the special guest room where the sound of the waves does nothing but lull me to sleep. What a little slice of heaven, the grilled fillet notwithstanding, or the Prosecco, the artisanal cheeses, and yes dammit, the mashed potatoes. Oh, and the vintage Bordeaux, and all that chocolate. Plus, he recently adopted a dog, a five-month-old shih tzu-poodle. A "shih-poo," or as he said, "a shit-doodle." Roscoe is one cute four-legged, with personality to burn. That pup is destined to have a beautiful life.
All week, more friends were in town from out of town. Among them, a long-time genius friend, performance-artist-turned Burning Man "administrator" (oh yeah). And authors, especially the one who penned Blood Diamonds, with his wife, who was my (yes, my) production chief, for those quick years when our imprint kicked some publishing ass.
These circles, of neighbors, of friends. I am just happy to be surrounded.
Cheers.
Comments