Yew Nork, New York (1of 2)

No, no; I'm not dead. But I seem to be laid up with some nasty allergies. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it's not an illness, since that would be disasterous at this stage. The Everett's are taking excellent care of me, though, and perhaps a slow few days would be good for me all around.

But I am nagged with fear that I might get derailed not even a week into my trip. Anyway, let's talk about New York.

The trip to the Big Apple started innocently enough with a tasty sandwich and cousin Laura dropping me off at the Boston bus station. I boarded on time and was expecting to be moving ahead of schedule. But it was not to be. Within two hours of leaving Boston, the bus started to feel warmer. Each breath increased the claustraphobia, and the terrifying illusion that there wasn't enough air in the bus.

At our first rest stop, the bus driver confirmed that the AC was working at half capacity. But w plaowed ahead. 90min outside of Manhattan we stopped again. The driver informed us that we might have to wait for another bus to transfer to. Several strong-looking and strong-willed guys that looked of college age became extremely perturbed at this. Sleevelessly they walked through the bus and lead a revolt/opinion poll supporting a platform of "pushing on through."

At the time I felt good about pressing onward, but looking back on it, I wonder how much of it was me, and how much was the charismatic youthes that spoke on behalf of the passengers.

Popular opinion won out, and we had a dreadful, grueling 2hr trip to the Port Authority bus station.
Arrived and revived by the cooler air of the station, I shouldered my bag and went downtown to meet Lindsey, my oldest friend.

Despite my disheveled appearance, she insisted I come up to her office, hugged me, refreshed my spirit, and introduced me to her boss. He was a handsome, clean, bald man that resembled an Egyptian male model I saw in a German soap opera years ago.

I showered and changed at Lindsey's apartment on 152nd street, and then headed out to meet Hyatt. Frequent readers will recognize him as one of my former roomates in college. While I didn't get any pictures of the H-Man himself, this was painted on the wall of the Brooklyn bar where we met.


We had a few drinks and talked about The Old Days. We talke about how we got to where we are now, and if "here" is where we want to be tomorrow. We made fun of Nico.

Hyatt has always been an artist. When we were in school, he studed film and was heavily involved in theatre. A lot of his work explores issues of race and identity, but to say that does him a disservice and makes me sound like a pretentious film critic.

The bar was an excellent locale for discussion between two old friends. It had a dark-wood interior, with little octagonal tiles across the floor. The bar itself was topped in blue tile squares and rectangles. In the candle light (yes, candle light), the moving shadows and echoing tile reminded me of the Belle Isle aquarium; a strange, anachronism in the Detroit river.

Our talking went all over the place, but I noticed that despite the continued tenuous existence that he maintained all through college and afterward, Hyatt seemed more self assured than ever. He spoke with great sincerity, even on the lightest of subjects. "I've had some of the best times, and some of the worst -- the lowest lows -- since moving to New York," he told me.

A highlight of the evening was receiving a free round from the bartender becuase he overheard us talking about Tom Waits.

Meandering back to the film commune where Hyatt lives, we stopped for Emergency Falafel. We ate it lazily in the back yard of the collective, where a stage was framed between the huge neighboring buildings that towered over us. We talked about the future.


Hyatt showe me around the home he shared with other artists who work together making films. I could feel the excitement that you get from imaginitive people through the walls. One tennent had nailed pages from a French poem to his door. Hyatt's small room boasted a fragmentary Lichtenstein.

It was late, so I slept in the common room on a couch allegedly used by Al Pacino in a made for TV movie. I woke early, and made my way back to Manhattan in the haze of someone who has slept, but rested too little.


Up next: Lindsey, Armenians in Brooklyn, and a journey to the Garden State.

Location:Savage Rd,Denville,United States