Lately
I’ve opened some of my blog entries with a cartoon. Usually these introduce
political pieces, the cartoon serving as a sharp commentary on our increasingly
dysfunctional government and the strange worlds of social media. This entry
isn’t political, but I’m beginning with a cartoon anyway. It feels less like
satire and more like poetry: it captures the sweep of our lives, stirring both
humor and emotion. These days, we really do turn to Alexa and the gadgets that
only recently slipped into the vocabulary of daily life.
The
cartoon also connects to our recent travels—back to the places where we can’t
really go home again, but still visit: Connecticut and New York City, the two
landscapes that shaped my life the most. Wallace Stegner once said that if we
live too narrowly in too many places, we lose touch. At least I can still hold
on to these places of my youth and early adulthood.
My
wife Ann wrote an email to friends about halfway through our trip. I’ve freely
borrowed parts of it—not quoting her exact words, but weaving them into this
posting, modifying and adding where needed. It made no sense to recreate what
she had already written, so I’ve conflated some of our views here.
So,
on Thursday, August 14th, our alarm went off at 3:50 a.m. to make a 6:00 a.m.
flight to Westchester. Why so early? Unless you own your own private jet
(increasingly the ultimate status symbol, along with a Rolex Daytona), any
seasoned traveler out of Florida knows that the early morning flights are about
the only ones you can truly depend on.
Landing
in Westchester, I made a beeline for my Avis rental car, hoping for something
familiar—I had booked a Toyota Avalon or equivalent. Instead, I was handed a
Dodge Hornet hybrid: take it or leave it. Decent enough as a small SUV, but
prone to malfunctioning at critical moments. The worst came when I returned it
in NYC. I had to block traffic on West 54th to unload luggage, when suddenly
the car refused to recognize the FOB and shut down. Couldn’t start it. Couldn’t
get the luggage out. Behind me: a symphony of blaring horns. Finally, by
locking and unlocking it, the car recognized the FOB again. Crazy.
Frustrating.
Back
to Connecticut. Although we spent only three days in Norwalk, they were
eventful. Our older son, Chris, and his fiancée, Megan, drove down from
Massachusetts to meet us. The next day, our daughter-in-law Tracie drove up from
New York with her parents, Pat and Alan Wong, who had just arrived from Hong
Kong. We all met our younger son, Jonathan,
on the same boat Ann and I lived on during summers before Covid shut everything
down. Jonathan has since taken over the boat, and now our boating lives exist
only in memory—though refreshed by seeing the ‘Swept Away’ once again. The high
point was then taking her out under the command of Capt’n Jonathan on one of
those splendid, sun-filled Connecticut days.





The
eight of us celebrated engagements, birthdays, and anniversaries. It is rare
that our small family can all be together. Aside from the boat, we had a
celebratory dinner at Rive Bistro on the Saugatuck River—another place filled
with memories for me. It was my “go-to” restaurant for meeting with authors and
vendors when I worked in Westport for decades before I retired. It was then called
The Mooring Restaurant. Ironically, Chris worked there in high school, washing
dishes once he got his driver’s license. I inexplicably remember those kinds of
details. Today, the restaurant is French, with excellent food—particularly
their mussels.
Sunday
morning, after brunch at Jacob’s Pickles in Norwalk (we’ve also been to their
Upper West Side location), we said our goodbyes to Chris and Megan and then we
drove into the city, taking the same route I took when I commuted to Westport
from NYC and back for the first year I worked there in 1970. Amazingly, the roads don’t look much
different.
After
the fiasco of unpacking luggage and returning the car, we checked into an upper
midtown hotel. Our corner room on the 47th floor had floor-to-ceiling windows
on two sides, offering spectacular views of the Hudson River, Central Park, and
the nearby skyscrapers—including the Central Park Tower, the world’s tallest
residential skyscraper at 1,550 feet. Even halfway up, we had to strain our
necks to see the top.
Since
we were spending almost two weeks in NYC, pacing ourselves felt important. Even
in our room we felt part of the city, by day and by night. With a small
kitchenette, it even felt a little like home. When not out, we had the Little
League World Series and the U.S. Open Tennis on TV—our two favorite sports.
That
first night, we had dinner at Birdland, sitting right in front of jazz pianist
Ben Paterson and his trio as they celebrated Oscar Peterson’s centennial. The
selections echoed Oscar’s music—perfect for unwinding after the day.
The
next night we met up with Pat and Alan, Tracie’s parents, and Jon and Tracie
for a spectacular dinner at Salumeria Rosi, coincidentally near both of our old
Upper West Side apartments. Ann was transported in her imagination to Maria’s
kitchen—her best friend in Milan—enjoying Pasta con Vongole. Both Maria’s and
the restaurant’s version of linguine with baby clams were nearly identical,
Ann’s favorite dish.
Since
Tracie was celebrating her 50th birthday the next night, Jonathan chose a very
special Japanese restaurant, The Gallery by Odo. We six were the only party in
the Tasting Room, with the chef preparing all the dishes in front of us. The
following day, Alan and Pat flew home—and we recuperated!
Most
of our New York visits in recent years have been crammed with theater. Summer
is not the best time for shows, though, and after reviewing our options (and
ticket prices), we decided to mostly forego Broadway this time and focus on
museums and jazz clubs.
Our
first museum stop was the newly remodeled Frick Collection, with a total of
five Vermeers, two on loan.
“The unprecedented installation of paintings united
in the exhibition ‘Vermeer’s Love Letters’ pairs the Frick’s 'Mistress and Maid' with loans of the Rijksmuseum’s 'Love Letter' and the National Gallery of
Ireland’s 'Woman Writing a Letter with Her Maid'.” We spent a long time closely
inspecting their details, particularly the relationships between servants and
employers. We were lucky to see this, as the exhibit closed soon after our
visit. After some other exhibits at the
museum, and admiring the architecture, we enjoyed our lunch at the Westmoreland
Café.
The
next evening, thanks to our friend Judith’s suggestion, we had dinner at
Acadia, a Mediterranean-inspired restaurant with table-served hummus and a hot
loaf of herbed pita bread. Honestly, give me bread like that and some olive
oil, and that’s a meal. The hummus was creamy, perfectly seasoned, with added
chickpeas, tahini, lemon juice, garlic, and olive oil. Ambrosial!
After
dinner, we headed to New York City Center to see the one show we booked, “Ava:
Secret Conversations,” written by and starring Elizabeth McGovern. By chance,
on the way we ran into our Floridian neighbors, Marty and Susan, who also had
tickets that very same night. McGovern, playing an ill and older Ava Gardner,
strutted and swore with the best of them: a very entertaining and
thought-provoking play.
The Museum of Modern Art was within walking distance of our hotel, so the next day we met Jonathan and
Tracie there. I was particularly interested in the special exhibits, especially
the ‘Celebrity Photo Exhibit’ and ‘Machine Art’ (The highlight for me from the
latter was a propeller made by Sullivan Shipyard in 1925. A thing of beauty!)
But
the infamous “museum stroll” soon took its toll, and we were relieved Jonathan
had booked lunch at The Modern, at an outdoor table overlooking the sculpture
garden.
I
hope this picture of us at MOMA shows that in spite of the demands of the trip,
we were enjoying ourselves—and maybe communicates what we heard repeatedly:
people were surprised to learn we are in our eighties, especially Ann, who was
sometimes stopped on the street or in elevators by strangers wanting to tell
her how stunning she looked. I agree. Her ponytail seals the case!
It
was an extraordinary lunch, though extraordinary in price too, even with the
Restaurant Week menu. The weather was perfect, and afterward we strolled
through more galleries and the sculpture garden with throngs of visitors from around the world: a
classic New York Sunday.
That
night we cabbed to the West Village (our subway days are over—taxis were
convenient and even cheaper than Uber) to see Samara Joy at Mezzrow, a small,
claustrophobic jazz club on West 10th Street. We’d seen Samara when she was
just starting out during Covid at “Emmet’s Place,” and later on a jazz cruise.
She’s
the real deal, destined to be compared with Ella Fitzgerald or Sarah Vaughan.
We were surprised to catch her in such an intimate club, but that’s part of the
jazz experience. Her voice has range and power, though her set leaned more
contemporary than the classic jazz we prefer. Still, with her trio—including
drummer Evan Sherman, whom we also first saw at Emmet’s—her performance was
memorable.
While
in the Village, do what the villagers do: after the show we went to Boucherie on
lower 7th Avenue, a French restaurant, perfect for people-watching
from a table open to the street as well as the picturesque bar. Overwhelming to
see today’s youth scene, knowing we were once part of that world but now visitors
from another galaxy.
Somewhere
in this hectic schedule I fit in breakfast at my favorite Greek diner, Cosmic,
on 8th Avenue and 52nd Street. There I met Jim Cummins, someone I hadn’t seen
in about 65 years. In 1959, when I worked summers in my father’s photography
studio at 100 Fifth Avenue, Jim’s father was the utility meter reader there. He
mentioned his son wanted to learn photography, and my father said sure. Our
paths briefly crossed then. I left photography as a career, but Jim embraced it:
over 1,000 music album covers, plus work for Newsday, The New York Times, and
Newsweek. His true love is photographing New York City, and his “Hidden NewYork: The Art of the City” was just published.

He
found me through my blog, and though we’d corresponded, this was our first time
sitting down together. He inscribed his book to me: “To Bob, 65 years of
friendship and here’s to Hagelstein Bros. Be Well, Jim.” Stunning photos
throughout. He liked to climb the towers of bridges, like the Verrazano, to photograph
events such as the start of the New York Marathon. “Peaceful up there,” he
said, while I replied “I’d fear being blown away!”
Talk
about branding—JP Morgan leads the pack, especially in NYC. You can hardly look
anywhere without seeing its name. Its new headquarters at 270 Park Avenue,
occupying a full block, rises nearly as tall as the Empire State Building.
Watching the U.S. Open, there’s its logo again. I tried to take photos of the
building across the street in front of 277 Park Avenue. I had an epiphany. In 1967, I attended a publishing party in that very building celebrating the facsimile edition of“The Iconography of Manhattan Island.” Back then, 50-story 277 Park, newly
built, was hailed as the skyscraper of the future. Now it is dwarfed by JP
Morgan’s tower.
The
etiology of all this is the man himself, J. P. Morgan, the Gilded Age
financier. His legacy also includes one of New York’s most interesting museums,
the JP Morgan Library. They had a special Jane Austen exhibit, where we spent
most of our time.
“Iconic artifacts from Jane Austen’s House in Chawton,
England join manuscripts, books, and artworks from the Morgan and a dozen
collections, offering new perspectives on Austen’s literary achievement,
personal style, and global legacy.”
First editions…
The
music she played…
“This
lovely, unostentatious gold and turquoise ring was made between 1760 and 1780.
By tradition, turquoise is the December birthstone, Jane Austen’s month, but
whether she bought the ring or received it as a gift is not known. In 1820
Cassandra gave it to Henry’s second wife, Eleanor, as an engagement present. A
fundraising campaign enabled Jane Austen’s House to secure the ring.”
Perhaps
my favorite photo of the entire trip came here. The exhibit included Amy
Sherald’s oil painting, ‘A Single Man in Possession of a Good Fortune, 2019’.
The title, of course, is from Pride and
Prejudice. Sherald composes “striking, dignified portraits of people of
color.” I should call my photo “Reflecting upon a reflection.”
Another
stunning exhibit was ‘Arresting Beauty,’covering the photography of Julia Margaret Cameron, a pioneer of art photography in the
mid-19th century. I was embarrassed never to have heard of her. Her ‘The
Mountain Nymph Sweet Liberty’ (1866) particularly spoke to me—it was taken the
year my great-grandfather started our family photography business. The more I
looked, the more I felt the subject was looking back at me, across 150 years.
That
night we went with Jonathan and Tracie to Dizzy’s to hear up-and-coming jazz
vocalist Katie Kortum. She reminded us of Jane Monheit when we first heard her
at the Maltz Theatre and then Palm Beach’s Royal Room years ago. Katie has a
similar range and sensibility, with a particular love of Stephen Sondheim’s
work. The setting—overlooking Columbus Circle and Central Park — is spectacular.
As if
we hadn’t celebrated enough, we took Tracie and Jonathan out the next night for
his 49th birthday at Four Twenty Five, a Jean-Georges Michelin-rated
restaurant. The food, the service, the view of the kitchen—all exceptional (so
was the price!).
The
next day we visited one of our must-see stops, the New York Historical Society.
I especially wanted to see their exhibit ‘Blacklisted: An American Story,’
exploring the intersection of politics, art, and culture during Hollywood’s Red
Scare. While looking at letters from Frank Sinatra, John Garfield, and material
from the film “Pride of the Marines,” I couldn’t help thinking about our own,
more fearsome scare today, orchestrated by a president who never should have
been in that office. Enough said about that here.
Another
lighter exhibit, ‘Dining in Transit,’ displayed vintage menus from trains,
planes, and ships. My favorite was a 1955 list of “qualifications” required to
become a TWA air hostess. Indeed, a lucky girl! Different times. Even passengers had unspoken dress
codes: suits and ties for men, dresses for women. Military dress, acceptable.
No tattoos, flip-flops or tight shorts!
We
lunched at the Historical Society’s new American restaurant, Clara, where the
air conditioning was set to meat-locker strength. No wonder our favorite dish
was piping-hot potato soup!
Their
museum shop is irresistible, especially a chance to buy their “Declaration of
Independence” baseball. Is the metaphor
still as American as apple pie? Nonetheless, I’ve added it to my baseball
collection.
While
family, jazz, museums, and restaurants were our primary activities, most
mornings after breakfast I took my real digital camera and wandered for up to
two hours in all directions, through Central Park, down Fifth and Park Avenues,
across 57th Street, and inevitably into Times Square, trying to capture
interesting shots of NYC scenes and architecture. This present blog entry, including other
photographs, is unwieldy as it is, so check out this link to my prior entry
where I posted some of those walkabout shots but with little commentary, Streetscapes and Skylines