The Long Journey to Chris and Megan’s Day

 

 Traveling nowadays, particularly for those of a certain age, can be challenging. But on 8/8/26, my son and Ann’s stepson, Chris, was married to the love of his life, Megan, at a beautiful wedding venue, The Barn at Blackstone, in the Blackstone Valley of Massachusetts, a sylvan paradise that is so quintessentially New England. It is not around the corner from any major city, Worcester being the closest and Boston some fifty miles away, but just driving there from our hotel with our other son, Jonathan, and his wife, Tracie, lifted our spirits and our expectations as the green pastures rolled by.

 

Before the wedding day, and the rehearsal dinner the night before, Ann and I took a mini-vacation on the Massachusetts coast, using a hotel in Salem as our home base. Normally I describe our trips in chronological order, but this entry is the exception, because the wedding was the main event by far. Perhaps sometime soon I’ll have the rest of that trip written up and documented with some photos, but this entry is all about the wedding: meeting Megan’s side of the family, seeing friends of Chris and Megan, and catching up with others from our past, including my ex-wife, Chris’s mom, Carol, and my oldest friend from college, Bruce, and his wife, Bonnie.

 

The path to this weekend was a circuitous one for the wedding couple. Remarkably, this is the first marriage for both of them, Chris in his early 60s and Megan in her mid-50s. Both had loved and lost before and had perhaps begun to think they might never find that special person, going about their professional lives and accepting their autonomy. I remember once saying to Chris, “It will happen when you least expect it.”

 

And it did.

 

Chris came to live with us when he had just turned 13. Our own son, Jonathan, Chris’s half-brother, was only two at the time, and yet the two of them have grown closer as they have aged. Even though traveling is no fun for us octogenarians, Ann and I would have walked the 1,200 miles to attend this event! Admittedly, we would have had to leave about a year ago.

 

We had once met Megan’s dad, John, but this was the first time we met her mother, Katie, as well as Megan’s brother, Matt, and his family. Katie graciously hosted the rehearsal dinner for mostly out-of-town family and friends at Ruth’s Chris Steak House in Worcester. Need I say more about the excellence of the dinner?

 

There were, of course, elements that could have led to anxiety for the couple: How would the two families get along? And what would it be like seeing my ex-wife, Carol, whom I had seen only once in the past fifty years, at my father’s funeral more than thirty years ago?

 

Any foreboding emotional clouds that might have existed disappeared instantly. We were there to celebrate Chris’s marriage, and Ann and Carol even got along as if they were two old friends.

 

As I sat next to Megan’s mom, Katie, I got a good sense of her sharing in the joy of the moment, as well as her thoughtfulness and sensitivity. The wedding couple themselves seemed completely unfazed by the occasion of the rehearsal dinner, simply basking in the anticipation of a moment they perhaps once thought would never arrive.

 

Jonathan, our son, was given the honor of saying “a few words” at the wedding celebration itself, while Megan’s mom, Katie, delivered heartfelt and joyous words at the rehearsal dinner. Katie is a published poet and is working on two different works of historical fiction, so her emotive well is deep.

 

Usually, I am not at a loss for words if I have time to think about them and then write them down. So I came prepared. Rather than describing my rehearsal-dinner “speech,” I include every word here. It sets the stage for the wedding itself and for the two wonderful people we were there to celebrate, honor, and, above all, love.

 

This is what I tried to carefully articulate, despite not being the world’s best public speaker:

 

“This is one of the happiest occasions in Ann’s and my life.

 

We have watched Chris make his way through the world for a very long time now, and it gives us enormous joy to see that journey bring him here, to Megan.

 

And to Megan: thank you for becoming such an important part of our lives. We already love you as a daughter. And thank you, John and Katie for raising such a warm, intelligent, and beautiful person.

 

For those of you who may not know Chris as well as we do, he has never believed life should be lived in only one lane. Over the years he has pumped gas, washed dishes at a Westport restaurant, starred on the soccer field, majored in philosophy (which, naturally, prepared him for a practical career path) and eventually found his footing in the computer and financial worlds. But beneath all of that, I suspect his true calling has always been that of a writer and observer of life.

 

And then, several years ago, somewhere in the great wilderness of online dating, Chris and Megan briefly crossed paths on eHarmony, only to lose touch. Fate, however, was apparently unwilling to leave matters there.  It arranged a second encounter on Bumble months later.

 

This time they actually met.  They had their first date at a north Boston Italian restaurant. And, as proof that some people are romantics after all, that is the very same restaurant where Chris proposed to Megan last year.

 

By then, of course, they had already built a life together during the pandemic years — sharing a home, laughter, companionship, and eventually Lily, our beloved grand-dog.

 

What Ann and I love most is who they are together. They make each other laugh constantly. They bring out a youthful joy that is contagious.

 

So in one sense, tomorrow changes nothing. And in another sense, it changes everything.

 

Because tomorrow is the public expression of something they already know privately and deeply: that after long and separate journeys through life, they found in one another a true companion.

 

All of us could not be happier for you both. So please raise your glasses to Chris and Megan, to love that arrived at exactly the right time, and to many wonderful years ahead together.”

 

I make reference to the serendipity of their “meeting” online. Indeed, they nearly didn’t find one another at all. It was Megan’s persistence, willing to respond again to Chris who hadn’t followed through the first time that changed everything.

 

The full story of their relationship is on their wedding site, aptly entitled “From SQL Servers to Soulmates.”   I am going to quote a little of it here because some parts of the story deserve to be highlighted. Megan’s humor and sensitivity shine through as well:

 

“Their love story almost never happened. When they first connected, Megan was exasperated by the dating scene and did not respond to Chris’s message quickly enough. Chris, equally weary of the online dating scene, took her silence as another instance of digital rudeness and moved on. Both went on with their lives, going on dates with well-intentioned, but dating-weary people, with little success.

 

And then months later, their lives crossed on another dating website. As Megan was swiping left and right on hundreds of profiles, she was met with the picture– yet again – of this cheerful bald man with the kind, smiling eyes. She thought “That’s the ass who didn’t email me back…but what the hell? What do I have to lose?”. So she swiped right. And her world has never been the same.

 

They met for their first date in Boston. Though both arrived incredibly nervous, they quickly discovered an unexpected sense of ease and connection that had eluded them on other dates. Both were able to see not just the quirkiness of one another, but a kindness as well. Megan talked about her love of dogs and her job as a psychologist. Chris made Megan’s eyes glaze over with his talk of SQL servers, but then made them perk up when he talked about his writing. They dined at a carefully chosen restaurant in the North End, followed by wandering around the city at night. By the end of the night, both had figured out that they had found someone special…..

 

But the most remarkable part of the six years that Megan and Chris have been together is how much they have changed as individuals. Both, in their own way, became more self-assured and confident in themselves. Some of their quirks faded, and for the ones that stuck, neither cares much what anyone else thinks. It seems that their life together helped them individually develop into the people they always hoped to be.”

 

This passage is quite a tribute to our son and his soulmate, Megan.

 

And so a typically delicious Ruth’s Chris dinner ensued, and close friends of the soon-to-be-married couple, the bride’s family, and ourselves merrily inched closer to the big next day.

 

We drove to The Barn together with Jonathan and Tracie, who were staying at the same hotel, via a labyrinth of rustic back roads. After hearty and emotional meet-and-greets and reunions, including seeing friends of Chris we hadn’t seen in a long time because we live so far away now, Kevin and Cathy, two of his oldest friends, and after libations and hors d’oeuvres, the one hundred or so guests, including us, were seated outside adjacent to the indoor venue.

 

Ann, Jon, Tracie, Carol

Me, Ann

There was a wedding cupola with seating, with the bride’s family and ours in the first two rows. Megan’s brother, Matt, walked Megan down the aisle. Brief readings were delivered by Chris’s mom, Carol, and two of Megan’s friends, and the ceremony was officiated by a longtime friend, John.

Matt and Megan

 

Chris and Megan wrote their own vows, too long to include here but deeply personal and emotional. But I will quote a few lines by Chris which particularly resonate:

 

“My promise to you speaks from this one heart as it did from the start:

 

To hold you as storms rage,

To shield you from the sun's age,

To stay with you until the turning of the Last Page.

 

I'll be by your side, Megan

This promise I make in full

Not words from me

But my heart to you.”

 

Chris delivered his words through tears of joy, while Megan smiled and, at one point, almost had to hold him up as his literary soulfulness and the baking sun took their toll. (My friend, Bruce, commented “Chris gets the Nobel Prize for vows.”)

 

It was touching, and there was not a dry eye among those gathered for this long-awaited moment in Megan and Chris’s lives.

 

Then we went back to the air-conditioned “barn” for a celebratory dinner and dancing.

 

Matt, Megan’s brother, gave a poignant speech about his sister and the joy their family felt on this occasion. His words were a fitting introduction to what followed, a speech written and delivered by Jonathan, Chris’s younger half-brother. It reveals much about their relationship and what this day meant to him:

 

“Standing here today, I think about the 11-year gap between us. When I was struggling to tie my shoes, Chris was already out in the world, becoming the caring, creative and inquisitive person we all know.

 

Chris, my earliest memory of you is your smelly soccer gear—sweaty socks and dirt-caked cleats. We remember watching you at St. Luke’s, the soccer team ace, playing with total grace and confidence. You were my role model—the smart college-bound athlete who also picked his little brother up from the bus stop.

 

I remember the summer you were at Clark, majoring in Philosophy. Mom, Dad, and I were vacationing on Block Island waiting for you. Since there was no direct bus from Worcester to the ferry at Point Judith, you decided to bicycle that entire 75 miles so you could join us. You arrived at the ferry dock, exhausted, but with a huge grin on your face. That night, after a lobster dinner at Ballard’s, you didn't collapse, but you got up and "danced the chicken" with the rest of us—clucking and flapping your wings, as if you hadn't just pedaled 75 miles! That was my brother—always giving everything for his family with still enough left in the tank to dance.

 

And then, in early adulthood, your journey took a few…’detours.’ …Well, in retrospect, those chaotic times were your creative writing fuel. You launched a blog years before it was mainstream and your writing was even published in a literary anthology!

 

Chris, you summoned up that tough athlete we saw on the soccer field. You picked yourself up and got back into the game—you earned your computer certifications, built a stable career, and landed yourself in a beautiful one-bedroom apartment in Boston….

 

And then, finally, dating-weary, and when you’d almost given up on finding someone to share your stories with, you found Megan.

 

Megan, in my Dad’s most recent book, he wrote that the most enduring songs are 'perfect marriage of melody and lyrics.' Chris had the words, but he hadn’t found the melody, until he met you! You both found your rhythm on that first date—where his computer talk made your eyes glaze over, but his creative writing made them perk up. You looked past the technical jargon and truly heard the caring man with the inquisitive spirit.

 

We saw the change in Chris almost immediately—he seemed settled and at home. We saw it in the kindness he showed your beloved dog Sophie in her old age patiently waiting for all her ‘sniffs’, and I see it now in your family with Lily, the dog from Mississippi who clearly hit the jackpot with you two!

 

I’ll conclude with a final “note.” In April of 2020, Chris, Megan, and my beautiful wife Tracie, celebrated Mom and Dad’s 50th wedding anniversary with tickets to the Broadway show “Company" in New York.

 

“Company” centers on Bobby, a late blooming bachelor who observes his friends navigate the complexities of marriage. Bobby’s awakening arrives with the song “Being Alive.” This is not a fluffy love song. Rather, it’s a raw realization that life sparkles with a partner who lets you ‘abandon your search,’ ‘forces you to care,’ and—most importantly—is ‘there’ for you. Chris, your path to Megan wasn’t easy, but those 75 miles you bicycled as a young man weren't just a physical feat—they were a preview of your amazing spirit!

 

So, if everyone could please raise a glass. To my big brother Chris, the philosopher-athlete who found his way home, and to my new sister Megan, the woman who gave him the music and showed him what “Being Alive” truly means.

 

To Chris and Megan!”

Jonathan, Chris

 

After dinner, the dance floor became electric, although the music was not exactly what my generation relates to. Ann and I can do the Lindy to just about anything, however, so in spite of our age, we were out there as well.

 

Chris wanted to do John Travolta’s Tony Manero one better and was dancing up a storm until he pulled a muscle in his thigh (and hamming up the moment as only he can).

Chris' Tony Manero Moment

 

Back story: He still plays competitive soccer in a league. But apparently those are not the same moves required on the dance floor. Some of his soccer friends, all teammates, rushed to him, fearful that he would not be ready for the league’s opening game in a couple of weeks. He was already feeling better after sitting out the gyrating number, so I’m confident they’ll have their fullback in peak form!

 

Because I do not mean to turn this into a journalistic account of the wedding, I’m going to allow the photographs I selected and sized for this entry to tell part of the story.  Some were taken by me; others were contributed by people who attended.

 

Katie and John, Megan's Parents

 

First Dance

Bonnie, Bruce, Me, Ann

 

Katie and Chris

Tracie and Jonathan

And then came the goodbyes.

 

They were more emotional than I expected. To see this married couple so happy, to meet our new in-laws and extended family, to partake in the festivities, to say goodbye to my longtime friend Bruce, with whom I have now been best friends for more than 60 years, and even to give a hug to my ex-wife, Carol, was overwhelming.  And, so, Ann and I left in the twilight.

 

There were so many kinds of closure in that one day. The distant past, the present, and all the years in between seemed, for a brief and extraordinary moment, to come together. And clearly, Providence gave its consent, providing a rainbow as we departed.

 

Reflecting on Familiar Places: A Connecticut–NYC Journey

 

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 7^th 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