... but that was in another country,
And besides, the wench is dead. - from 'The Jew of Malta', Christopher Marlowe
And besides, the wench is dead. - from 'The Jew of Malta', Christopher Marlowe
I just had a hot date in the West Village, New York.
To see Vanessa Redgrave in "The Revisionist".
For those not familiar with New York, the West Village is a Manhattan gay area. I was pleased to go, though we were paying "Dutch", as I always enjoy this friend's company. ... well that should be past tense. Whatever ...
I hate the West Village. Not because it is GAY. ASIF. But because, unlike most of Manhattan, the streets twist and turn, and are not in regular rectangle grid layout. Round where I live and hang out it's easy. 67th street is one block south of 68th street and one block north of 66th. And the streets go in straight lines. So if you head west on 93rd Street for example, you will end up still in 93rd Street but in the Hudson River.
But pick a street in the West Village and you can follow it for a hundred years through its twists and turns and never know where you'll end up - if the journey even ends.
"It's easy", said my friend. "Just meet me at Morandi on the corner of 7th and Waverley. Near the Christopher subway station".
And so tonight I caught three subways interconnecting though miles and miles of stairs, to end up at the designated desination - Christopher Street station. Hence the quote at the beginning of this post.
Not to worry. At Chistopher Street I climbed another 1,000 stairs and could see the sky. A comforting familar thing.
Back on ground level, I clung to a lamp-post to get my breath back. and then started asking the passer-bys "Where is Waverly Place?"
I have bad long-term memories of Waverly Place - isn't that where Susan Brownmiller got her head bashed in? But as a woman, I stood my ground. "Reclaim the night" as my Sisters say. Though I have to admit we are pretty safe in the West Village.
There were about 50 people hanging around the Christopher Street subway station, most looking up Google maps on their iPhones, so I decided to approach what looked like locals - people walking designer dogs. These people were all extremely pleasant, and as I had deduced, from the area. "Well gee whiz, golly me ma'am,'" they'd say in charming accents. "I know its around here somewhere, but can't remember. Try going north." Or south, depending who I talked to. Eventually I found the restaurant. "Morandi" at 211 Waverly Place.
My friend was sitting there, iPhoning and drinking a martini. I sat down, waiting for him to complete his emails. A hundred years later he looked up, and with absolute chutzpa said, "You're late". OK, OK already yet.
We ordered. And three martinis later, as I was still diving in to my pasta, he ordered "Gotta go," and had the waitress or associate or whatever is politically correct, hand me the bill. "Is a $20 tip OK?" I asked. "Make it $40," he commanded.
Well it was HIS neighborhood so who was I to argue. Anyway, what is $300 in America currency? A drop in the ocean.
"Quick quick!" he ordered. I started to think that I was out with a hetrosexual; my past conditioning kicked in and I followed him meekly to a theater.
Great. At last we were line for pre-paid tickets. And when it was our turn we asked the "person in attendance", ("box office chick" whatever you are allowed to say) for our tickets.
The box office person started typing in stuff to his computer. I noticed the operating system was Windows 7 and so was about to give up when a hundred years later, he informed us that neither of us was registered. "This IS the theater for 'The Revisionist?'" I asked, and he replied, no and that the Revisionist was playing at a theater some 10 blocks way.
Back in the street my friend strode ahead. Faster than a guy one tenth of his age, occasionally turning to tell me to hurry up. After about 5 blocks I felt my heart giving in, but somehow managed to catch up and to enter the lobby of the correct theater company
"You are too late," said the box office guy who looked like he could have crushed Wladimir Klitschko with his bare hands. "But you can watch it here," he said, pointing to two plasic bleacher chairs in the foyer. I have to admit there WAS a TV we could look at. I don't know where the theatrer dragged it up from. When I'd first noticed it I had thought it was from a museum exhibition. It wasn't flat screen and the the snowy reception took me back a few centuries to when TV was first introduced to Australia.
"Bloody Nazi!" muttered my friend, and the boxing-looking guy's ears pricked up. He walked straight towards us - "Whatdya say?" he said in a scary Bronx accent. My friend looked speechless and positively cowered in his plastic chair. "Oh, he was talking about a mutual friend, nothing to do with here," I explained. Me, ever the woman ... Smoothing things over . Looking skeptical though I doubt that the word was in his vocabulary. He backed off.
Only to return 30 years later to tell us we could go into standing-room at the back of the theatre.
My friend accepted graciously. Me - I said, "don't worry." And took a cab home. Only another $30.
And people wonder why I don't go out much in New York.
