Beginning in 1883, Albert and Alfred Smiley, twin brothers and devout Quakers, hosted the "Lake Mohonk Conference of Friends of the Indian." These annual gatherings met at the brothers' Mohonk Mountain House, a 259-guestroom resort nestled in the mountains west of the Hudson River in upstate New York. There, white middle-class Protestant reformers delivered speeches, shared ideas, refined their plans, and issued recommendations. Their goal was to lift up and civilize the American Indian. Their plans always assumed the vitality of education and the necessity of schools.
Many of the attendees held membership in the Indian Rights Association, the greatest such organization of the time, founded and led by Henry Welsh. Many of them had read Helen Hunt Jackson's 1881 book, A Century of Dishonor, which sought to do for Indians what Harriet Beecher Stowe's novel, Uncle Tom's Cabin, had done for slaves. In the words of historian Francis Paul Prucha, the conferences at Lake Mohonk "had tremendous impact on formulation of federal policy."[1]
Note
[1] Francis Paul Prucha, ed., Documents of United States Indian Policy, 3rd ed. (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2000), 161. For an excellent overview of the origins, activities, and legacy of the conferences at Lake Mohonk, see Robert M. Utley, The Indian Frontier, 1846-1890, rev. ed. (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2003), ch. 7. Theda Perdue and Michael D. Green, North American Indians: A Very Short Introduction (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), ch. 5, esp. p. 90, note the significance of the Mohonk conferences to the period that emphasized assimilation and allotment.
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Saturday, August 31, 2019
Friday, November 20, 2009
The Myth of Managing Grief
Here come the holidays. You know, "the most wonderful time of the year."
Alright, can we just say what everyone knows anyway? For a lot of people--many more than any of us will ever know--the holidays are horrible, a season in which the grief they carry around with them all of the time becomes that much more painful.
If that sounds autobiographical, that's because it is. But like so many people who hurt, I don't want to talk about it. Not here anyway. And not now.
The main reason I'm bringing this up at all is because not too long ago I was digging around in this wasteland called the Web when I came across the article that follows. It has a very specific context. It was first published on April 7, 2002, less than a year after the attacks of September 11, 2001. But its message is timeless.
And even though it appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, a secular newspaper located on the left coast no less, it contains a lot of insight and even a good bit of what might be called pastoral wisdom. I copy it here for what it's worth:
The myth of managing grief
by Stephanie Salter
Not long ago, a friend in New York said that she often feels cut off from the rest of the country because Sept. 11 is still so much with most New Yorkers.
"We've all gotten on with our lives, and if you don't go down to the (World Trade Center) site, there are no visible traces," she said. "But there's still so much grief and sadness hanging in the air."
People outside of New York can't really understand, said my friend.
"You talk with them and, if you didn't lose someone directly in the twin towers, it's like their tone says, 'Hey, shouldn't you be moving on?' They don't get that there's a collective grief. I actually prefer it when people don't even ask how it's going. It's easier."
Our American culture boasts many virtues and several strong suits, but grieving -- collectively or individually -- isn't one of them.
Unlike older societies, we have few formal grieving rituals in place to guide us. So, we try to tackle grief in our typical American way -- as if it's a problem to be solved, an illness to be cured, an unnatural, machine-gumming breakdown that needs to be fixed, ASAP.
Perhaps more phobic about suffering than any society in history, Americans tend to start the clock ticking early in "managing" grief. While solicitous and caring of the newly bereaved, we encourage heartbroken mates and parents to medicate themselves so they can "keep it together" through the funeral.
This ignores the fact that wailing and keening and "losing it" are a pretty accurate rendering of what humans inside feel like when someone we love dies or leaves us. But, in our culture, public wailing and keening are considered bad forms; they are seen as unwelcome reminders of pathology among "healthy" people.
Even the most devastating loss -- that of a child by a parent -- seems to carry an unwritten statute of limitations on grief, something I learned several years ago when I reported on an international organization called Compassionate Friends.
Founded in England in the late 1960s, the massive support network's chapters provide something that bereaved parents and siblings can't get from the rest of the world: "unconditional love and understanding" (as its informal credo states) with no expiration date.
As one member told me, she knew that a Compassionate Friends meeting was the one place she could go and never hear the unintentionally accusing question, "How many years ago did you say your child died?"
Grief is not like an illness, to be fought and cured with medicine or chemotherapy and radiation. Generalizations can be made about human behavioral tendencies, and time lines can be drawn for predicted "healing," but each person's grieving process is unique.
Some people never "get better." And nobody survives grief unchanged.
As Stephanie Ericsson wrote in "Companion Through the Darkness," grief is "a tidal wave that overtakes you, smashes down upon you with unimaginable force, sweeps you up into its darkness, where you tumble and crash against unidentifiable surfaces only to be thrown out on an unknown beach, bruised, reshaped."
Or, as a man who lost his 7-year-old son once confided, "I'd always thought of myself as a happy man, but that's gone now. We have moments of happiness, some of them long and filled with laughter, but the sense of what is lost is never far away."
In her book, Stephanie Ericsson also warned: "Grief makes what others think of you moot. It shears away the masks of normal life and forces brutal honesty out of your mouth before propriety can stop you. It shoves away friends and scares away so-called friends and rewrites your address book for you."
Alright, can we just say what everyone knows anyway? For a lot of people--many more than any of us will ever know--the holidays are horrible, a season in which the grief they carry around with them all of the time becomes that much more painful.
If that sounds autobiographical, that's because it is. But like so many people who hurt, I don't want to talk about it. Not here anyway. And not now.
The main reason I'm bringing this up at all is because not too long ago I was digging around in this wasteland called the Web when I came across the article that follows. It has a very specific context. It was first published on April 7, 2002, less than a year after the attacks of September 11, 2001. But its message is timeless.
And even though it appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, a secular newspaper located on the left coast no less, it contains a lot of insight and even a good bit of what might be called pastoral wisdom. I copy it here for what it's worth:
The myth of managing grief
by Stephanie Salter
Not long ago, a friend in New York said that she often feels cut off from the rest of the country because Sept. 11 is still so much with most New Yorkers.
"We've all gotten on with our lives, and if you don't go down to the (World Trade Center) site, there are no visible traces," she said. "But there's still so much grief and sadness hanging in the air."
People outside of New York can't really understand, said my friend.
"You talk with them and, if you didn't lose someone directly in the twin towers, it's like their tone says, 'Hey, shouldn't you be moving on?' They don't get that there's a collective grief. I actually prefer it when people don't even ask how it's going. It's easier."
Our American culture boasts many virtues and several strong suits, but grieving -- collectively or individually -- isn't one of them.
Unlike older societies, we have few formal grieving rituals in place to guide us. So, we try to tackle grief in our typical American way -- as if it's a problem to be solved, an illness to be cured, an unnatural, machine-gumming breakdown that needs to be fixed, ASAP.
Perhaps more phobic about suffering than any society in history, Americans tend to start the clock ticking early in "managing" grief. While solicitous and caring of the newly bereaved, we encourage heartbroken mates and parents to medicate themselves so they can "keep it together" through the funeral.
This ignores the fact that wailing and keening and "losing it" are a pretty accurate rendering of what humans inside feel like when someone we love dies or leaves us. But, in our culture, public wailing and keening are considered bad forms; they are seen as unwelcome reminders of pathology among "healthy" people.
Even the most devastating loss -- that of a child by a parent -- seems to carry an unwritten statute of limitations on grief, something I learned several years ago when I reported on an international organization called Compassionate Friends.
Founded in England in the late 1960s, the massive support network's chapters provide something that bereaved parents and siblings can't get from the rest of the world: "unconditional love and understanding" (as its informal credo states) with no expiration date.
As one member told me, she knew that a Compassionate Friends meeting was the one place she could go and never hear the unintentionally accusing question, "How many years ago did you say your child died?"
Grief is not like an illness, to be fought and cured with medicine or chemotherapy and radiation. Generalizations can be made about human behavioral tendencies, and time lines can be drawn for predicted "healing," but each person's grieving process is unique.
Some people never "get better." And nobody survives grief unchanged.
As Stephanie Ericsson wrote in "Companion Through the Darkness," grief is "a tidal wave that overtakes you, smashes down upon you with unimaginable force, sweeps you up into its darkness, where you tumble and crash against unidentifiable surfaces only to be thrown out on an unknown beach, bruised, reshaped."
Or, as a man who lost his 7-year-old son once confided, "I'd always thought of myself as a happy man, but that's gone now. We have moments of happiness, some of them long and filled with laughter, but the sense of what is lost is never far away."
In her book, Stephanie Ericsson also warned: "Grief makes what others think of you moot. It shears away the masks of normal life and forces brutal honesty out of your mouth before propriety can stop you. It shoves away friends and scares away so-called friends and rewrites your address book for you."
Friday, August 14, 2009
So Long to the Legendary Les Paul
Anyone who's ever picked up and played a solid-body electric guitar has had the great Les Paul to thank for having done so much to bring that wonder into the world.But "Red-Hot Red," who died yesterday at the age of 94, was more than an inventor. At different stages in his life, he was a sound guru, a recording artist, and, above all, a performer. In fact, he was still playing two shows, one night a week, until earlier this year. Few people have lived such a full life.
Back in 2005, I traveled with my daughter Chloe and some other musicians from her high school to see him play at the Iridium Jazz Club in Manhattan. What a night! So glad we went.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
On Baseball Cards, Babe Ruth, and the Bible
A few years ago, I came across what has to be one of the most interesting works of art in New York City. It's not at the Guggenheim or the Museum of Modern Art. (Hate to say it, but I've never been to either). No, this one is preserved in the rarefied air of the ESPN Zone.
Really.
It's a large mosaic that's made of baseball cards. But as it is with all mosaics, you don't see the baseball cards (tiles) when you first see this one. What you initially see is the big picture.
In this case the picture is the face of Babe Ruth. Only when you get closer do you realize that the Babe is depicted by a large number of creatively-placed cards. The effect is similar to that of a towering home run. It's fantastic. To get a taste of what I'm talking about, check out these photos.
Anyway, I've been reflecting lately about how a mosaic can resemble a piece of literature. I'm especially thinking about the books of the Bible. When a person first starts reading, he encounters it as a series of cards (each verse representing one card or tile, let's say).
Of course, this is true of any sort of reading. But people have ways of reading the Bible that don't match up with how they read anything else. I'm thinking about that method of Bible that study spends a lot of time looking at one or just a few verses. According to this method, the student will often skip from one verse to another verse found in a different book. The comparisons between the two passages seem very natural. In this method, a person or group might spend a half hour on one or two verses, with no big picture in sight.
Now, there's something to be said for this method. It can be engaging and instructive. Provided that it's governed by a healthy theology, it can itself be healthy. I've done some of this myself.
But there's also something to be said for looking at all the cards together at the same time in order to get the big picture. Of course, when it comes to Bible study, "the big picture" can refer to any one of a series found in ever-expanding frames. Some examples:
Something closely related is the ironic dearth of biblical knowledge in the U.S., including in our churches. Read some of the sermons that were preached many years ago. It's amazing to hear how often the preachers could make a passing reference, knowing that most listeners would either catch the allusion, or at least want to figure it out.
But before I get too far off the track here, I want to say that what I'm describing is a real problem. It has the potential to frustrate teachers of the Word and impoverish churches. Christians should work to overcome it. So here are some of my questions:
1. What are some of the ways that churches--parents, elders, preachers, ministers of education, etc., etc.--can effectively work to make sure that the church sees the big picture(s) of the Bible?
2. Who are some of the teachers who most effectively overcome the problem I've described here?
3. Of the different churches you've known, which one knew its Bible the best? Why were they more knowledgable than the other congregations?
Really.
It's a large mosaic that's made of baseball cards. But as it is with all mosaics, you don't see the baseball cards (tiles) when you first see this one. What you initially see is the big picture.
In this case the picture is the face of Babe Ruth. Only when you get closer do you realize that the Babe is depicted by a large number of creatively-placed cards. The effect is similar to that of a towering home run. It's fantastic. To get a taste of what I'm talking about, check out these photos.
Anyway, I've been reflecting lately about how a mosaic can resemble a piece of literature. I'm especially thinking about the books of the Bible. When a person first starts reading, he encounters it as a series of cards (each verse representing one card or tile, let's say).
Of course, this is true of any sort of reading. But people have ways of reading the Bible that don't match up with how they read anything else. I'm thinking about that method of Bible that study spends a lot of time looking at one or just a few verses. According to this method, the student will often skip from one verse to another verse found in a different book. The comparisons between the two passages seem very natural. In this method, a person or group might spend a half hour on one or two verses, with no big picture in sight.
Now, there's something to be said for this method. It can be engaging and instructive. Provided that it's governed by a healthy theology, it can itself be healthy. I've done some of this myself.
But there's also something to be said for looking at all the cards together at the same time in order to get the big picture. Of course, when it comes to Bible study, "the big picture" can refer to any one of a series found in ever-expanding frames. Some examples:
- A psalm or a parable can be the mosaic.
- So can a whole book, like Psalms or one of the Gospels.
- Old Testament scholars think that Deuteronomy through Kings (not counting Ruth) is a mosaic.
- New Testament scholars now treat Luke-and-Acts like one.
- Biblical theologians sometimes look at either the Old or the New Testament as a mosaic.
- Out from there, of course, is the Bible as a whole.
One problem that preachers and Bible teachers encounter is the challenge of teaching a text as it relates to and is informed by the larger whole. Let's face it, if a person preaches from, say, Romans chapter 5, there's a good chance that most of the audience will not hear the sermon in light of the whole letter.
However, allowing a passage to be heard in the context of the larger whole is next to impossible given the time limitations we've placed on Bible classes and sermons. A few tiles here. A few baseball cards there. Never the whole mosaic.Something closely related is the ironic dearth of biblical knowledge in the U.S., including in our churches. Read some of the sermons that were preached many years ago. It's amazing to hear how often the preachers could make a passing reference, knowing that most listeners would either catch the allusion, or at least want to figure it out.
But before I get too far off the track here, I want to say that what I'm describing is a real problem. It has the potential to frustrate teachers of the Word and impoverish churches. Christians should work to overcome it. So here are some of my questions:
1. What are some of the ways that churches--parents, elders, preachers, ministers of education, etc., etc.--can effectively work to make sure that the church sees the big picture(s) of the Bible?
2. Who are some of the teachers who most effectively overcome the problem I've described here?
3. Of the different churches you've known, which one knew its Bible the best? Why were they more knowledgable than the other congregations?
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Memories from the World Trade Center
(First posted on 9/11/05)
As we were learning the terrible truth on the morning of September 11, 2001, there was one person I especially wanted to see: my daughter Chloe. She wanted to see me too.
When she came in from school later that afternoon, our sad eyes met. We stayed in that mutual gaze for a few seconds, both of us knowing exactly what the other was thinking.
Living less than a hundred miles from Manhattan, day trips into "the City" are easy to do and always promise an adventure. Earlier in June of that year, Chloe and I had spent one such day together, just the two of us.
On the train ride down that morning, she told me she was really interested in a visit to Ellis Island. She'd been reading about immigrants who came through there. She wanted to know what they once saw, to imagine how they must have felt. Some of them were Bellizzis.
I thumbed through my guide to New York and realized that we weren't going to be able to make it out to Ellis Island that day. I had scheduled a short appointment with a professor at New York University, hoping to set up a plan to read Classical Hebrew there maybe one day a week. It would be expensive, I thought. But on my day off I could enjoy two loves of my life; New York and Old Hebrew. Besides, going through a terrible divorce, I was pretty desperate for something that would help me to feel happy again. No Ellis Island that day, I told Chloe.
I knew she was disappointed. So I promised her that once we'd gotten my meeting out of the way, she could call the shots. I'd be willing to spring for almost any adventure. But it would have to be in Manhattan.
She hadn't imagined an alternative, and wanted to know what I thought would be a fun Plan B. So I started to ask . . .
The Museum of Natural History? Um. No.
(joking) The American Numismatic Society? Lots and lots of ancient coins! Nobody wants to go there except you, Dad.
I bet my teacher, Dr. Oster, would go with me. Then call him.
A few bookstores? (getting irritated) Dad!
Okay, sorry. . . I know! How 'bout the World Trade Center? What can you do there?
I'm not sure, exactly. (looking it up in the guide) But we could go to the top. Says here that they have places to eat. There's a glassed-in observation deck, and you can take an escalator up to the roof.
(looking at the pictures and starting to smile) Okay. Let's do that.
After the train stop and our walk through Grand Central, we took the subway headed south. Having made it to lower Manhattan, we meandered around in Washington Square Park talking. Then it was over to my appointment, which was over soon enough.
As we stepped out of the office building, I wanted to be sure we'd have enough time that afternoon. So I decided to spend the extra money for a cab instead of the subway. Within a few minutes, the driver was dropping us off so close to the buildings that we couldn't see their tops from inside the car.
Looking at the World Trade Center was sort of like looking at the Grand Canyon. You wondered, "Is it bigger or smaller than it seems?" You also wondered, "How was this ever made?" There on the street, most everything was gray, the sunlight blocked by the shadows of the towers. Even the bright signs had a bit of a pall.
Once inside, it wasn't long before we bought our tickets to take the less-than-a-minute elevator ride to the 107th floor. From that point up, most of the WTC's south tower was the observation deck and a level or two with restaurants and exhibits. We walked around the perimeter of the deck, looking in all directions, reading the signs that told us what we were seeing. Soon we were on the escalator, riding up to the roof.
It was incredible. I remember looking up the length of Manhattan and seeing well past the north end of the island, all the way to those towns in New York that lay beyond the Bronx, and east into Connecticut. To the west was New Jersey. I wondered about the number of miles we could see.
The wind was strong and blustery, a constant sound in the ears, like standing at the edge of the ocean. I remember thinking, "It must be like this all the time up here. Wonder what it's like on a windy day." For a second my imagination turned horrific and I thought about what it would it would be like if an unexpected gust were to take my feet out from under me and send me flying from the top.
Between the office appointment and the cab, we had looked around in a tourist shop and I'd bought one of those disposable cameras. Now I was ready to use it. I especially wanted to get a picture of the two of us facing south, with the Empire State Building and all of those lesser skyscrapers behind us. I asked a young woman if she wouldn't mind. She snapped the photo and smiled as she handed the camera back to me.
The roof wasn't where you wanted to linger. Within few minutes, Chloe and I were having lunch at the pizza place on one of those top floors. I guess I'll never forget one of the songs that played in the background that day. It was Billy Joel's "Lullabye."
Someday we'll all be gone
But lullabyes go on and on
They never die
That's how you and I
Will be . . .
Of course, it made me think of me and Chloe.
I don't recall much about the rest of the day. There was a late afternoon shower, and we bought an umbrella at a little shop on Broadway. I still have that umbrella.
Within a day or two after we'd gotten back, though, I started wondering where that camera was. We looked, but didn't find it. The week following September 11th, we looked a lot more, but it never turned up.
Since then, when I'm not wishing we had that photo, I sometimes think to myself, "Maybe it's just as well."
Either way, I have these memories. Now and then, I hear that song. It always makes me cry.
As we were learning the terrible truth on the morning of September 11, 2001, there was one person I especially wanted to see: my daughter Chloe. She wanted to see me too.
When she came in from school later that afternoon, our sad eyes met. We stayed in that mutual gaze for a few seconds, both of us knowing exactly what the other was thinking.
Living less than a hundred miles from Manhattan, day trips into "the City" are easy to do and always promise an adventure. Earlier in June of that year, Chloe and I had spent one such day together, just the two of us.
On the train ride down that morning, she told me she was really interested in a visit to Ellis Island. She'd been reading about immigrants who came through there. She wanted to know what they once saw, to imagine how they must have felt. Some of them were Bellizzis.
I thumbed through my guide to New York and realized that we weren't going to be able to make it out to Ellis Island that day. I had scheduled a short appointment with a professor at New York University, hoping to set up a plan to read Classical Hebrew there maybe one day a week. It would be expensive, I thought. But on my day off I could enjoy two loves of my life; New York and Old Hebrew. Besides, going through a terrible divorce, I was pretty desperate for something that would help me to feel happy again. No Ellis Island that day, I told Chloe.
I knew she was disappointed. So I promised her that once we'd gotten my meeting out of the way, she could call the shots. I'd be willing to spring for almost any adventure. But it would have to be in Manhattan.
She hadn't imagined an alternative, and wanted to know what I thought would be a fun Plan B. So I started to ask . . .
The Museum of Natural History? Um. No.
(joking) The American Numismatic Society? Lots and lots of ancient coins! Nobody wants to go there except you, Dad.
I bet my teacher, Dr. Oster, would go with me. Then call him.
A few bookstores? (getting irritated) Dad!
Okay, sorry. . . I know! How 'bout the World Trade Center? What can you do there?
I'm not sure, exactly. (looking it up in the guide) But we could go to the top. Says here that they have places to eat. There's a glassed-in observation deck, and you can take an escalator up to the roof.
(looking at the pictures and starting to smile) Okay. Let's do that.
After the train stop and our walk through Grand Central, we took the subway headed south. Having made it to lower Manhattan, we meandered around in Washington Square Park talking. Then it was over to my appointment, which was over soon enough.
As we stepped out of the office building, I wanted to be sure we'd have enough time that afternoon. So I decided to spend the extra money for a cab instead of the subway. Within a few minutes, the driver was dropping us off so close to the buildings that we couldn't see their tops from inside the car.
Looking at the World Trade Center was sort of like looking at the Grand Canyon. You wondered, "Is it bigger or smaller than it seems?" You also wondered, "How was this ever made?" There on the street, most everything was gray, the sunlight blocked by the shadows of the towers. Even the bright signs had a bit of a pall.
Once inside, it wasn't long before we bought our tickets to take the less-than-a-minute elevator ride to the 107th floor. From that point up, most of the WTC's south tower was the observation deck and a level or two with restaurants and exhibits. We walked around the perimeter of the deck, looking in all directions, reading the signs that told us what we were seeing. Soon we were on the escalator, riding up to the roof.
It was incredible. I remember looking up the length of Manhattan and seeing well past the north end of the island, all the way to those towns in New York that lay beyond the Bronx, and east into Connecticut. To the west was New Jersey. I wondered about the number of miles we could see.
The wind was strong and blustery, a constant sound in the ears, like standing at the edge of the ocean. I remember thinking, "It must be like this all the time up here. Wonder what it's like on a windy day." For a second my imagination turned horrific and I thought about what it would it would be like if an unexpected gust were to take my feet out from under me and send me flying from the top.
Between the office appointment and the cab, we had looked around in a tourist shop and I'd bought one of those disposable cameras. Now I was ready to use it. I especially wanted to get a picture of the two of us facing south, with the Empire State Building and all of those lesser skyscrapers behind us. I asked a young woman if she wouldn't mind. She snapped the photo and smiled as she handed the camera back to me.
The roof wasn't where you wanted to linger. Within few minutes, Chloe and I were having lunch at the pizza place on one of those top floors. I guess I'll never forget one of the songs that played in the background that day. It was Billy Joel's "Lullabye."
Someday we'll all be gone
But lullabyes go on and on
They never die
That's how you and I
Will be . . .
Of course, it made me think of me and Chloe.
I don't recall much about the rest of the day. There was a late afternoon shower, and we bought an umbrella at a little shop on Broadway. I still have that umbrella.
Within a day or two after we'd gotten back, though, I started wondering where that camera was. We looked, but didn't find it. The week following September 11th, we looked a lot more, but it never turned up.
Since then, when I'm not wishing we had that photo, I sometimes think to myself, "Maybe it's just as well."
Either way, I have these memories. Now and then, I hear that song. It always makes me cry.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Forthcoming Article . . . with Photos!
A few months ago, I finished up an article about the life of Paul after the close of the Book of Acts. It’s titled, “The Last Letters: Exploring the History Behind 1 and 2 Timothy and Titus.”
I called it that because the three letters named in the subtitle have Paul referring to all sorts of travels and activities that simply don’t fit into his biography according to Acts. For what it’s worth, I take the classic position that Paul covered a lot of territory following what we know of his life from Acts, that he experienced a second Roman imprisonment in the year 64, and was sometime later executed.
Last week I got an email from Neil Anderson, the editor of the Gospel Advocate magazine. He said article is scheduled to appear in next month’s issue.
It’s always neat when your written work sees the light of printed day. But I’m especially looking forward to the appearance of this article mainly because of two photos I sent along with it.
I got one of the photos at the American Numismatic Society in Manhattan. It’s a picture of two Neronian coins. I sent it along with the article because, at it explains, Nero was the Emperor who, in the 60s, carried out an infamous persecution against Christians. And it’s likely that that would have been the occasion when Paul would have been arrested once again, brought back to Rome, and finally martyred.
I guess I’ll never forget the day I got the photo. Very few people I knew would have wanted to go to the American Numismatic Society; nor would they have gotten why I wanted to go. So it turned out to be a solo trip.
ANS is located on Broadway several miles north of the bustling section of town (up around 157th St.). It’s not one of the touristy sections of the city.
After I finally got there and was buzzed in, I looked around at the exhibits and spent some time in their library. I met one of the curators. As we talked, I told him about my interest in coins that might open a window on the biblical world (ala the influence of Dr. Richard Oster mentioned in a previous post).
There were very few people there that day. The man I was talking with wasn’t particularly busy. Eventually, he led me back to one of those places where I couldn’t have gone without him and pulled open a shallow metal drawer. It was completely full of nothing but Neronian coins, all of them heads up. It was one of those moments I’ll never forget. And I could only imagine what was in the dozen or so other drawers in the same cabinet.
“Could I get a photo of one or two of those?” I asked.
“Sure.” he said. “Which ones?”
Do you remember the scene when, as a kid, you went to the dentist and on the way out got to pick a goody from the treasure box? That was me.
I pointed to a couple of the coins, being careful not to touch them. He took them out, gently laid them on a felt pad and snapped the picture.
The other photo I sent along with the article is of a fragment known as Papyrus 32. Containing sections of Paul’s letter to Titus, P 32 dates to about the year 200 and represents the oldest witness to the text of that letter. It’s housed in the John Rylands Library at the University of Manchester, England.
The acquisition of that photo also has a story that includes these beautifully-crafted letters from England, full of prim and mannered language. The international correspondence took months, mainly because I didn’t want to sound like a complete idiot, and wound up polishing every letter for a long time before I sent it.
The magazine editor also told me he’d be sending several extra copies of the magazine. The GA is a print-only journal. If you’re not a subscriber and would like to have a copy of the August issue, email me your physical address and I’ll be glad to send you one.
I called it that because the three letters named in the subtitle have Paul referring to all sorts of travels and activities that simply don’t fit into his biography according to Acts. For what it’s worth, I take the classic position that Paul covered a lot of territory following what we know of his life from Acts, that he experienced a second Roman imprisonment in the year 64, and was sometime later executed.
Last week I got an email from Neil Anderson, the editor of the Gospel Advocate magazine. He said article is scheduled to appear in next month’s issue.
It’s always neat when your written work sees the light of printed day. But I’m especially looking forward to the appearance of this article mainly because of two photos I sent along with it.
I got one of the photos at the American Numismatic Society in Manhattan. It’s a picture of two Neronian coins. I sent it along with the article because, at it explains, Nero was the Emperor who, in the 60s, carried out an infamous persecution against Christians. And it’s likely that that would have been the occasion when Paul would have been arrested once again, brought back to Rome, and finally martyred.
I guess I’ll never forget the day I got the photo. Very few people I knew would have wanted to go to the American Numismatic Society; nor would they have gotten why I wanted to go. So it turned out to be a solo trip.
ANS is located on Broadway several miles north of the bustling section of town (up around 157th St.). It’s not one of the touristy sections of the city.
After I finally got there and was buzzed in, I looked around at the exhibits and spent some time in their library. I met one of the curators. As we talked, I told him about my interest in coins that might open a window on the biblical world (ala the influence of Dr. Richard Oster mentioned in a previous post).
There were very few people there that day. The man I was talking with wasn’t particularly busy. Eventually, he led me back to one of those places where I couldn’t have gone without him and pulled open a shallow metal drawer. It was completely full of nothing but Neronian coins, all of them heads up. It was one of those moments I’ll never forget. And I could only imagine what was in the dozen or so other drawers in the same cabinet.
“Could I get a photo of one or two of those?” I asked.
“Sure.” he said. “Which ones?”
Do you remember the scene when, as a kid, you went to the dentist and on the way out got to pick a goody from the treasure box? That was me.
I pointed to a couple of the coins, being careful not to touch them. He took them out, gently laid them on a felt pad and snapped the picture.
The other photo I sent along with the article is of a fragment known as Papyrus 32. Containing sections of Paul’s letter to Titus, P 32 dates to about the year 200 and represents the oldest witness to the text of that letter. It’s housed in the John Rylands Library at the University of Manchester, England.
The acquisition of that photo also has a story that includes these beautifully-crafted letters from England, full of prim and mannered language. The international correspondence took months, mainly because I didn’t want to sound like a complete idiot, and wound up polishing every letter for a long time before I sent it.
The magazine editor also told me he’d be sending several extra copies of the magazine. The GA is a print-only journal. If you’re not a subscriber and would like to have a copy of the August issue, email me your physical address and I’ll be glad to send you one.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Saturday, September 17, 2005
A Night to Remember
It was overcast and a little damp in Connecticut yesterday. Same thing in New York. So I had my doubts as I looked at the tickets for last night's game at Shea Stadium between the Mets and their great rivals, the Atlanta Braves.
"Who'll be pitching?," I wondered. With the Mets out of the hunt for the wildcard, maybe the names of two mediocre pitchers would help me decide against the risk of rain. But in a couple of clicks I knew, rain or shine, Ben and I would make it to that game. The likely starters? John Smoltz and Pedro Martinez.
I picked Ben up just as school was letting out. We made it to Queens by late afternoon, just in time to get a quick bite and get ourselves into the stadium.
As expected, both Smoltz and Martinez sat down most of the batters in short order (the game lasted barely 2 hours). But this was Pedro's night. Martinez completed eight shutout innings by striking out the side.
Then, with a pitch count over 100, Pedro returned to the mound for the top of the ninth. I could only imagine how his conversation had gone with Mets' manager Willie Randolph. Whatever was said, two thoughts prevailed: one, Martinez wanted to go the distance, especially in a shutout and, two, with a four-run lead, he should be given the chance.
In the ninth, a lead-off hit by the Braves' Rafael Furcal raised my fears. While trying to prove something, I thought, Pedro was running out of gas. The next batter, Marcus Giles also singled, sending Furcal to third. It was getting worse.
Next, with runners at the corners, the Braves' Chipper Jones came to the plate. Now, for folks who haven't followed the Mets through the years, Jones' appearance would seem daunting enough. But both the legend and the fact is that Chipper Jones stands out as the dasher of hope, many times the deciding difference in a victory over the Mets. This was high drama.
Martinez, clearly recognizing the stakes, threw a mix of pitches that culminated with a fastball in the low 90s. Jones struck out looking.
Just as I was sighing relief, I remembered that the next batter was the other Jones of the Braves: Andruw . . . with one of the best batting percentages in the National League . . . who's hit 50 homeruns so far this year. Pedro's solution? Again, a brilliant array of pitches that concluded with a 77 mph curveball that puzzled the power hitter. Andruw went down with a half swing. The word "magnificent" was invented for just such a performance. But it wasn't over.
Things got tense moments later when Adam LaRoche--whose three previous plate appearances accounted for 3 of Pedro's 10 strikeouts on the night--walked to load the bases. But with his 122nd pitch of the game, Martinez managed to get Jeff Francouer to fly out to left. Just like that, it was over.
We had watched as Pedro Martinez racked up his 17th career shutout, surpassed 200 strikeouts on the season, and moved into 14th place among all-time strikeout leaders. And it didn't rain a drop.
"Who'll be pitching?," I wondered. With the Mets out of the hunt for the wildcard, maybe the names of two mediocre pitchers would help me decide against the risk of rain. But in a couple of clicks I knew, rain or shine, Ben and I would make it to that game. The likely starters? John Smoltz and Pedro Martinez.
I picked Ben up just as school was letting out. We made it to Queens by late afternoon, just in time to get a quick bite and get ourselves into the stadium.
As expected, both Smoltz and Martinez sat down most of the batters in short order (the game lasted barely 2 hours). But this was Pedro's night. Martinez completed eight shutout innings by striking out the side.
Then, with a pitch count over 100, Pedro returned to the mound for the top of the ninth. I could only imagine how his conversation had gone with Mets' manager Willie Randolph. Whatever was said, two thoughts prevailed: one, Martinez wanted to go the distance, especially in a shutout and, two, with a four-run lead, he should be given the chance.
In the ninth, a lead-off hit by the Braves' Rafael Furcal raised my fears. While trying to prove something, I thought, Pedro was running out of gas. The next batter, Marcus Giles also singled, sending Furcal to third. It was getting worse.
Next, with runners at the corners, the Braves' Chipper Jones came to the plate. Now, for folks who haven't followed the Mets through the years, Jones' appearance would seem daunting enough. But both the legend and the fact is that Chipper Jones stands out as the dasher of hope, many times the deciding difference in a victory over the Mets. This was high drama.
Martinez, clearly recognizing the stakes, threw a mix of pitches that culminated with a fastball in the low 90s. Jones struck out looking.
Just as I was sighing relief, I remembered that the next batter was the other Jones of the Braves: Andruw . . . with one of the best batting percentages in the National League . . . who's hit 50 homeruns so far this year. Pedro's solution? Again, a brilliant array of pitches that concluded with a 77 mph curveball that puzzled the power hitter. Andruw went down with a half swing. The word "magnificent" was invented for just such a performance. But it wasn't over.
Things got tense moments later when Adam LaRoche--whose three previous plate appearances accounted for 3 of Pedro's 10 strikeouts on the night--walked to load the bases. But with his 122nd pitch of the game, Martinez managed to get Jeff Francouer to fly out to left. Just like that, it was over.
We had watched as Pedro Martinez racked up his 17th career shutout, surpassed 200 strikeouts on the season, and moved into 14th place among all-time strikeout leaders. And it didn't rain a drop.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
A Trip to the City
Okay, I know. . . I didn't post a "Prayer to Start the Week" this week. But it wasn't because I didn't try.
Actually, I put together this really great post about Soren Kierkegaard (trust me, it was one of the better things I've written) that concluded with one of his prayers. But then, I couldn't leave well enough alone.
Sitting back to see that all I had created was very good, I thought, "But wouldn't it be even better if the statements of Soren were in block quotes? You know, set off from the rest of the text?" And that's when the trouble began.
By the time I had managed to turn the text into a jumbled mess, I abandoned all hope in prayer and wound up sort of cussing instead; in that Christian kind of way.
That said, all prayer has been suspended until further notice. Now I want to talk about that other main plank of real religion: Major League Baseball.
My son Benjamin and I had been looking forward to last Friday for a long time. Every so often we'd have to open my sock drawer and just look at the tickets.
"Shea Stadium . . . New York METS vs. St. Louis CARDINALS . . . Friday, May 13, 2005. . . . 7:10 PM"
Starting last year, we began a tradition of seeing our beloved Cardinals play in Queens, the Bronx, or Boston at least once every season. Last Friday was our first and probably only chance this year. That morning we strapped ourselves into my 1991 Toyota pickup and headed for Flushing, Queens, New York.
Now, I would never dream of driving into Manhattan. But a trip to Shea Stadium is a different matter. Driving from Connecticut into Queens isn't too bad. I learned a few years ago that if you get to the Stadium mid-day, you can park in the South parking lot--between Shea and the Arthur Ashe Tennis Center, home of the U.S. Open--for $3.00, which in New York feels like stealing. What's more, from the south parking lot it's just a few steps over and up to the subway platform.
When I first moved to Connecticut twelve years ago, subway rides in New York were only 75 cents. But since then, it's gradually gone up to $2.00. If you're going to be in and around the city for a day or two, it makes sense to buy a Metro Card with more than one ride's credit and get the price break. Ben and I would be there for only two subway trips, so we wound up buying the single-ride passes. (By the way, what used to be the best transportation deal in New York, the 50-cent ferry to Staten Island, taking you right past the Statue of Liberty, has been made even better. Now it's free).
From the Shea Stadium subway station, we took the inbound Number 7 train. It's a long ride into Manhattan (20 minutes or more) with lots of stations along the way. But it's a good way to get a glimpse of what daily life is like for a lot of the residents of that part of Queens. By my guess-timate, most of the riders on our train were either Hispanic or Chinese people. Some of them were clearly on their way to work in Manhattan, going to jobs that pay better than what they'd be able to earn in the neighborhoods where they live.
Going into the city on the 7 train, the last three stops are Grand Central, 5th Avenue, and Times Square. Pretty good options. We've seen Grand Central many times and decided to stay on the train all the way to Times Square, the end of the line and the beginning of a rush.
Marching up to ground level and stepping out onto the sun-lit sidewalk always brings for me a feeling I can hardly describe. Yeah, the faces of most of the people around me speak the assurance that if I did this everyday, it would cease to seem so special. But to me, it's still foreign and fun. Immediately the sights, sounds, and smells--some not so good--of Manhattan are all around me.
Once above ground, Ben and I walked over to one of our city destinations, the ESPN Zone at the south end of Times Square. Coming in the front door, we immediately looked to our left to experience again that great baseball-card mosaic in which you see the face of Babe Ruth. (I know, hard to imagine, but go check it out yourself). Then it was up to the fifth floor, home to a sports-game arcade that you have to see and play in to really appreciate. It was a complete experience once Ben had struck out a life-sized video image of Barry Bonds. I absolutely love watching my son put his big heart into something. It's pure joy.
From there, we thought about walking over for something to eat at Hamburger Harry's (145 W. 45th St), which should also be on a list of things you gotta do sometime. But we really weren't that hungry and wound up at the huge Modell's Sporting Goods on West 42nd Street. We bought a pair of sunglasses for him and new Cardinal shirt for me, and strolled about the streets for a while.
Soon it was time for us to jump on an express train back to Shea. I like the way the guy on the train PA says, "Ex-press. Exxxx- SPRESS." He likes the way he says it too.
We made it in time to see batting practice, and then took in a pitcher's duel of a game between Jason Marquis of the Cardinals and future-Hall-of-Famer Tom Glavine pitching for the Mets and looking that night like he was ten years younger.
It was a great performance by both pitchers, the game being decided in favor of the Mets by one Cliff Floyd, who belted two solo homeruns. What a terrific hitter. The final score, 2-0 Mets, the only loss for the Cardinals during their three-game series at Shea.
On the way home, Ben and I picked up my daughter, Chloe, at Rocky Hill, Connecticut. She'd been at a cast party for her all-school production of "Guys and Dolls." The three of us made it home well after midnight. The Cardinals hadn't come out on top. But most everything else that day had been wonderful.
Actually, I put together this really great post about Soren Kierkegaard (trust me, it was one of the better things I've written) that concluded with one of his prayers. But then, I couldn't leave well enough alone.
Sitting back to see that all I had created was very good, I thought, "But wouldn't it be even better if the statements of Soren were in block quotes? You know, set off from the rest of the text?" And that's when the trouble began.
By the time I had managed to turn the text into a jumbled mess, I abandoned all hope in prayer and wound up sort of cussing instead; in that Christian kind of way.
That said, all prayer has been suspended until further notice. Now I want to talk about that other main plank of real religion: Major League Baseball.
My son Benjamin and I had been looking forward to last Friday for a long time. Every so often we'd have to open my sock drawer and just look at the tickets.
"Shea Stadium . . . New York METS vs. St. Louis CARDINALS . . . Friday, May 13, 2005. . . . 7:10 PM"
Starting last year, we began a tradition of seeing our beloved Cardinals play in Queens, the Bronx, or Boston at least once every season. Last Friday was our first and probably only chance this year. That morning we strapped ourselves into my 1991 Toyota pickup and headed for Flushing, Queens, New York.
Now, I would never dream of driving into Manhattan. But a trip to Shea Stadium is a different matter. Driving from Connecticut into Queens isn't too bad. I learned a few years ago that if you get to the Stadium mid-day, you can park in the South parking lot--between Shea and the Arthur Ashe Tennis Center, home of the U.S. Open--for $3.00, which in New York feels like stealing. What's more, from the south parking lot it's just a few steps over and up to the subway platform.
When I first moved to Connecticut twelve years ago, subway rides in New York were only 75 cents. But since then, it's gradually gone up to $2.00. If you're going to be in and around the city for a day or two, it makes sense to buy a Metro Card with more than one ride's credit and get the price break. Ben and I would be there for only two subway trips, so we wound up buying the single-ride passes. (By the way, what used to be the best transportation deal in New York, the 50-cent ferry to Staten Island, taking you right past the Statue of Liberty, has been made even better. Now it's free).
From the Shea Stadium subway station, we took the inbound Number 7 train. It's a long ride into Manhattan (20 minutes or more) with lots of stations along the way. But it's a good way to get a glimpse of what daily life is like for a lot of the residents of that part of Queens. By my guess-timate, most of the riders on our train were either Hispanic or Chinese people. Some of them were clearly on their way to work in Manhattan, going to jobs that pay better than what they'd be able to earn in the neighborhoods where they live.
Going into the city on the 7 train, the last three stops are Grand Central, 5th Avenue, and Times Square. Pretty good options. We've seen Grand Central many times and decided to stay on the train all the way to Times Square, the end of the line and the beginning of a rush.
Marching up to ground level and stepping out onto the sun-lit sidewalk always brings for me a feeling I can hardly describe. Yeah, the faces of most of the people around me speak the assurance that if I did this everyday, it would cease to seem so special. But to me, it's still foreign and fun. Immediately the sights, sounds, and smells--some not so good--of Manhattan are all around me.
Once above ground, Ben and I walked over to one of our city destinations, the ESPN Zone at the south end of Times Square. Coming in the front door, we immediately looked to our left to experience again that great baseball-card mosaic in which you see the face of Babe Ruth. (I know, hard to imagine, but go check it out yourself). Then it was up to the fifth floor, home to a sports-game arcade that you have to see and play in to really appreciate. It was a complete experience once Ben had struck out a life-sized video image of Barry Bonds. I absolutely love watching my son put his big heart into something. It's pure joy.
From there, we thought about walking over for something to eat at Hamburger Harry's (145 W. 45th St), which should also be on a list of things you gotta do sometime. But we really weren't that hungry and wound up at the huge Modell's Sporting Goods on West 42nd Street. We bought a pair of sunglasses for him and new Cardinal shirt for me, and strolled about the streets for a while.
Soon it was time for us to jump on an express train back to Shea. I like the way the guy on the train PA says, "Ex-press. Exxxx- SPRESS." He likes the way he says it too.
We made it in time to see batting practice, and then took in a pitcher's duel of a game between Jason Marquis of the Cardinals and future-Hall-of-Famer Tom Glavine pitching for the Mets and looking that night like he was ten years younger.
It was a great performance by both pitchers, the game being decided in favor of the Mets by one Cliff Floyd, who belted two solo homeruns. What a terrific hitter. The final score, 2-0 Mets, the only loss for the Cardinals during their three-game series at Shea.
On the way home, Ben and I picked up my daughter, Chloe, at Rocky Hill, Connecticut. She'd been at a cast party for her all-school production of "Guys and Dolls." The three of us made it home well after midnight. The Cardinals hadn't come out on top. But most everything else that day had been wonderful.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Another Bite of the Big Apple
My first post about New York City (March 18th) pointed to Washington Square Park and a few other places in that part of Manhattan. But even from the little bit that I know about the city, there's so much more. Here's a good one that you can do at the end of a day in New York.
The last time I went was two months ago. I got to travel there with my daughter and some of the other music students from Rocky Hill (CT) High School. The trip was planned and orchestrated by the school's vocal music teacher, Claire Burnett, who managed to make the whole thing look easy.
We went down by charter bus on a Monday, January 31st. The timing was intentional. It's every Monday night that the Iridium Jazz Club hosts the legendary Les Paul who performs with a few other fantastic musicians.
The performance was the planned highlight of our trip and it exceeded what all of us were hoping for. The club is at 1650 Broadway (at the intersection of 51st Street). The place isn't easy to find because it's actually down a flight of stairs from the street level. You could walk right past it, miss the skimpy signage, and never know that a club was there.
Anyway, once our group was underground, we checked our coats and settled into the cramped seating. After a few minutes of our ordering Cokes and coffee--anything to meet the two-drink minimum--the piano player, stand-up bassist, Les Paul, and two other guitarists took the stage.
For the next ninety minutes, everyone in that place, from high schoolers to old schoolers, tapped the tables, kept time with the toes, and took in an absolute delight.
Since the time he was 13, Les Paul's been performing, which explains why he's as comfortable on the stage as most people are on the couch. His banter between songs and interaction with the audience keeps up with the quality of the music, and that's saying something.
A friend to new talent, Les brought on a couple of young performers during the show. A smooth jazz saxophonist played a couple of tunes with the band. And then there was this Fred Astaire-like tap dancer who clearly enjoyed wowing us as much as we liked watching him.
With "Red-Hot Red " nearing his nineties, this show is a go-soon as well as a must-see. You won't regret it.
The last time I went was two months ago. I got to travel there with my daughter and some of the other music students from Rocky Hill (CT) High School. The trip was planned and orchestrated by the school's vocal music teacher, Claire Burnett, who managed to make the whole thing look easy.
We went down by charter bus on a Monday, January 31st. The timing was intentional. It's every Monday night that the Iridium Jazz Club hosts the legendary Les Paul who performs with a few other fantastic musicians.
The performance was the planned highlight of our trip and it exceeded what all of us were hoping for. The club is at 1650 Broadway (at the intersection of 51st Street). The place isn't easy to find because it's actually down a flight of stairs from the street level. You could walk right past it, miss the skimpy signage, and never know that a club was there.
Anyway, once our group was underground, we checked our coats and settled into the cramped seating. After a few minutes of our ordering Cokes and coffee--anything to meet the two-drink minimum--the piano player, stand-up bassist, Les Paul, and two other guitarists took the stage.
For the next ninety minutes, everyone in that place, from high schoolers to old schoolers, tapped the tables, kept time with the toes, and took in an absolute delight.
Since the time he was 13, Les Paul's been performing, which explains why he's as comfortable on the stage as most people are on the couch. His banter between songs and interaction with the audience keeps up with the quality of the music, and that's saying something.
A friend to new talent, Les brought on a couple of young performers during the show. A smooth jazz saxophonist played a couple of tunes with the band. And then there was this Fred Astaire-like tap dancer who clearly enjoyed wowing us as much as we liked watching him.
With "Red-Hot Red " nearing his nineties, this show is a go-soon as well as a must-see. You won't regret it.
Friday, March 18, 2005
The Greatest City in the World
I've never been to Milan or Paris, Tokyo or London. I'd love to see them all, and I'm sure they're terrific. But I bet they can't beat New York. It's got to be the greatest city in the world.
Since I moved to New England in 1993, I guess I've taken 20 trips into the city. And every time, several things happen: I get excited going in. I feel a rush on the streets. I hear a handful of different languages. I see something I've never seen before. I eat something unusual and delicious (and, yes, expensive). Finally, I go back home wishing I could have stayed there longer.
I know exactly why I'm writing this now. At long last, it's finally starting to warm up. And that means I'll soon be going back.
So what's so great about New York? What are the best activities and places? Where to begin. . . . Well, it's not my first stop off the train, but on a nice afternoon, I like to go down to Washington Square. Years ago, a friend who lived in the city introduced me to this place and I've loved it ever since.
Washington Square is in Greenwich Village and, in Manhattan, it's the largest public space south of 14th Street. Here you can see the George Washington Memorial Arch and a big fountain in the center of the park. But you always see a lot more. Street performers--jugglers and musicians--turn up here and there. But some of the best performers have no intention of putting on a show. They're just being themselves (or acting like they're someone else).
If the place looks familiar, it's because you've seen it in a movie or two. The park is where Steven Taylor (Michael Douglas) makes the money drop in A Perfect Murder. And I remember reading somewhere that the arch shows up in When Harry Met Sally.
If you go there on a warm afternoon, you can hang out for a while and take it all in. From there, walk six blocks north on 5th Avenue, take a right onto 12th St. and walk to Broadway. At that corner is one of the coolest spots in the world, the Strand Bookstore. But if you're a book lover, I warn you. You'll find yourself wanting never to come out. "18 miles of books."
Or, if you get thirsty in the park, walk south on MacDougal Street. There you'll find a handful of cafes and restaurants where they have tables and chairs out on the sidewalk.
Most of all, you'll want to see Caffe Reggio at 119 MacDougal. This place, built in 1785, turns up in several films including Serpico and The Godfather: Part II.
From MacDougal, go one block east to Sullivan Street, as in "He works at Mister Cacciatore's down on Sullivan Street, across from the medical center." (As long as you're going to keep singing about it, why not see it? But I don't think there's a Cacciatore's on Sullivan anymore. If you know better, please clue me in).
Okay, that's it. I've got to go now. More later. When I get back . . .
In the meantime, write up and send your favorite New York experience. And if you haven't been to the city, by all means go.
Since I moved to New England in 1993, I guess I've taken 20 trips into the city. And every time, several things happen: I get excited going in. I feel a rush on the streets. I hear a handful of different languages. I see something I've never seen before. I eat something unusual and delicious (and, yes, expensive). Finally, I go back home wishing I could have stayed there longer.
I know exactly why I'm writing this now. At long last, it's finally starting to warm up. And that means I'll soon be going back.
So what's so great about New York? What are the best activities and places? Where to begin. . . . Well, it's not my first stop off the train, but on a nice afternoon, I like to go down to Washington Square. Years ago, a friend who lived in the city introduced me to this place and I've loved it ever since.
Washington Square is in Greenwich Village and, in Manhattan, it's the largest public space south of 14th Street. Here you can see the George Washington Memorial Arch and a big fountain in the center of the park. But you always see a lot more. Street performers--jugglers and musicians--turn up here and there. But some of the best performers have no intention of putting on a show. They're just being themselves (or acting like they're someone else).
If the place looks familiar, it's because you've seen it in a movie or two. The park is where Steven Taylor (Michael Douglas) makes the money drop in A Perfect Murder. And I remember reading somewhere that the arch shows up in When Harry Met Sally.
If you go there on a warm afternoon, you can hang out for a while and take it all in. From there, walk six blocks north on 5th Avenue, take a right onto 12th St. and walk to Broadway. At that corner is one of the coolest spots in the world, the Strand Bookstore. But if you're a book lover, I warn you. You'll find yourself wanting never to come out. "18 miles of books."
Or, if you get thirsty in the park, walk south on MacDougal Street. There you'll find a handful of cafes and restaurants where they have tables and chairs out on the sidewalk.
Most of all, you'll want to see Caffe Reggio at 119 MacDougal. This place, built in 1785, turns up in several films including Serpico and The Godfather: Part II.
From MacDougal, go one block east to Sullivan Street, as in "He works at Mister Cacciatore's down on Sullivan Street, across from the medical center." (As long as you're going to keep singing about it, why not see it? But I don't think there's a Cacciatore's on Sullivan anymore. If you know better, please clue me in).
Okay, that's it. I've got to go now. More later. When I get back . . .
In the meantime, write up and send your favorite New York experience. And if you haven't been to the city, by all means go.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Great Last-Minute Seats
Item 1. Last summer, my wife and I were in New York, standing across the street from Radio City, holding our tickets to a concert that would start in less than an hour. Just then, a girl (i.e., a female under 25) came running from across the street and squealed to her friend how she had just bought tickets to the show at the box office. I realized from her description that the tickets she'd just gotten were better than the ones I had ordered on-line two months before.
Item 2. The next morning, we were wandering through the city when we happened upon the theatre that hosts the musical "Chicago." She's not that into musicals, but said she'd love to go see this one. My expression said, "Are you kidding? There's no way we're gonna walk into this theatre and get seats to a show for anytime this year." But we were feeling adventurous, and didn't care if strangers laughed at us. Five minutes later, we walked out of the box office with 14th row, center-section tickets to the performance for that afternoon. When we attended said show, we got the distinct impression that everyone around us had ordered their tickets weeks if not months before.
[Note well: This isn't typical stuff for us. If it was, I don't know that we'd be able to enjoy it. It was sort of a second honeymoon, and we had a great time. I guess I'm saying this because, where I come from, you'd get embarrassed if people thought you were running around attending shows in Manhattan all the time. Gordon Lightfoot speaks for me: "Sometimes I think it's a shame when I get feelin better when I'm feelin no pain"].
Anyway, on to Item 3. A lecture-series ad in today's New York Times includes this note about sold-out events: "A limited number of tickets may be available at the box office one hour before curtain."
Now, WHAT IS THIS ALL ABOUT? Do theaters in New York (and other places) hold back a few choice tickets to sell at the last minute? If so, why? It's mainly just a curiosity for me. But, yes, there's the very practical side too. I'd appreciate hearing from anyone with similar experiences, and especially from whoever knows the inside scoop.
Item 2. The next morning, we were wandering through the city when we happened upon the theatre that hosts the musical "Chicago." She's not that into musicals, but said she'd love to go see this one. My expression said, "Are you kidding? There's no way we're gonna walk into this theatre and get seats to a show for anytime this year." But we were feeling adventurous, and didn't care if strangers laughed at us. Five minutes later, we walked out of the box office with 14th row, center-section tickets to the performance for that afternoon. When we attended said show, we got the distinct impression that everyone around us had ordered their tickets weeks if not months before.
[Note well: This isn't typical stuff for us. If it was, I don't know that we'd be able to enjoy it. It was sort of a second honeymoon, and we had a great time. I guess I'm saying this because, where I come from, you'd get embarrassed if people thought you were running around attending shows in Manhattan all the time. Gordon Lightfoot speaks for me: "Sometimes I think it's a shame when I get feelin better when I'm feelin no pain"].
Anyway, on to Item 3. A lecture-series ad in today's New York Times includes this note about sold-out events: "A limited number of tickets may be available at the box office one hour before curtain."
Now, WHAT IS THIS ALL ABOUT? Do theaters in New York (and other places) hold back a few choice tickets to sell at the last minute? If so, why? It's mainly just a curiosity for me. But, yes, there's the very practical side too. I'd appreciate hearing from anyone with similar experiences, and especially from whoever knows the inside scoop.
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