Conveying Cute Canine

After an unpleasant transit experience—O.K., my wallet was recently stolen on the uptown #6 train—it was pleasant to encounter this little fellow on the downtown 104 Broadway bus. He was inquisitive, and very quiet until I started to get off at my stop. Then he let loose with the kind of yapping that only the smallest dogs seem capable of. I guess he resented the fact that someone, though not his master, was deserting him. For the record, this was "Change," a five-year-old Pomeranian.

P.S.: So far no identity theft re the wallet. And all credit and bank cards have now been replaced. I was the victim of a classic "light-fingered-Louie" on a very crowded train. Lesson learned.

Meleagris Gallopavo, to You!

With the approach of Thanksgiving, one can’t help having turkey come to mind. Though the golden-bronze roasted bird surrounded by all of its traditional accompaniments certainly looks appetizing on the festive platter, in actual fact—dare I commit such sacrilege to print?—the bird is pretty tasteless in and of itself. This also puts me in mind of the celebrated Wild Turkey painting by John James (né Jean-Jacques) Audubon, an American pioneer whom I revere, not only for his naturalist artwork but also for his picaresque life. As a kid, I received a large-format edition of his Birds of America, which I am proud to say I still possess, having given it a place of honor on my bookshelves. The excellent PBS series American Masters recently repeated their program about this fascinating figure.

Just as actual turkey meat isn’t really that tasty, the actual wild turkey (meleagris gallopavo, FYI) isn’t nearly as handsome as Audubon’s rendering has led one to imagine. I’ve had a number of up-close-and-personal encounters with these fellows, as they were always visiting near the picture windows of my mother’s last place of residence. They’re pretty bold and, regrettably, surprisingly ugly. They certainly don’t appear to be an endangered species, though they should be protected anyway, if only because of their sheer American-ness, second only, perhaps, to the beloved bald eagle.

South Bank Scenes

The South Bank house in London where Christopher Wren lived during the construction of St. Paul’s Cathedral has certainly been spruced up since I visited there briefly quite a few years back. Someone who rented a room on the top floor had to go down a couple of flights to use the single—at that time, anyway—bathroom. Perhaps, along with the sprucing, they have added at least one other. It’s right next door to the impressive Tate Modern museum, which was, at the time I paid my long-ago visit, the Bankside Power Station. And the picturesque Globe Theatre, which I have toured though have yet to see a performance in, on the other side of the Wren house, wasn’t there, either. You can arrive at these worthwhile sites by crossing the attractive, pedestrians-only Millennium Bridge. And while you’re on that side of the Thames, take a ride on the London Eye. It does not disappoint!

P.S.: Aha! Look what Googling can reveal! Apparently Christopher Wren never slept there, according to the BBC. (I guess George Washington never slept there, either.)

BBC NEWS | UK | Magazine | Christopher Wren never slept here

Some of Us Still Know "Who He"

Attended a dance film event last evening in a beautiful building across the street from the fabled Algonquin Hotel, of Round Table fame. It’s nice that there’s a commemorative plaque on the hotel façade memorializing Parker, Benchley, Woollcott, et al. And the building where my optometrist is located, one block north, has its own plaque, letting passers-by know that it is the former home of The New Yorker’s original offices. Thus it was just a short walk (or stagger) from the magazine to the writers’ favorite hangout. It makes one muse on 1) whether or not anyone reads these plaques anymore and 2) how many are left who either remember or at least know about Harold Ross and/or the Algonquin Round Table. I still like to write the Rossian “Who he?” in margins when I get the chance. Most people won’t “get it” anymore, but I do it for my own satisfaction.

Fairway, Redux

To quote the old cliché, more or less, no, we're not in Kansas. But the Sunflower State has nothing on this display in front of the famous and infamous Fairway supermarket on Broadway, an emporium with which New Yorkers have had a love/hate affair for many years. I've already written about the pluses and minuses of this venerable institution. To refresh the memory:

Mobile Manhattanite: Fairway! Oy veh!

But I couldn't resist taking this camera phone shot this morning because the flowers were particularly fresh-looking and massed so invitingly. There are as many stories of Fairway as there are of the entire Naked City. A while back, when, as a tall person, I was reaching for some oranges at the top of a pile, a friendly woman warned amusingly, "Don't cause an avalanche!" We then got into conversation about our Fairway experiences. I mentioned that I was frequently asked to get things down from high places for little old ladies, who always seem to think that they're the only ones who've ever asked me that. My shopping companion told me that once she had offered to do the same for a woman, who snarled at her, "What makes you think I need help?" Takes all kinds. As previously noted, Fairway doesn't always bring out the best in people. But it can be O.K. if you get in early enough, before the Thundering Herds are up and about.

When in Doubt, Wear BLACK!

Yesterday saw the off-Broadway show Love, Loss, and What I Wore, written by the ever-observant and satirical sisters, Nora and Delia Ephron and based on a book by Ilene Beckerman. One of their segments dealt with the continuing popularity—and fashion safety net—of wearing Good Old Black, at least in New York City. All five of the excellent actresses were wearing different versions of the fabled Little Black Dress.

This put me in mind of a tour I took to Sicily a few years back. In Palermo, in April, it was unusually cool for that part of the world at that time of year, and a couple of my fellow tourists felt that they needed something warmer to wear. The palermitane, or women of Palermo, were tastefully attired in British-style tweed or leather jackets and well-fitting trousers. One of our group eventually purchased an attractive, low-key black quilted jacket in one of the well-stocked clothing stores. But she said that she might not feel quite comfortable wearing black in her Kansas hometown, where the women didn't wear much black. Ah, cultural differences!

On the Street | The All-Black Uniform - Video Library - The New York Times

"Se non è vero...."*

Last week, when crossing an ever-bustling Second Avenue with my niece, grandniece, and grandnephew, I asked the seven-year-old boy to hold my hand for safety reasons. Not only did he willingly take my hand, but, looking angelic as usual, he kissed it! I absolutely died, metaphorically speaking.

Then, I said that he was a gallant young gentleman and called him my little "Sir Walter Raleigh," referring to the legend about spreading a cloak over a puddle so that the Queen could keep her feet dry. Ever literal-minded, my grandnephew was quick to point out that there were no puddles. I agreed, adding that not only that, but he didn't have a cloak with him and that it wasn't even raining. Furthermore, I mentioned, the story may not even be true, but it's a good tale to tell.

*Well-known Italian proverb: "Se non è vero, è ben trovato." Freely translated: "Even if it isn't true, it's a good story."