Here’s another reassurance I now have: just a US$15, four-hour bus ride away, is New York City.
Sure, I love that Boston beckons you to sit on a park bench with a book, or spend hours in a café typing on your laptop, or just wander the city streets at a slow pace with friends—things that I’d probably feel uncomfortable doing in heart-pounding, turbo-paced Manhattan—but I can’t deny that New York is just so damned exciting.
And this trip of mine to New York, just three months after my last visit, was interestingly atypical. I didn’t watch a single Broadway show; I didn’t visit an art museum; I didn’t buy a single article of clothing; and I didn’t step into the Apple store or Barnes and Noble, even though I passed both by.
I landed in New York at noontime on Tuesday. Tito Joey picked me up at JFK; only ten minutes after getting to their house, I was off to the city. I was scheduled to meet GP and Mikee, who was visiting from Boston, that afternoon; but they in New Jersey, at the school where GP taught music. While waiting, I checked out the TKTS queues at Times Square on the off-chance I’d easily be able to get show tickets (no such luck—the lines were discouragingly long); browsed through the NBC and Lego shops at Rockefeller Center; and had a late lunch at a deli on 50th.
Mikee called to say he was at St Patrick’s Cathedral; we met there, then walked to Magnolia Bakery, where GP was waiting with Eni, a former Madz member whom I had met during Hangad’s tour last November, and JD from ACS, who was visiting from San Francisco. The five of us went to a Brazilian restaurant that Mikee had found on GPS, where the grumpy old waiter said that Mikee, Eni and I would be charged US$2 extra, since we had each ordered only either a salad or an appetizer, and no entrée; but we didn’t bother arguing. After two hours of chatting and laughing, GP, Mikee and I decided we were still hungry (Eni and JD had plans, and had left by this time) headed off to Dallas BBQ near Times Square for a second dinner, and to chat and laugh some more. We stayed until past 11 PM, after which we parted ways. (Lucky for me, Tita Tere was working late each night that week at the UN, so I could ride home with her and Tito Joey.)
The next day, I rode to the UN with Tita Tere and Tito Joey, and headed uptown to Lincoln Center to pick up the NYC Ballet Swan Lake ticket I had bought online several months before. I don’t claim to be a connoisseur of ballet—my exposure has been limited to standards like Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty, and Nutcracker, and kiddie ballets like Snow White and Peter Pan—but I’ve enjoyed it since I was a kid, when Inay would regularly bring me to Ballet Philippines productions. So when I found out that Swan Lake would be staged for just eight performances, coinciding with my stay in New York, I just had to get a ticket.
It was my first visit to Lincoln Center, and I loved it! I spent some time wandering around the central courtyard, and the performance halls for ballet, for opera, and for the NY Symphony. I also got my first look at Juilliard (this might sound defensive, but there are no regrets here—I know my musical training and aspirations are better-suited for Berklee than for Juilliard). From there I walked south to the Time-Warner Center at Columbus Circle (nothing much), then north to the Museum of Natural History, which I hadn’t visited since 1994.
At the Museum, I approached the ticket desks in the entrance hall and asked how much the tickets were. “The suggested donation is US$16,” said the elderly lady manning the desk, “but it’s just suggested, so that means you can give just as much as you like.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give US$10.”
“Can I know your zipcode?”
“Oh, I’m not from here.”
“Where are you from?”
“Manila.”
“Kabayan!” she exclaimed, suddenly warming up. (In fairness to her, her accent had me fooled.) “Masyadong mahal ang US$10. Magbigay ka lang ng piso, para makakain ka nang mabuti.”
So I handed her a dollar. I learned her name is Flora, from Novaliches; she was married to an American, and had been working in New York for several years.
“At teka lang… bibigyan kita ng ticket sa planetarium at sa featured exhibit…”
And so Flora did. Which is just as well, because the museum bored me to death. The temporary exhibit titled “The Brain” was quite interesting, though I had to rush through it to get to the planetarium show—a much-hyped affair that put me to sleep. And as I looked around at the exhibits of animal models (or were they taxidermically-stuffed animals?) I thought to myself: “If I want to see animals, I’ll go to a zoo. I left after just an hour at the museum, stopping by the food court in the basement to grab a late lunch (which I enjoyed just as much as the museum).
I crossed the street to Central Park, which I enjoyed even more now than I did last November, wandering slowly in the general direction of FAO Schwartz in the park’s southeast corner, stopping once in a while to rest on a park bench, or breathe in the cool air, or take a photo of a wooden bridge, or a skating rink, or the snow-covered ground and the deep blue winter sky.
I spent a half-hour at FAO Schwartz before heading back to Lincoln Center for the ballet. Still with time to kill, I got myself a latte at the espresso bar, and finally headed into the theater.
What an experience. The theater was huge and gleaming, and my seat was Orchestra Center, in the 10th row from the stage. And though the ballet wasn’t perfect, its merits more than made up for its faults.
I had issues with the material itself, with too many divertissements, and too many forgettable, uninspired waltzes in the score (I guess I’m a lot more discerning now because I never noticed these things the last time I saw Swan Lake). The set design, toted in the Playbill as the work of a great Danish modern artist, consisted of sloppily done scribbles meant to represent “palace” or “forest”—I felt Gino Gonzalez could do better. And the dancers’ athletic, angular moves made it clear that, as my officemate and ballerina Nicole had said, the NYC Ballet was better acquainted with modern rather than classical ballet.
Still, at the same time, the dancer who performed Odette / Odile was the most amazing ballerina I had ever watched, not only for her effortless technical ability, but for the delicately nuanced interpretation in her face and body: tormented and vulnerable as Odette, scheming and confident as Odile. The lighting, and many of the costumes, were also exquisitely executed, showing what high-budget production can do (sigh for Ballet Philippines). I could not take my eyes off the captivating 20-ballerina corps de ballet, and I was at the edge of my seat during the pas de quatre. And at the good parts of the score, the orchestra was sublime, building from oboe-and-harp to full orchestra, bringing out the longing and heartbreak in the ballet’s theme.
In short—experiencing the NYC Ballet at Lincoln Center more than made up for not catching any Broadway shows. And I swore to myself to catch more in the future.
For Thursday, I had originally planned to visit the Met—I missed a lot last November, when I had spent all of my four-hour visit on the first floor—but decided to explore the Village instead, which I had never done. It was a happy decision, because the weather today was beautiful—sunny, not too cold, and in fact, the first time since I arrived in the US that I didn’t need my coat. It was a perfect day for walking—so walk I did.
My first stop was the small park at Christopher St., with life-size sculptures of two same-sex couples known as the Gay Liberation Monument; and right across from the park was the historic Stonewall Inn, birthplace of the gay rights movement in the 1960s. I walked several blocks north, and had a disappointing lunch at Soy Café; then walked west to the Hudson River, and strolled along the bank and a few of its piers, which had been converted into a lovely park. From there I walked northeast to Washington Square Park and NYU, where scores of students had gathered to enjoy the sun; and where, to the crowd’s delight, in the middle of the square and right in front of the giant arch, a pianist was performing “Nessun Dorma”.
The pianist’s name, I learned, is Colin Huggins. He had studied classical piano in Europe and used to be a classical concert pianist in York, until he learned that he could have more fun and actually make the same money by wheeling his piano into the square each day that the weather permitted it, and just playing for the crowd. I sat and watched him for an hour as he played Chopin, Rachmaninoff, and at my request, parts of “Rhapsody in Blue”.
“Are you a musician?” Colin asked me.
“Yup,” I said.
“You wanna play?”
“Haha. No.” Although God knows that inside, I was dying to play—and I would have, if only I had someone with me to take what would be a great Facebook profile picture.
After Colin had wheeled his piano away—and handed me his card, which said “Colin Huggins, Pianist, Happiest Man on Earth”—I walked north a few blocks to Union Square. I sat there a while, watching the people, then took the PATH train across the river to New Jersey and walked a few blocks to St Peter’s Prep School, the all-boy Jesuit school where GP had taught music since graduating from Berklee. There was a small fund-raiser at the school that evening featuring some of GP’s students, and I had promised to attend, mostly out of curiosity about life after Berklee.
The fund-raiser was held in the school’s cafeteria, with a handful of family members and faculty as the audience. Three of GP’s students sang solos of songs I didn’t know—one Elvis song and two emo songs—with GP accompanying. Too bad I didn’t get to hear any group numbers by the choir GP led, since everyone said GP was doing so well and was so well-liked as the school’s Mr Schuster (not that I’m a Glee fan, but from what little I’ve seen of the show, I know that comparison is a pretty big deal).
GP, Mikee (who had also watched the show) and I sneaked out and headed for Manhattan as soon as other kids started singing. We were lucky enough to get a table at Shake Shack, and I wasn’t at all disappointed by the high expectations of the burger that my officemates Pat and Sonny had built up. Even the maple walnut-flavored custard—so sweet that it gave me a sore throat and so rich that it was totally against my “no dessert” principle—was worth it.
After dinner, we (joined by JD) headed to Don’t Tell Mama, the sing-along piano bar near 46th and 8th that I had been dying to return to since my first visit with Hangad last November. Apparently it was pop rock night, with the pianist and waitresses belting out songs like “I Wanna Dance With Somebody”, “Hold On”, “Man in the Mirror”, “Human Nature” (Michael Jackson’s, not Madonna’s), “Rainbow Connection”, and “Hotel California”. But genre constraints didn’t stop me from going up on stage to do another Sondheim number—last November it was “Losing My Mind” from Follies; this time it was “Marry Me a Little” from Company. The pitch was lower than I remembered from the Raul Esparza recording I constantly sing along to while driving; and reading off lyrics from JD’s iPhone proved to be a handicap; but who cares? You don’t often get to sing Sondheim on a New York stage; and as GP had said, “Deadma na. August pa balik mo, walang makakaalala sa ‘yo.”
I stayed at Don’t Tell Mama until past 2 AM—Tita Tere was working especially late that night. GP, Mikee and JD had left around two hours earlier to catch the last train back to New Jersey. I didn’t mind; I love that piano bar.
Friday, my last day in New York, was a day for meeting up with several friends. First on the list was Inay’s friend and colleague, Sheila Coronel, who had offered to take me to lunch, and show me around “her Manhattan.” Tita Sheila was founder and director of the Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism for 17 years; and five years ago, she joined Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism as a member of the faculty and director of the school’s investigative journalism program.
I arrived at the Columbia area early, so I spent a few minutes at the Cathedral of St John the Divine before heading there. According to my Lonely Planet guidebook, this is the world’s third largest place of worship (after St Peter’s Basilica and some place in France I had never heard of); and it was grand indeed, with intricate sculptures and reliefs on the façade, and massive columns, towering ceilings, and a gleaming sanctuary inside.
(Incidentally, after Tito Joey had dropped me and Tita Tere off at the UN just that morning, Tita Tere had said: “Keep your eyes on the road! That’s the way to walk in New York, since there’s a lot of dog poop around.” And on the way from the subway station to the cathedral, because I had been texting Tita Sheila that I was already in the area, I stepped right into dog poop. Thank God for all the unmelted ice around, and for my luck finding patches of ice which weren’t yet blackened by New York pollution, which allowed me to clean it up. I texted Tita Tere about the irony of what had happened; she replied, “I have the gift of prophecy.”)
From the cathedral, I headed to the Columbia University campus—a grand experience in itself, with its wide-open quadrangle and its dignified buildings. I met Tita Sheila at the journalism building. We walked for just under two hours, as she showed me around the Columbia campus, the quiet and elegant Morningside neighborhood, the nearby Riverside park and Grant monument. We ventured farther eastward into Harlem, a seemingly different world of hip-hop music booming from cars’ open windows; the Apollo theater, where Ella Fitzgerald and the Jackson 5 had first performed; sidewalk stalls selling t-shirts and books that glowed with black pride; and throngs of people flashing the don’t-shit-with-me attitude that African-Americans have earned a reputation for, thanks to portrayals on movies and TV. Even as Harlem struck me as gritty, Tita Sheila talked about the gentrification of the district, with the rise of prime real estate in the area.
We had lunch at an American bistro in Harlem, and walked back to Columbia, where we parted with a hug just before I entered the subway to meet another friend, college friend Miriam delos Santos. Mhir had studied International Political Economics and Development at Fordham University for the past two years on a full scholarship, and after volunteer work for four months on Culion Island, the former leper colony in the Palawan archipelago, she was now back in New York to look for a job in development—and also, to promote the book she had written for fun, and which, to her pleasant surprise, got published when she had submitted her manuscript to a publisher on a whim while she was at Fordham. We had coffee and a snack at a deli near Rockefeller Center, with me marveling the whole time at her good luck on getting that full scholarship (“Development wasn’t even your field!” I had explained) and getting published. “I guess good karma comes to good people,” I told her.
Lastly I met up with Chad and Leanne, at Chad’s office on Times Square, for dinner. Times Square was packed with people—I don’t know if it was because it was Friday night, or because it was the warmest Manhattan had been in weeks. We drove down to the Meatpacking district and spent several hours catching up over a delicious Asian dinner at Spice market. I talked about my decision to apply for Berklee, and my seven-month side trip into the world of fashion retail; they talked about their character-building experience of job-hunting during the recession, and the seven years they had spent on the East Coast. After dinner, they took me home to Tita Tere’s in Queens.
And so ended my four days in New York. Again, my stay was interestingly unusual, with no Broadway shows, no art museums, and hardly any shopping; but also because I spent so much more time with friends, old and new, than my typically anti-social self allows me to when traveling. Yet I have no regrets about how I spent these four days, getting to know New York’s less touristy but no less interesting corners, and hearing the stories of the people who live there.
Definitely, I will be back soon, and not just once. US$15 bus rides, here I come.
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