It’s been a raucous week here in New York, full of the sorts of ups, downs, laughs and good times that make you remember why you came.
Last Friday, I worked my first full shift at Manhattan Theatre Club’s Patron’s Lounge, a private club for supporters of the theatre who have donated a minimum of one thousand dollars. Nestled between the main floor and the mezzanine of the Friedman Theatre on 47th Street, the lounge is a great perk of the Patron’s Program. It offers true theatre-lovers a chance to mingle with one another before the show and during intermission, and ensures they have a place to hang their coats and relax before curtain time. The complimentary coffee, wine, and snacks sweeten the deal too!
Working in the Patron’s Lounge (or PLO for short) is one way for MTC interns to make a little extra money during our internship, so I was figured I would give it a try. I was admittedly somewhat less than eager to spend the night pouring drinks for rich people though. Stuffy seniors demanding food, endless bottles to uncork - not exactly my idea of a fun time, I thought.
As happens with so many assumptions, turns out mine were completely wrong.
The Patrons proved to be wonderful people, a true pleasure to spend time with. One couple regaled me with stories of the trip they took to London to see plays at the West End, how much they enjoyed the show WAR HORSE and how different the theatre scene is over there. Another woman and I chatted about how much she liked the program because it allowed her and her friend to have consistent evenings out. Everyone was curious to hear what I thought of the play as well. They brought back their own thoughts after the two intermissions and discussed the show thoughtfully and intelligently, which was a breath of fresh air. Everyone was genuinely interested that I was an intern as well, and it was obvious that they felt enough a part of the theatre to welcome me into the “family” (some had been patrons for over twenty years!). It was a good reminder that these people donate because they love the theatre and want to ensure its continued success. Working PLO was a great way to connect with them directly, and I have to say I enjoyed every minute.
Afterwards, I met up with a few fellow interns and headed out to one of the many swanky midtown bars off of 9th Avenue. Loud, fast dance music surrounded us as we descended from the street into the main room. It’s curved walls and soft lighting gave it the look of some sort of desert bunker – in a hip way. The long, sleek bar was stocked only with giant vats of fruit-infused vodka (the bar’s specialty) which added to the surreal look. We didn’t stay downstairs long though, choosing instead to head upstairs to the dancing. It was a good time; the DJ spun bizarre remixes while even more bizarre videos were projected on the walls. I stayed just long enough unwind from the week, then said goodnite and grabbed the A train home.
The forecast for Saturday had promised perpetual thunderstorms, so I decided to lay aside my bike ride plans and sleep in. When I finally tumbled out of bed, the air was thick with the promise of rain, but there didn’t seem to be any downpour yet. Feeling invigorated after my rest, I figured that at the very least I could check out the farmer’s market via pedal and make a plan of action after that.
The fall harvest was definitely in, and the crowd was hopping at the 207th Street Farmer's Market. Determined to expand my horizons, I checked out some different stands (although I of course had to return to my staples, including the irresistible cider vendor). I ended up with a bag of button mushrooms, a couple peppers, an onion, a stellar loaf of multi-grain bread, a birthday bottle of ice wine for Stephanie and a healthy bunch of yellow and red tomatoes. It was quite a haul, and stuffing it all in my backpack was a bit of a challenge. As I was doing this, I headed back to my bike, where I happened to run into a woman unlocking hers. We struck up a conversation about how dangerous it was to come to the market hungry, and she showed off her amazingly large saddle bag, totally loaded up with vegetables. Totally the right kind of accessory!
With the rain still at bay, I made up my mind to go ahead with the bike ride (it’s only water after all). I stopped back at my apartment first to drop off my purchases and suit up. A few minutes later I was standing outside my building, struggling with my helmet strap, when I was startled by a loud shout from across the street. I looked around to see what was up and spotted a short, gray-haired woman waving at me. “Hey you,” she called. “Good job, wearing a helmet!” I smiled and waved back, so she promptly crossed the street and introduced herself. Turned out her name is Johanna, and she’s the pastor at the beautiful church across the way. An avid biker herself, we had a great time talking about how important helmets are and the reservoirs she “bags” on the weekends. She even invited me to come along on one of these day trips where the church’s small cycling club throws their bikes on her four-bike rack and heads out of the city. It sounded like a great time – I definitely plan to take her up on the offer!
After that, I hopped on my bike and headed west towards the river. I’m only a few blocks away from the Riverside path that runs the length of Manhattan, so my plan was to find the start of this trail and follow it down for a few miles. The last time I’d done this with Aidan, we’d only been able to find stairs that lead up to the elevated path. I was sure there must be way to get on it without hauling my bike up stairs though, so I traveled north towards Inwood Park, looking for a cross over. It took a little looking around, but eventually I spotted a little semi-paved path peaking out of the brush. Pleased with my investigative skills, I headed down it.
The trail was lovely. Narrow, right next to the river, with the trees on either side seeming to arch up over the top... I was certain I had found the hidden way and was already planning how to smuggly brag about it on my blog. However, while plotting out my tale, I failed to notice the lack of bikers. Or the abundance of fishermen. It was only after I cleared the woods that I began to suspect my mistake, and even then I pushed on out of sheer stubbornness. That too was cut short though when the path dead-ended into the rail-road tracks. Hopping off of my bike, I stared in dismay at the large rocks lining the railroad bed and was forced to admit that my secret path was actually the route fisherman took to get right up along the bank.
Now, I am positive that had my morning not been so lovely and had my veins not been coursing with pedaling-induced adrenaline, I would have made a different decision at this juncture. But in the moment, hefting my bike on my shoulder and walking along the tracks in search of the path seemed perfectly logical; after all, the fisherman had to get in from somewhere and it made sense that it would be the big Riverside path. At the very least, I knew that the trail I wanted was directly underneath the George Washington bridge looming large in the distance. So away I went, staying way to the side of the actual tracks.
It was hard going. Those rocks are not meant for walking, and certainly not for walking with a giant, oddly shaped object across your shoulder. It took a good fifteen minutes before my perpetual optimism started to wear thin. I kept eyeballing the tall fencing on either side, looking for a man-made hole to escape through. There were none. Thoughts of eternal wandering along the New York rails flitted through my head. I wondered if this was just an exercise in stupidity and decided that maybe I should give in, turn around, and go back the way I came. But then up ahead, I spotted it - the path! Bikers zoomed across, joggers seemed to bob along. Grinning, I congratulated myself on my superior geographical skills and my spirit of adventure. Finally! Only problem was, this path was crossing the railroad tracks perpendicularly - at an elevation of about forty feet.
Once again, I blame the pedaling high. (Biking is obviously a gateway drug into more stupid acts of adventure, so please cycle with caution.) Readjusting my bike, I lumbered over to the fencing and looked carefully at some weaker rusted points. It wasn't long before I found the loose sheet of fencing, propped up to make it look like nothing was amiss. I slipped through the hole to the other side (this is a bit of writing flourish, I admit, because one does not "slip" through any sort of opening, let alone one this size, with unwieldy two-wheeled cargo - wiggled, squirmed, yanked, and heaved are all more accurate descriptors). The fun didn't stop there though, since the "other side" was one of those massive sheer rock formations that make northern Manhattan so beautiful. It was pretty impressive, and more than a little daunting, but knowing now that someone had done this before me, I wasn't about to give up. So up I went.
It was slow going. The rock face was mossy and damp, so I took my time finding solid footing. I clung to saplings for support, and eased my bike up along the rock when I couldn't carry it any longer. After what seemed like ages, I reached the top. A few steps later, and I was on the path. It would be an understatement to say I was glowing with accomplishment though, much to my dismay, there were no crowds of impressed fans waiting to cheer me on. But nothing could get me down after all that. Once I took a moment to catch my breath, I hopped on the bike and began a long (and long-awaited), leisurely ride along the river.
There were lots of people out, despite the gray skies. After a while, I stopped at a rock outcropping along the bank (a shorter one this time) where I sat down and took a moment to take in the beautiful scenery: the just-changing leaves, the gray-blue water lapping at the shore. I sipped some cider and stretched my muscles. Just then, a gentle rain began to fall.
To be continued!
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