It was our last weekend in New York City this fall before our return to Florida for the season. Coming up for air from the incredibly exciting U.S. Tennis Open, I anticipated quiet streets and empty restaurants with tennis journeymen having left town. But that is not the case this week. The United Nations is in session and traffic is backed up; police are everywhere with streets closed for dignitaries housed in various hotels in midtown. Those long black SUVs cruise the streets with police escorts. POTUS is in town, which doubles the congestion and traffic. Yet New York is weather glorious this week. Coming off a hurricane at camp with rain for the entire time I was hosting my high school buddies, I was relieved to be able to walk around raincoat free. In New York, the streets were empty of the homeless during U.N. week. I suspect they were relocated to nearby shelters and hotels to create the impression to visitors that our homeless problem is under control. Now the sidewalks were crowded with back-to-back pedestrians. The countless delegates to the United Nations were here to speak to human rights issues, the war in Ukraine, climate change and terrorism among other important matters. Patti and I made our way to a lecture on the scientific advances in treating Alzheimer’s disease, sponsored by the Melvin R. Goodes Prize for Excellence in drug discovery. That night we attended Lincoln Center for a New York Ballet performance given in celebration of their 75th anniversary. It was soothing after the hectic day. Tomorrow, we head to Minneapolis to support an ill friend of Patti’s from her alma mater, Northwestern University. All in all, a busy few days before we head south. I have a few stops to make before I leave for the airport: a visit to the Hunter College bookstore and the new art supply department in their basement and the Society Library at 79th Street where I will do some research on my forthcoming book about my father. The working title is “Leibish’s Journey to America.” The daily news about the growing number of illegal immigrants entering in through our southern border always makes me think of my father as a 12-year-old uneducated child in Ukraine, taken by horse cart to a rail depot with only his book of prayers in hand to occupy him and a rucksack filled with homemade bread, meats and cheese to carry him through a weeklong ride across Europe to Hamburg, where he stowed away on a ship. I see the photos in the New York Times of a Venezuelan father carrying his child through the treacherous Darien Gap in mud up to their necks. I think of Leibish’s journey, through foreign lands, with no one to hold him as he cried himself to sleep at night. All of these emotions come to mind as I visit New York in the fall of 2023. I savor the pleasant moments, especially with my hot mug of coffee and copy of the New York Times.
Category: New York
End of Summer Visit to New York City
Starting in the early 1960s and for years afterward during the summer months, we fled New York City for the Hamptons at every opportunity. I could not be bribed into staying in New York City for a long holiday weekend. I was drawn to the country with its open spaces, white beaches, and fresh air. In the 1970s, I finally convinced my family to move out to the Hamptons permanently.
I left corporate law and started a country practice of my own for real estate, family law and some litigation. Today, some 50 years later, I still have my East Hampton firm, but surprisingly, I am spending Labor Day weekend in New York City, at the U.S. Open Tennis Championships, Arthur Ashe stadium. Who would’ve thought? Change in direction comes to all of us. At this stage of my life, I am more open to new adventures. Some may not believe that going to a grand slam tennis tournament is adventuresome, but it is an exciting experience and an outcome of my renewed enthusiasm to play tennis again after what seems like a lifetime since I played in high school.
I am always driven to look for something new in life. I try to travel outside the parameters of what is cozy and secure. It is reflected in my professional work when I lean into an argument that was a dissent in a previous case. I look to redefine precedents to reflect current times and needs. I speak often of living in the present. Every day is a new opportunity to venture out– beyond the Hamptons and even New York. Maine has been a regular source of adventure for the past five years. Exploring the backwoods and lakes in Washington and Aroostook counties in my 1973 Series 3 Defender. Fishing the morning on Spudnick Lake. Swimming off my dock in the cove.
I write these columns to record my experiences on paper. Painting and sketching along the shore and in the wilderness are other means of adventure and self-expression. I am indeed fortunate to have the companionship and family support that allow me to do these things. I am mindful every day of those who are unable or unwilling to venture out. The barriers are often money or family responsibilities. Yet there is some adventure for everyone.
Leaving Arthur Ashe stadium today we drove through Flushing Meadows in Queens. There were hundreds of families picnicking, playing volleyball and soccer. Predominantly Hispanic from the music wafting throughout, this community of New Yorkers found their weekend adventures, and relaxation. A Sunday in the park, free of workday demands, some on blankets basking in the sun, babies quiet in their mother’s arms, their own country landscape.
Passing Through
It has been almost six months since I last walked the streets of New York City. I am glad to be back to my old routine: early morning New York Times pick-up, visit Shakespeare & Co. bookstore, haircut and shave at York Barber, and then breakfast at Neil’s Coffee Shop. Except Neil’s is gone, evicted for nonpayment of rent. I read about its demise in The New York Post before I left Florida. Apparently, the longtime owner filed for bankruptcy in 2022 and died in early 2023. Now it is in the hands of the landlord. As Yogi Berra said, “In New York nothing changes but everything.”
I found an old interview with the late proprietor, who said ownership of Neil’s was handed over only once, in 1980, from the original owner to him, and he was determined to keep everything as it was, including the same 1951 cash register and 1954 milkshake blender which “still work just fine.” The upholstery was updated and that was it. Neil’s first opened its doors in 1940, one of the many Greek diners that proliferated in mid-century Manhattan, serving coffee to go in the iconic Grecian-themed blue paper cups–a New York artifact once seen everywhere, but now a rarity since the invasion of Starbucks. The original neon sign hung out front on day one was there for the next 83 years. I went myself to confirm and for once The Post got it right. Neil’s was closed, dark and locked. I peered in the window. Chairs upended on tables. A lone can of spray cleaner on the counter.
I had been going to Neil’s since 1964, when I moved into the city from New Jersey after law school. It was my go-to diner after I got married and we bought an apartment on 71st Street. Our girls were small when we moved again to 68th Street—also an easy walking distance to Neil’s. We had countless family breakfasts and father-daughter lunches in those old booths, until we moved out of the city in 1972. I returned to Neil’s periodically over the years since then, while visiting my grandchildren who live on the upper east side. We meet at the Carlyle hotel, where I stay when I’m in town, only a few blocks from our favorite coffee shop. They enjoyed it I like to think because they could see how much it meant to me to take them there. That and the ice cream sundaes.
Rough around the edges, I don’t think Neil’s had an indoor paint job in the 50-plus years I went there. The tables and booths were squeezed into space that should accommodate half the number. The fire code inspector must have been a regular and looked the other way. Visiting the men’s room in the basement was like going down into the subway. But the food was consistent –the oversized omelets and home fries were reliable breakfast comfort food. Nothing like a toasted bagel and cream cheese from Neil’s. Oh, how I miss those early morning wake up meals.
There are other changes in the neighborhood. The CVS on the corner of Third Avenue and 68th Street has shut its doors. As I write this I see the windows at The Food Emporium across the street are filled with closing signs instead of the usual grocery store displays. Things feel diminished. Except for the New York Hospital workforce crowds coming up from the subway at 68th and Lexington, the pedestrian traffic seems to have abated. It seems like there are even fewer dogs on the sidewalks. Perhaps it is the weather. It has been colder and people are staying indoors. Could it be spring break time for schools, so everyone is away? Restaurants seem quieter too. Something is happening here in New York City. People are leaving it. Now that office attendance is not mandated, there has been a migration to more affordable places to work remotely. I work in my own office in East Hampton no more than six months out of the year. With Zoom and before that Skype, I connect remotely with my office and have been doing so for 15 years. I met a young woman recently while playing tennis who works for Goldman Sachs. She relocated from New York to work in West Palm Beach. “A better environment,” she said. “More outdoor time and less expensive.” Yes, New York may be shrinking a bit.
I found one busy place on my walk around the neighborhood: the local library on 68th street. Drawn in by the comfortable seating and a change of scene from an apartment–as well as the fact that it is “free” –people are flocking to libraries, sanctuaries of calm and quiet, no matter what might be going on outside. I belong to one on 79th Street where I hang out and work when I am in town. The Starbucks across the street is also lively. New York may be slightly less populous, but it will never be totally abandoned. As time passes however, with the loss of places like Neil’s, there may not be enough to keep some of us here in place or coming back.
The Brightline
For those who travel along the coastline in eastern Florida a train ride is usually Amtrack, which runs between northeast and southern Florida. I discovered a recent addition to this route: the Brightline, a new, modern short-run train between West Palm and Miami. Many of my friends recommended using this mode of transportation as a more comfortable means of travel than driving I-95, so when I had a business meeting last week in Coconut Grove, I decided to go by rail.
Settling back into my seat I closed my eyes and thought back to my first train ride with my mother on the New York Central from Rochester to New York City in 1954 to attend my brother’s engagement party. I was 15 years old and mom had brought a picnic basket of food to hold me over during the 8-hour trip. My parents were kosher so there was no thought to ordering anything in the dining car except soda pop. I recall distinctly as the conductor came down the aisle to retrieve our tickets, Mom said to me “Lenny, you slink down and don’t show how tall you are” – my ticket was for ages 12 and under. Dad had warned her not to pay extra for an adult ticket for me. The conductor was none the wiser and I passed for 12 on that trip though I don’t think the charade would have worked for much longer. My father was an experienced train rider having traveled alone in 1918 at age 12 from his shtetl in Russia to Hamburg, Germany, to board a ship to Argentina. He had a singular train experience and it was certainly not a fun one, but that is a story for another column.
There was no entertainment on the New York Central for a 15-year-old kid like me, but fortunately, I had a library copy of Mark Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn” to pass the time. When I tired of reading I ran up and down the aisles of the train cars. I was always a talker and I recall making friends with some of the other adult passengers in the general seating areas. The uniformed ticket collectors were entertained by me and gave me a tour of the various railcars. The kitchen car was the most fun. I watched the cooks in their sparkling white chef’s caps preparing delicious-looking meals of chicken, roast beef, crab salad, and strawberry shortcake–none of which I was allowed to have. The baggage car held an orderly assortment of luggage and boxes for delivery ala FedEx today. There was an open-top observation car that must have been First Class. I spent a lot of time peering out the windows at the miles of farm fields as we passed through central New York and then turned south at Albany towards New York City, finally arriving at the gigantic Grand Central terminal. Seeing the mighty panoramic Kodak “Colorama” in the lobby was thrilling to me. My brother Marty met us in the main concourse and hustled us through the underground tunnels to his parked car. It was my first, unforgettable train adventure to New York City.
I commuted by train later during my college years, between upstate and Newark, but soon I had a car –a Morris Minor –and drove the New York Thruway and New Jersey Turnpike back and forth to law school. Ultimately train travel ended for me and I like most people, except commuters and train enthusiasts, travel by air. The Brightline trip to Miami brought all these memories back and I thank that someone out there who created such nostalgia for me.
The Homeless
The weather in Florida dropped to mid-forties last week. Out of storage came the heavy sweaters, socks, long pants, caps and fleece jackets, now the attire day and night. Patti and I bundled up and went for brunch in West Palm at Howleys Diner on South Dixie, an active street much like Second Avenue in New York City–lots of restaurants, simple fare and shops offering everything from clock repair to fancy, out of date furniture consignments. After a brief wait a table was available. Seated next to the entrance we felt a cold breeze each time the door opened. Our coffee had just been served when a disheveled young man wearing a dirty Santa hat entered. Unkempt beard, loosely hanging, tattered clothes, he had the appearance of too much time on the streets and not enough time cleaning up. He seated himself next to us and I instinctively pushed my chair away from him and closer to Patti. Not a peep from Patti, casual and unnerved as she can be. Anxious about his close proximity, I looked about and to my surprise there was the manager holding a large to-go cup of hot coffee. He set it carefully in front of the young man, who picked it up with both hands and sipped cautiously, not wanting to spill a drop of the precious commodity. The manager hovered over him and gently coaxed the visitor out the front door. I was relieved, but ashamed that I reacted the way I had, so ill at ease by his presence.
I have encountered homeless people in New York for years; they are more prevalent now, since Covid. I walk around them sitting or lying on the sidewalk in front of CVS on the corner of 68th street and Third Avenue. I fear many have burned bridges with family and friends and lack any support system. Mental illness pervades the homeless population. I have empathy and the desire to help and pressing some cash into an open hand temporarily assuages my guilt. I held out a sandwich once and was told “I don’t like turkey.” I offered what I thought was needed, but it was not what was wanted. Advocates for the homeless have a mantra: “We can’t take away their right to be homeless.” But what does “right to be homeless” mean? What about the right of the average person to feel unafraid when they pass a homeless person, given the number of recorded random attacks? Most homeless are not of sound mind, so are they capable of making decisions in their own best interest? If not, is leaving them on the street and labelling it as their “choice” or “right” morally wrong? Isn’t “homeless” a spectrum — from the single mom who has to live in a motel or in her car with her kids because she was evicted, to the violent, mental hospital patient released prematurely for lack of beds? If they are not capable of helping themselves are our politicians doing enough? I am troubled by the “homeless” problem and all of its implications and questions.
The weather has returned to the usual 80 degrees. I suspect the young man in the Santa cap found the shelter up the road on South Dixie. The line for a meal and a place to sleep starts snaking mid-day in Florida. I am going to seek out answers to some of my questions and do more to help.
Bagel Shop
I was up from Florida this past week for a brief stay in East Hampton and then into New York for a rainy weekend. OMG do I miss Florida on a cold rainy day. On Saturday the skies cleared enough to go ahead with the usual routine – haircut and shave at York barbershop, breakfast at Neil’s on the corner of Lexington and 70th Street, and finally “happy hour” at Shakespeare & Co. bookstore to browse for works by Elizabeth Hardwick. I have been reading Robert Lowell, the poet, and now have expanded to the other writers in his circle; Hardwick was his second wife and an acclaimed novelist and essayist. Lunch with my pal Jay was scheduled for early afternoon at The Mansion diner on the corner of 86th and York Avenue, near to Jay’s apartment. We arrived to find the restaurant closed, the front entrance obstructed with equipment for a movie being filmed on the block. Only in New York! Jay recommended we go across the street to Tal Bagels. A traditional New York bagel shop is a unique restaurant experience. If you’ve never been to one, basically it is an “appetizing” takeout with all kinds of fish—smoked salmon (“nova” or “lox”), whitefish, gefilte fish (not really a fish), smoked herring, pickled herring and pickled herring in cream sauce. There are all kinds of salads, such as tuna salad, whitefish salad, egg salad, fruit salad. Then the cream cheeses: plain, or with vegetable, or with nova, or cinnamon raisin and even tofu non-dairy. And deli galore, from corned beef to roast beef to tongue. Everything to go on a bagel. Aside from the bagels there are flagels – flattened bagels, and bialys, a type of roll with onion or poppy seed, and rugelach – a sweet roll with nuts and chocolate.
The line to the counter at Tal’s ran out to the sidewalk but it was moving quickly. There were a few tables inside for those like us who came to “dine.” Jay took a seat to hold a table while I took to the line. You must be fast and ready to respond to “Whata ya want mista?” I was studying the menu and lost my place in line. Quick to recover I ordered, paid, and awaited the omelet with a toasted sesame bagel on the side for me and the lox and bagel for Jay. Back in my seat, I felt someone brush past me. It was an older man walking carefully toward the counter. He held a long white stick with a red tip. At first glance I did not realize that he was blind because he was wearing reading glasses. He turned to face me and said, “Pardon me.” “No problem,” I responded. I watched as the man behind the counter handed the blind fellow his order and took two five-dollar bills for payment, no change. Apparently, he was a regular. As he managed to make his way out of the deli I got up from my seat and touched his elbow. “Can I help you to the door?” I asked him. He nodded and I gently held his elbow, guiding him. We walked together to the exit, and I offer to assist him down the stairs to the street. “No thank you, young man,” he said. My youthful voice obviously misled him into thinking I was not an 83-year-old bagel eater. I took it as a compliment. I went back in to finish lunch with Jay as it started to rain again.
Last Sunday in New York
I was up late this last Sunday of September on the eve of Rosh Hashana. New York is quiet during the Jewish holidays. The walk west along 68th street to the newsstand on the corner of Lexington Ave was not the usual upstream push against the crowd of hospital workers on their way from the exit of the subway to New York Hospital on First Avenue. The stands that line 68th street were robust with days-old fruit and vegetables, the salespeople on their cell phones speaking in Middle East languages. The stack of New York Times Sunday papers was unusually high as was the New York Post. New Yorkers were not in town that was obvious. I decided to take my morning coffee at the Shakespeare & Co. bookstore on the corner of 68th and Lexington-my usual haunt whenever I am in the city. A stack of books awaiting author signature were at the cash register-Ian McEwan’s “Lessons.” I was quick to buy a copy. The young woman behind the counter was pleasant. We were alone in the store. I felt like I had just dropped into a sacred land of books, virtually alone with all these authors in the early morning when I could touch any book and feel inspired. There is something special to me about bookstores. My early years upstate at Scranton’s on Main Street, I would walk the aisles unable to buy anything for lack of spendable money. More importantly I didn’t have the knowledge I have today of authors and topics of interest. It took three years of reading American literature and history at Rutgers to finally accept that I could read and more importantly grasp what was written notwithstanding my dyslexia. Here I was in this sacred place able to buy any book and able to be selective. With coffee in hand I sat down in a corner of the book store and delved into the Times only to see on the front page an article on a newly discovered trove of Hemingway stories, documents, unpublished works and photos on display at Penn State University. I was immediately taken by the article and read it through in the quiet room. I walked over to the shelves with Hemingway and scanned his many works. It was personal like I was able to talk to the author. I was transfixed. Some say bookstores like local newspapers are of the past. Carl and I talked last night after watching the film about a day in the life of The Mountain Messenger. I felt relieved that I am alive in a time when both bookstores and newspapers are still in existence despite the preponderance of technology. It was great to be in New York this Sunday before I travel south for the winter. All is good with me.
Here Back East 