17-22 June 2026

My very first glimpse of New York City came from a bus window in the winter of 1971 as I traveled with classmates in my Furman University Intro to Theatre class to stay at the Hotel Great Northern near Carnegie Hall, eat my first gefilte fish at a deli across the street, attend a taping of The Dick Cavett Show (Danny Kaye was the guest—I  got Cavett’s autograph after), and see some wonderful theatre, including Claire Bloom starring in both A Doll’s House and Hedda Gabler and the original production of Hair.  The over-the-knee stockings I thought fashionable enough for the City fell down around my ankles as I stood in front of the Empire State Building; I don’t recall how I coped with that.  I do remember that later in the 70’s, my friend Jimmy, aware of my champagne tastes and limited budget, tweaked me with a gift book titled New York on $500 A Day.

Well, times have changed:  that amount doesn’t cut it in New York City today.  Like the culture, much is different, for better and for worse.  Times Square is much less dangerously squalid, though much more congested.  You can’t buy a blue tablecloth at Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s, where the selection is limited to three or four floral patterns, and the salesclerk at Macy’s smirked when I asked where the tablecloths were.  (Does no one use a tablecloth anymore?)  And the Oyster Bar at the Plaza no longer exists, site of a rendezvous with my future husband for a glamorously romantic date in November 1994—after flying respectively from Kentucky and New Hampshire, we walked into the Palm Court from separate entrances at exactly the same moment.  A cherished cinematic moment.

Getting around in New York, especially for this senior wondering if she’s still up to finding her way, is, however, so much easier these days.  An OMNY pass (only $1.50 a ride for seniors!) and smartphone with Citymapper app loaded are all you need:  no fumbling with cash or credit cards in subway stations.  And since these days EVERYONE’s gaze —not just a disoriented tourist’s—is constantly on a phone, it’s possible to pass as a local.

Besides, people seem friendlier.  I didn’t hear a harsh word spoken the whole five days I was in town.  One stranger asked politely if I had the time, and thanked me when I told him.  And when at intermission I complimented the woman seated next to me in the Winter Garden theatre on her summer-y linen ensemble, she volunteered that she got it on sale from J. Jill for only $40!

My first full day back in New York was the day of the Knick’s victory parade in lower Manhattan (I stayed well north in Midtown), and World Cup fans were everywhere, sporting their team’s kits, making overheard conversations—such a delight in the City—even more international than usual.  So lovely to see so many happy, hairy men greeting both men and women with kisses on each cheek.  The town seemed awash in goodwill, a refreshing breeze and tonic change from the bitterly ironic, algae-slimed pool of despair tainting so many of our days in these Un-tied States.  Hundreds of yogis in Bryant Park!  A messenger boy on a bike careening down Broadway sans helmet while taking a selfie!  A pretty blond girl yakking on her phone, dressed in gauzy white linen and a T-shirt whose rhinestones read “Blow Me,” striding across a subway grate à la Marilyn Monroe.  Some sidewalks still smell of urine.  But the homeless woman camped out on W 37^th fed the pigeons every morning.  Ah, New York!

I had a grand time.  Saw three superior productions;  two intriguing museum shows; visited two good friends; walked that wonderful urban park, the High Line; and got my urban chops back.

On the ride to Port Authority, my Uber driver Pema told me he had a cousin in New Hampshire, where a four-bedroom house cost only $450,000.  So much cheaper than New York, he sighed.  Yes, I agreed.

And then, after six hours uneventful hours reading Alice Munroe stories on the C&J coach headed north, I arrived back at our home and a drippy, dusky evening.  Walking once around the house, my custom after time away, I heard some clicking sounds coming from the stand of trees in front of the house.  Birds?  Frogs?  Then, as I started to walk down the driveway to collect my mail, I heard a huffing sound to my right.  And then a growl.  Oh.  The black bear, the one who’d twice deconstructed my bird feeders and was only briefly deterred a third time when I yelled at her from the deck, was just to my right—and judging from the warning she gave, possibly accompanied by cubs.

I apologized, loudly, for the intrusion, backed swiftly away clapping my hands, and retreated down the hill and back inside through the garage.  Safely home.  After my adventures in the big city, I had returned to the frontier.