New York state of mind

I'm lusting, bad...for a trip to NYC.

I know fall is supposed to be "the best" time to be in the city, but I have a permanent love affair with Manhattan in the sweltering summer months. No matter that the humidity is basically as high as it is here in the dirty South. I don't care that my favorite activity - just walking the neighborhoods - leaves me as sweaty as a spin class can. There's just something about it that causes me to regress back to 1989 and I get that excited, school's-out-for-the-summer feeling. Lunching at outdoor cafes, lolling on the green at Central Park, an ice cream while strolling through SoHo, baking to golden perfection at Jones Beach - well, I've learned my lesson on that last one. (Now it's spf 80 and the biggest hat you'd ever imagine.)

And then there were all the trips to Long Island. My aunt and uncle have lived in the same house for virtually their entire married life together, and I have so many fun memories of summers spent there. Sitting on the Adirondack chairs on the back porch of their olive Cape Cod-style house, biking through their Levittown-style neighborhood, Italian ices at the local pizzeria and sparklers on the roof on the 4th of July.

In August 2000, my mom and I traversed the city together like we'd never return. We hit all the usual places - Chinatown, SoHo and the Village, the Upper East Side, Central Park. We hit MOMA for the grand re-opening; had cheesecake at Juniors, and bought knock-offs on Canal Street. This would be the summer of the event I'll dub "The Mascara Incident," and it goes a little something like this:

My mother has a dear friend from her teen years - we'll call her Drama Queen, not because there are any negative connotations, but because she is theatrical and articulate in every sense of the word. DQ has a son my age, call him Mr. Mayor, and he's always up for a fun time in a cousinly kind of way (that is, if your cousin drinks like a fish and knows half of Manhattan).

DQ and Mr. Mayor met my mother, my aunt and I for dinner one night on this memorable trip. The ladies and I were shacking up at the Plaza (lest you think this was typical, it was not - Mama had a credit to utilize). The plan was for Mr. Mayor to take me to some of his usual watering holes and, as always, we had an extremely fun and late evening. I distinctly remember trying to find the appropriate elevator at the Plaza, and in my drunken haze, thought I saw Madeline glaring at me disapprovingly from her portrait in the lobby. It was THAT kind of a night.

I found the room and let myself in. Tiptoeing in, aware that there were three sleeping bodies not to step on, I located the bathroom and waited until I closed the door to turn the light on. When I did, I found a pristine, Plaza-standard white hand towel with a message crazily scrawled in ransom-note fashion: DO NOT FLUSH.

What was next, a stigmata? Was it a message from Satan? Clearly I had drank enough to hallucinate. I barely supressed a shriek - actually, I don't think I supressed it at all. My mom came into the bathroom and I howled about the towel, the message, the fact that "someone was out to get me."

Long story short: She wrote it. In mascara. At 2 a.m., when she realized I'd wake up my aunt, who is a notorious and grouchy light sleeper, by coming in and - you guessed it - flushing the toilet. (If you're asking 'why mascara'....I guess she didn't have a Sharpie?)

This was a very entertaining story the next morning at brunch, and I would have enjoyed it much more had I not been face-down in my omlette.

A couple of Augusts ago, when Mr. Poppies and I were still dating, we stayed in Tribeca. It was our first trip to the city together, although he is from NY as well. Just engaged and giddy with excitement, we shopped and ate our way all over the city. This was the trip of The $80 Cheeseburger: whilst catching up with the World Cup in a charming little boite called Cafe Felix, Mr. Poppies and I ordered a cheeseburger and Coke (him) and a salad, side of fries and glass of white table wine (me). The waiter brought our bill and Mr. Poppies, who could never be accused of being a cheapskate, nearly choked on his bouef. Yep, $80 (not including tax or tip) for our light meal.

A couple of months ago, I happened to catch Big Daddy (the Adam Sandler movie) on TV. Adam Sandler's character is taking his young charge out for a walk around his neighborhood when the kid says he has to pee right now. AS then instructs the kid to go along the side of the wall and even demonstrates how to do so. Smugly, I pointed out to Mr. Poppies that the wall they were degrading was none other than that of Cafe Felix. It made me smile.

Ah I love New York in the summer!