Sure and begorrah you’ll be knowin’ that tomorrow tis St. Patrick’s Day. And that’s the last I’ll be doin’ of the brogue- you’ll be happy to be knowin’.
But I haven’t kissed the Blarney Stone for nothing. And I’ve got a very warm memory of a lucky St. Patrick’s Day of long ago to share with you today.
In 1991 Natasha and I took a mother-daughter trip to New York City.
Natasha was twelve, I was…um..over twenty-one, and we were Big Apple bound. We were going to spend some quality time doing the Fifth Avenue shopping scene, touring museums- the FIT had a fashion doll exhibit that was on my must-visit list- and we were going to catch some plays.
We shared the planning evenly. I was in charge of the transportation, the hotel and the entertainment.
Natasha- though still a preteen- had inherited her father’s “Control Button” feature. So she was on top of everything else.
From the moment our plane touched down, NLR was large and in charge.
She did allow herself to be checked in to the Stanhope- a graceful old dowager of a hotel chock full of Edwardian charm. It met with her approval.
But as soon as we hit the room, Natasha’s C.E.O. gene kicked into overtime.
“Don’t touch the mini bar!” she’d command if my glance happened to fall in that direction. “Do you have any idea how much the macadamia nuts cost here?”
Or…
“Put everything of value in the safe. NOW.”
And…
“Put down that room service menu! We’ll go out for a quick dinner.”
And later at the Carnegie Deli…
“Look at these prices! We’ll split a sandwich. Besides, they’re too big for one person anyway.”
Sigh.
But despite my repeated mantra “You’re not the boss of me,” our trip was an unqualified success.
The Stanhope’s plum location on Fifth Avenue meant easy access to one of our must-see venues. Right across the street stands the majestic Metropolitan Museum.
Wait a minute. Did I say “easy?”
I had completely forgotten about the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. I had seen Chicago’s celebration of St. Pat- the marchers, the Jesse White Tumblers, the green-dyed Chicago River- but it hadn’t prepared me for New York City’s shindig.
It was a daytime version of Carnival in Rio. A full tilt boogie of a drunk fest with the entire population of Manhattan crammed into Fifth Avenue.
And they were toasting all and sundry with paper “roadies.” (Large Solo drinking cups not filled with, I hazard a guess, Seagram’s Diet Ginger Ale.)
Everyone on the avenue (except us) was reveling and reeling. And I do mean everyone. Even the cops had cups.
All foot and car traffic was brought to a standstill by the rowdy horde. It became quite a tricky maneuver for us to cross Fifth Avenue.
But eventually we did cross and were rewarded by a spooky, memorable time spent in the Egyptian Wing.
And finally we saw two plays.
City of Angels and Lost in Yonkers.
They were my choices and what lucky choices they turned out to be. The very next year they cleaned up at the Tony awards. Just look at these stats:
City of Angels won the Tony Awards for Best Musical, Best Book (Larry Gelbart), Best Performance By A Lead Actor (James Naughton), Best Original Score and Best Scenic Design.
Lost In Yonkers won Tonys for Best Play, Best Performance By A Leading Actress (Mercedes Ruehl) Best Performance By A Featured Actress (Irene Worth) and Best Performance By A Featured Actor. (Kevin Spacey)
And the Pulitzer Prize For Drama. (Neil Simon)
But the very best stroke of luck of all?
Connie Chung and Maury Povich had the seats right next to us at Lost In Yonkers.
Natasha LOVED Maury’s television show.
God only knows what she loved about it. I never could bring myself to watch it. But something about Maury’s “National Inquirer” circus atmosphere and lowlife guest list really appealed to puritanical Natasha. Go figure.
Thus she spent the entire play shooting them sidelong, adoring glances. I doubt she saw anything that happened on that prize-winning stage.
But who cares? My daughter came out of that theater on Cloud Channel Nine. And I knew she would never forget that transformative artistic experience.
That wraps up my post for today, dear readers. Irish blessings upon you all.
May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
And may Connie and Maury always sit next to you at the theater.
We (in my parents’ day) “celebrated’ St. Patrick’s Day at dinner. Green hats, green napkins, corned beef and cabbage etc. I “inherited” a box of those decorations. After many decades in our basement, I sold some on eBay and sent the rest to a landfill.
Herbie
Thanks for this time capsule comment, Herbie. Your parents sounded like equal opportunity fun. And we would also celebrate by going to our neighbors’- the McIntires- for a corned beef and cabbage dinner. And in Aspen I had a great jade green ski suit that I always wore to ski in on this day. (Now also consigned to eBay.)
We were ecumenical as regards holidays. Didn’t Saint Patrick rid Ireland of snakes? As children, we had an Easter Egg Hunt in our apartment (Fullerton & Lincoln Park West). Christmas was huge. Halloween was harmless; soaping a few windows was our form of mischief. All 3 of us were confirmed at Sinai. Jewish holidays were hardly observed; Francis Parker did not close. Etc etc.
Herbie
I’ve heard that about St. Pat. I think it’s part of his myth. Fascinating. Very German-Jewish assimilationist stuff. Thanks, Herbie. You should get in touch with PBS and Simon Schama. Your vantage point on the diaspora is unique.
Betsy is in New York City this weekend with Connie. Please have Natasha call her immediately with regards to the mini bar and room service. When I talked to her she said nothing about the crowds and drinking in the street. I guess you get a slanted view of what is going on when you are in Barneys and Bergdorf Goodman most of the day and at plays at night.
I will get Natasha on her case ASAP. And the parade is TOMORROW.
No St. Patrick’s out here at all, and more’s the pity. Oh, wait, there is. But we call it Cinco de Mayo. We saw Connie and Maury one night at a restaurant, probably Mexican. They’re everywhere.
Maybe spotting them IS good luck-like finding a leptechaun! Top o’ the morning to you, boyo, and thanks.