Today, I had four hours before a 7:00 play. I walked slowly, a first, down 57th and wondered in and out of galleries and accessory stores. On 5th Avenue, I quietly enjoyed the windows, lights, and music. I allowed myself to take it all in.

At Rockefeller Center, I watched the ice skater for a long while, marveled at the 94’ tree. and sat on a bench and relished, again, the dancing lights on the Saks building.

In Teuscher Chocolates, a first, a Paris-based chocolatier, after examining the enchanting gift boxes, I bought one truffle. $4.87. Every bite was decadent; you can bet.

I couldn’t help but think of the dichotomy of extremes in NYC: Tiffany shoppers vs. those with raggedy coats; people dining at Trump Tower and others with the hot dog guy, or less; the woman carrying the Louis Vuitton bag vs. the homeless, pregnant woman sitting on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign.

The theater tonight was an extreme too. I went to see My Father’s Voice 1936-1945, a first.  It was in this little building on 46th without an external theater sign, on the 8th floor, in one tiny little room with an eight inch raised stage. The set was one chair and one table with one actor.

What a contrast from the Broadway performances with elaborate costume, various stage sets, and numerous, often dozens of actors and dancers. The discrepancies were apparent.

The have, and the have-nots are everywhere, but in NYC the extremes are in my face; hard to ignore; especially the young pregnant woman who sits on the concrete in front of Starbucks.

I’m in the middle of those extremes, and I am grateful – at many levels.

Two Months of Firsts – #10

Written on December 5, 2016