Temperatures rested in the low thirties when we climbed into Holly's van. Me, Grandpa and the children in back for the sleigh ride (of sorts)--and then we hit traffic--an accident on the freeway, consequential, hardly-moving traffic, and dinner reservations we had to adjust.
"We'll hold your table until 6:00," the hostess promised.
Trevor started weaving in and out like a Nascar driver. In the family van, mind you.
Two minutes to six, we pulled in front of Takashi. The door slid open, we climbed out and stood on a cold, bright street, quiet and surreal from the blue lights tightly embracing trees. Magical.
We hurried into the restaurant to enjoy the dinner our mouths had been watering for. The restaurant was a buzz! Crowded, happy people and our table for six, conspicuously empty, waiting in a corner. How hungry we were. How New York it felt!
I love being in New York in the winter. It's easier in the summer: no beating rain, no hopping snow on the sidewalk, no worry over lost gloves; but I love winter for one specific reason: bundling up and heading into the streets to find an evening meal. The streets are dark, cold, quiet even if crowded. When the restaurant door opens, it's like entering a hidden world: the speakeasy behind the storefront, the wonderland down the rabbit hole.
Coats off, seats taken, ahhh, we are here.
My first visits to New York City were either by myself or with a business collaborator. Just because I was alone, I still dined out by necessity. Each time I sat in an Italian restaurant or in a Korean noodle shop, all alone, I couldn't help but feel a little envious of the groups of friends or the big family celebrating and dining together.
Finally, I went to New York with friends and family and one night, we sat around a big Italian table. I had the New York dining moment I had longed for.
The Japanese restaurant tonight, is filled with white paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling alongside white tree branches with abundant leaves. The tables are close, just like in New York. The feeling is festive. Braving the traffic, the weather--all worth it. And the company? Superb. We finish our dinner, the time calculated almost to the exact moment for the theatre. Three blocks, long city blocks, and we end up running. We pass the store fronts decorated for Christmas, the candy displays, the homeless with their shabby signs and overloaded carts.
Sitting on my desk, are my students' quotes, the words they strung together with such profoundness that I had to write them down and post them on the bulletin board. I brought some home; I glance at Katie's and realize how true her words are:
That is what life is: moments strung together like words. Joys, mishaps, surprise, excitement, disappointment, and if we're lucky, nights like this with family.
"We'll hold your table until 6:00," the hostess promised.
Trevor started weaving in and out like a Nascar driver. In the family van, mind you.
Two minutes to six, we pulled in front of Takashi. The door slid open, we climbed out and stood on a cold, bright street, quiet and surreal from the blue lights tightly embracing trees. Magical.
We hurried into the restaurant to enjoy the dinner our mouths had been watering for. The restaurant was a buzz! Crowded, happy people and our table for six, conspicuously empty, waiting in a corner. How hungry we were. How New York it felt!
I love being in New York in the winter. It's easier in the summer: no beating rain, no hopping snow on the sidewalk, no worry over lost gloves; but I love winter for one specific reason: bundling up and heading into the streets to find an evening meal. The streets are dark, cold, quiet even if crowded. When the restaurant door opens, it's like entering a hidden world: the speakeasy behind the storefront, the wonderland down the rabbit hole.
Coats off, seats taken, ahhh, we are here.
My first visits to New York City were either by myself or with a business collaborator. Just because I was alone, I still dined out by necessity. Each time I sat in an Italian restaurant or in a Korean noodle shop, all alone, I couldn't help but feel a little envious of the groups of friends or the big family celebrating and dining together.
Finally, I went to New York with friends and family and one night, we sat around a big Italian table. I had the New York dining moment I had longed for.
The Japanese restaurant tonight, is filled with white paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling alongside white tree branches with abundant leaves. The tables are close, just like in New York. The feeling is festive. Braving the traffic, the weather--all worth it. And the company? Superb. We finish our dinner, the time calculated almost to the exact moment for the theatre. Three blocks, long city blocks, and we end up running. We pass the store fronts decorated for Christmas, the candy displays, the homeless with their shabby signs and overloaded carts.
Sitting on my desk, are my students' quotes, the words they strung together with such profoundness that I had to write them down and post them on the bulletin board. I brought some home; I glance at Katie's and realize how true her words are:
"I am the product of a million little moments." Katie Clark.
That is what life is: moments strung together like words. Joys, mishaps, surprise, excitement, disappointment, and if we're lucky, nights like this with family.