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After dinner, Annalisa and I skipped coffee and dessert. We did, however, have an amaro. Savoring our digestivi, we finally took our eyes off each other long enough to notice our surroundings. Asking her thoughts on all the ugly art hanging on the walls, she said it reminded her of home. There is a diner in her town that displays the paintings of local dilettanti.
“I often think about our museum visits,” she said, “especially the picnics at the Cloisters.”
Every spring, Giancarlo and I would pack a lunch and drive the girls to Washington Heights to see the gardens in bloom and medieval art. Working up an appetite exploring the galleries, which always culminated in a viewing of Robert Campin’s glorious Mérode Altarpiece (or Annunciation Triptych), we’d lay out checkered blankets and pick at the victuals in scenic Fort Tryon Park as the sailboats lazily rolled down the Hudson River beneath the Palisades.
“You have to admit,” she said, “as bad as New York City has become, it’s still home to many world-class museums and libraries.”
“You’ve been gone for too long,” I objected. “The Revolution’s long march through the institutions has been relentless.”
Preparing to rail against the current state of the city’s museums, I held my tongue, already regretting what I’d just said. No need to spoil the mood and ruin more pleasant memories for her; besides, she already knows how bad the city is. No good can come from lecturing people who are already in agreement with you. It drives me crazy whenever people do it to me.
Once I’d taken care of the check, we decided to take a passeggiata and walk off the meal. Though the sky threatened rain, the South Village was still buzzing with life. As we strolled and indulged in a bit of people-watching, it struck us that there were an inordinate number of scantily clad women milling about, even by New York standards.
“I know women’s fashion was just as vulgar in our day, but does anyone actually wear bras anymore?” she asked rhetorically.
Catching more than an eyeful, at times it almost felt like we were sauntering through an outdoor strip club, except instead of stuffing my spare bills into a dancer’s lacy garter, I gave them to a homeless man.
Looking for a quiet place to sit and talk, we checked out a few more public houses, but nothing suited our fancy. Blaring awful music, they were all overcrowded and lousy with loud, drunken revelers. The smell of weed wafted outside every doorway. Drug use was just as prevalent when we were young, but now there is no stigma attached to it.
“Thank God we never got caught up with that junk,” she said, wrinkling her Greek nose in disgust. “We already had our share of vices.”
At parties or in clubs, someone would inevitably try to pass you a joint or something harder, and we always refused. Today, people talk openly about their drug habits without the slightest hint of shame or embarrassment.
A young woman I used to work with once bragged about snorting blow off some guy’s member when I casually asked how her weekend was. Without batting an eye, another co-worker shamelessly told us he spent the entire time getting high and playing video games.
This wasn’t your parents’ water cooler talk.
The crazy part is that when I said I went to church and had Sunday dinner with my family, they looked at me as if I were the one who should be ashamed.
As tempting as it is to dismiss them all as a bunch of medigans, the truth is our own people have become just as decadent and susceptible to the vices of modernity as our so-called “less civilized” compatriots.
Enjoying our leisurely stroll, I did not share this sordid anecdote with Annalisa.
With our arms entwined, we wandered a little farther, noting the few enduring outposts of our youth—Caffè Reggio, The Strand, Generation Records, and Trash and Vaudeville. They still clung to life, though the latter was no longer in its original home. Sadly, far more had closed down. Lucky Strike Bistro, Boo Radley’s, Pearl Paint, and Antique Boutique were all gone. Others—Bleecker Bob’s, 99X, Carmen’s, CBGB, and Billy’s Topless—had vanished from the streets but remain vivid in memory.
“Billy’s Topless! Now there was a real loss to the culture,” she said mockingly. “Who did you bring us there to see again—your friend’s older sister?”
“Her name escapes me,” I said sheepishly. “It was only a couple of times.”
“As if that excuses the lechery, you stalker,” she said, twisting the screws. “Did you even score with her?”
“It wasn’t about sex,” I insisted. “She was beautiful, and I wanted to paint her.”
As an artist herself, Annalisa understood that. “When the muse calls,” she said grudgingly, letting me off the hook.
Naturally, I didn’t tell her that Giancarlo and I had gone back a few more times on our own. Still, nothing ever came of it.
Giving up hope of finding a suitable spot, she suggested we take an Uber back to SoHo for a nightcap at her hotel. Continue reading
