The Big Apple

Went to New York this weekend. "Slept" on the elephant skin arm rest of the "Highway Express #342." The other musicians rested their minds with a few amber brews. Same hangover when the sun awoke.

Grateful for yesterday's evening shower, I hit the streets to experience NY cuisine and curb my stomach's rumbling. Note to self #1: A Taiwanese, Korean, Japanese, and China girl make good companions and liahonas for quality Asian food. Chased a shuttle bus upwards of three hours. Could have been bad. Could have ruined my day. But, the wind dying down, the sunlight streaming through the smoke and reflecting off the towers in Times Square, a Starbucks grande caramel apple cider in hand, and the scent of early Christmas advertising in the form of The Body Shop's Vanilla Spice Body Butter on my newly moisturized skin turned the experience into a bona fide NYC adventure.

Two hours to inhale the MOMA. It seemed the same two hours the rest of the city chose. Starry Night was shining, Dali's clocks were melting, Monet's waterlilies were more expansive than ever, Duchamp: Dada says it all, Mondrian still hasn't discovered the joys of purple, Picasso's cubism was as analytical as ever. All was in order and it was one long, delightful breath of familiar air.

Subway stopped. Something happened in Queens. Note to self #2: Subway stairs don't always go up where they came down. An hour later I made it back to Lincoln Center. Judging by the number of gridlocked cars I maneuvered between, it was more productive than sitting behind a horn.

Ate dinner with three friends I haven't seen in nearly seven years. Haven't changed a hair. Mozart's Figaro on the velvet Met stage. The scenery was elaborate and the Countess had quite the pipes. Still, I'm partial to the pit. An hour bus ride later, cold hotel sheets have rarely felt more welcoming.

Saturday I strolled the streets in stilettos searching for a chocolate show. Note to self #3: other cities aren't as smart as Salt Lake. 125 West does not mean 125 West Street but the building number running E/W between 6th and 7th Avenues. We could teach NY a lesson or two.

Ligeti: wild. Oberlin Contemporary Music Ensemble playing Ligeti: more wild. Audience: also wild. Peter Evans: always wild. Jennifer Koh: the bow hairs were flying. The reception at the Moroccan Bar was too wild for me once the first hour had passed.

Sunday. Good idea: seeking a quiet moment at the local sacrament meeting. Bad idea: arriving at 11:50 on Stake Conference weekend in NYC!! One plus. I ran into Aaron Chamberlain: Utah musicians' Brad Pitt (and more.)

Travel miscommunication. To be expected. Twelve bus hours and a McD's sack later, it's good to be home.