A Weekend in New York

A new stage of life has begun. With each, a labor. This morning, I sit at JFK airport ready to return to my life in California. Last night I put Gillian into a cab at midnight from the Hyatt back to Brooklyn and into her life in New York.

The back of her head through the taxi cab window was familiar. As she drove off, the same feeling came over me that had that late night in Prague when, after our last meal together, I sent her off from a Hyatt to an apartment in some remote neighborhood in the Czeck Republic. Hyatts, taxis, Gillian and a wave of emotion so deep that it almost makes me dizzy.

That lonesome feeling again. Only this time I know it will pass once I get back to a routine.

This trip has been anything but routine.

A red eye Thursday night.
An endurance test as we made our way bleary eyed to Brooklyn with two suitcases full of books and stuff that Gillian could no longer live without for a furniture assembly-project. That task fell to Steve, who, soldiered on through the Ikea illustrations to build a bed and a desk. My voice had a Kristofferson- like quality to it until about four o'clock when I finally had a double shot latte to wake up.

Then again, it was not unlike my experience with Gillian in Prague. Dragging a suitcase over cobblestones, through the subway back to the West Village - where we made our home for two nights at a friend's loft.

It was off to the theatre where we saw Next to Normal, a musical I am still processing and one that will no doubt make an appearance in a later blog entry once I've landed and taken a breath.

A late night drink and conversation in the lobby of the Algonquin, home to Dorothy Parker and the Round Table. We talked of poetry, plays, and the creative process with Gillian's artistic roommate, and former student of mine, Jen who is now at NYU in the poetry program.

New York seems to be overflowing with former students all of whom are doing exciting things. On Saturday night, we visited with Emma, another former student and writer who plans to study poetry at NYU.

There was a shorthand, a mutuality to these conversations. We know each other. We share an appreciation of one another in this soulful, idealistic world of writing, theatre, and poetry. I felt right at home. And there in the center of the conversation, my absolutely marvelous, vibrant daughter. And suddenly at fifty-one, my life felt alive with possibilities. They say, as a teacher, by your students you'll be taught. I was amazed by the reciprocal nature of these exchanges.

After a light dusting of snow and a blustery Saturday, Sunday morning brought the sun and the Super Bowl to the city and the flu to Steve. An unfair blow to a father who so faithfully serves his wife and daughter. Confined to bed for the day, he missed one of the finest theatre experiences of all time -A View from the Bridge. Clearly the hottest ticket in town, we gave Steve's away to a woman who was down on her luck and was hoping for SRO.

A fully realized production. As far as I'm concerned, this is the highest compliment I can pay to this astonishing two hours of drama. Arthur Miller is our greatest playwright. This production, a master piece.

In the lobby, a voice, "Mrs. Barth!?" Another former student - a young man I directed in Tina Howe's Museum several years ago. Both of us in awe of what we had just seen, we talked quickly of theatre and Miller's power to capture the human experience.
It was one of those priceless moments.

After playing the autograph hound, Gillian managed to get two on a poster from the show, we headed back to the West Village where, in the dark, Steve still lay in bed. We packed up for our move to the Hyatt where Steve's conference runs through the week. The city was eerily empty due to the crowds holed up watching the New Orleans Saints win the Super Bowl. Gillian and I joined my nephew, Rob, for a steak and after dinner drinks.

And then, at midnight, I put Gillian into her cab.

Steve is better this morning. I'm hoping to dodge whatever it was he got hit with. And now after having written this, the loneliness has lifted.

Does that mean that writing is routine?

I hope so.