The Play’s The Thing

It’s been a while since Bob and I have done any real traveling. We are lucky to have completed all the tier 1 desires of our bucket list, but travel begets more travel, so we have lots of ideas for the next tier. That said, a few health issues this year kept us close to home but nothing too drastic. We are, after all, getting a bit long in the tooth.

Our Christmas present to each other this year was a trip to NYC to see a play. We heard Thornton Wilder’s Our Town was having a limited run on Broadway and would star Jim Parsons, Katie Holmes and Richard Thomas (of the Walton’s fame and I always had a crush on John Boy.)  So, in early December we boarded our Delta flight to NYC between minor and rare Eastern Virginia snowstorms. It’s barely an hour to fly from Norfolk to JFK but winter weather can cause delays everywhere so we booked an early flight. Grabbing a cab from the airport to our hotel put us there around 9:30 am.

I didn’t want to spend too much on the hotel since we would only be sleeping there, so I looked for good pricing and I had some Hilton points to use. We settled on the Home 2 Suites by Hilton in Times Square, just a few blocks from the Barrymore theater, thinking we would be mostly walking once we got into town. I had no illusions that the room would be ready, as I had used the chat function at Hilton to ask about an early arrival the night before we left and hadn’t received any response by the time we arrived. Sure enough, the lobby was crawling with people arriving, people leaving and probably some homeless people just getting out of the cold in the confusion. This hotel is actually two in one—one side is the Home 2 Suites and the other is a Hampton Inn and the front desk served both. The good news was that there was still time to enjoy the free breakfast while we waited.

Breakfast was nothing to brag about, but it was hot, and the coffee was particularly good. Finding a seat was a challenge but we managed, sitting next to a family including a young woman who said she hadn’t slept well and was running a fever. Yikes. But Bob and I have taken advantage of every COVID shot offered so we turned the other way and hoped for the best. Realizing we needed to kill some time, we checked our luggage and headed down to Rockefeller Center to see the Christmas tree. There was plenty of sparkle, the crowds were light and we watched the skaters for bit. We decided to walk to the theater so we knew where our play was and got lost a few times since GPS is hit or miss among all the skyscrapers. By that time Bob was getting a bit tired, so we decided to head back and if there wasn’t a room yet, we could hang in the lobby.

First mistake. While I would give our hotel a solid 3 rating (mostly due to the pleasant staff) our hotel had several organizational deficits. The first was that they cordoned off all the lobby seating to shove all the checked luggage behind a blockade, so there were only about 8 seats in the lobby—all of them full. The nice young man guarding all that luggage was apologetic but wouldn’t let us sit in any of the many seats because we would be in with all the luggage. The room wasn’t ready and the lovely girl at the desk said it might be a few hours. No matter. There was a Hard Rock Hotel right across the street, and I was sure they would have a restaurant so we could find a place to sit and get a coffee. I was half right. They had a bar, so we bellied up and Bob got a mimosa, and I had a mocktail called Bad Case of Loving You comprised of apple, lemon, ginger, cinnamon and club soda. We enjoyed the mostly deserted bar for an hour then went back to the hotel to try our luck again. Alas. And still no place to sit. So, I explained to the sweet girl at the desk that my husband was a cardiac patient, felt a bit weak and needed to rest—was she sure nothing at all was ready? Score! Collecting our luggage, we went off to our room.

The technology of the elevator was a bit tricky. I’m familiar with the ‘scan your room key in the elevator or you can’t go anywhere’ but this was a new twist. This hotel has a touch screen where every guest has to touch the floor they want to go to, then scan the room card, and the screen will tell you which of the many elevators you must get on. After two tries, (one in which the elevator went up but not to our floor, then rudely dumped us back in the lobby), we were assisted by the hotel staff, who told us they had some bumps getting used to it too. We are getting great at playing the ‘old people’ card.

Our room was small but perfect for our needs, including a medium sized refrigerator, a microwave, a dishwasher, and the promise of a delivered hot plate if we wanted to cook. We unpacked, rested up and planned our event for arrival day: a dinner reservation at Carmine’s restaurant.

Many years ago, we came to NYC with Leigh, Jess, and the grandkids, and ate at Carmine’s, where one of our orders was the stuffed artichokes. I don’t know who decided to

try to eat an artichoke in the first place—some hardy soul no doubt, and as a family it is one of our favorite vegetables. But stuffing the leaves with breadcrumbs, garlic, Italian spices, soaked in chicken stock is ambrosia. The order comes with two of these babies, so we each got one. Then we ordered Shrimp Ala Diavolo and Bob asked them to smother the shrimp in mozzarella. Good thing! This was a pretty hot dish, so the mozzarella seemed to calm the spices down a bit. We weren’t sure we could finish all that food but we got close. We waddled home and slept like babies.

Next day was a free day. Morgan had recommended a museum called the Museum of the Moving Image, which was showcasing the career of Jim Henson, of Muppet fame, so that was our plan for the day. But first, to breakfast.

Yesterday, we had noticed that some people had fresh-looking waffles, although we hadn’t seen a waffle maker. So we focused on finding that this morning. A small sign in the lobby indicated that there were waffles and additional seating on the lower floor. Bob went to grab some of the standard fare and I went downstairs to make us each a waffle. And found myself in waffle hell. There were, at that point, about 10 people in the waffle line, two waffle makers, and a waffle takes 3 minutes to come out crisp and fluffy. So a half hour tops. No big deal. But I had not reckoned on the general complexity and incompetence I was to witness. First up was a lady in a red track suit making waffles for what appeared to be a multi-family reunion. Over and over, she poured the thick creamy mixture into the one waffle iron she had claimed for her own. The anxiety level of the waiting crowd intensified. Next a woman near me decided to add a spritz of whipped cream to her finished waffle. She attempted this by vigorously shaking the can over her golden treat to no avail. After watching this a few times, and being unable to witness this without offering a hand, I stepped in. We did not have language compatibility, but I smiled (the universal sign for ‘I mean you no harm’—remember, the anxiety in the room at this point was high) and held out my hand for the whipped cream can, which she gave me. Pushing the nozzle to the side, I showered her treat with whipped cream. “Hou?” She exclaimed, so I showed her the trick, and she laughed, grabbed the can, and added some more.  

Moving back into my place in line (and grateful that the guy behind me recognized my claim), I resumed my wait. The red track suit lady completed her mission, opening up a waffle iron, and we all heaved a sigh of relief. Next, a young man, who had obviously neglected to spray the iron with non-stick oil, discovered that his waffle was a glued on half-cooked mess. He proceeded to attempt to remove it with his fingers and a plastic tool, succeeding in crumbling it into a million pieces, each of which had to be dug out individually. Recognizing the resumption of the waffle line anxiety during his performance, he smiled and said “It’s ok, It’s ok” at least ten times as he worked.

Now the gentleman behind me began to grumble. In an effort to add some humor, I turned to him and said, “I’m going to make about 20 and sell them outside.” Bad move. “Thanks for telling me!” He exploded and stomped off. I guess my attempt at humor was misplaced. Finally, I achieved the first position, made my two waffles, and turned my iron over to the next patient soul. I can honestly say the waffle was ok, but the comedy value was impeccable.

After breakfast, we booked a Lyft and headed over to Queens (home of Archie Bunker) to the Museum of the Moving Image, and the Jim Henson exhibition.

Jim Henson was born in 1936, and created the Muppets, Fraggle Rock, the Dark Crystal and Labyrinth. He became interested in puppetry in high school and created a short form comedy show called Sam and Friends in 1955, where he sharpened his skills and met his wife, Jane Nebel, and they co-founded Muppets, Inc. He joined Sesame Street in 1969, and appeared in the first season of SNL in 1975. He revolutionized puppetry and was clearly a creative genius. The exhibition was a love letter to Henson, and all the people who embodied his characters, developed the technology and committed to perfecting the creation of their world.

My first child, Leigh, was born in 1973, when I was just 20 years of age. We sort of raised each other. I’m sure my parents were terrified at the thought of me being fully responsible for an infant, as I was not the bastion of responsibility I later became, but being somewhat a child myself, I found Leigh to be a hilarious companion, and in spite of the periodic poopy diaper and refusal to sleep as long as I wanted, give her most of the credit for my achievement of adulthood. My commitment to fantasy (Tolkien, Adams, Disney, Lewis, King, Grimm and more) and her childlike willingness to join me in creating our own realities made us fast friends. Whip smart, she absorbed information and picked up language quickly and was reading books with me long before she went to school. Then her sister, Jessica, was born.

I had attempted to breast feed Leigh—who was born when breast feeding was making a comeback. But not having any friends with children, my only role model was my mother, who had her children in the 50’s, when breast feeding was not only not in vogue, but considered outdated and associated with the lower class and a lack of education. Naturally, she considered every time Leigh cried that she was starving to death and I gave in too quickly. When Jessica was born, with 4 years of successful parenting under my belt, I was determined. Jessica took to it immediately, and although she was barely 5 pounds at birth, became chubby and cheerful so quickly that there was no denying her nutritional health. I fact, she liked to feed at least 20 hours a day. (Neither of my daughters were much for sleeping). And this is when Jim Henson and his Muppets became my heroes.

PBS provided Sesame Street and Fraggle Rock a few times each day. And Leigh and I would sit cuddled in our plush rocking chair, Jessica firmly attached to her food source and watch as much of the world of muppets as we could. I’m not sure we would have survived without them. Unlike the children’s shows of my youth, Henson’s creations operated on multiple levels. Children responded to the humor of the puppets, absorbing the education, learning the songs and parroting the hilarious catch phrases. For adults, there were double entendres, sly references to current events and enough unexpected humor to maintain my interest as well. The genius of Jim Henson was critical to our little family. So, on our visit to the museum, Bob and I spent a few hours reading about the How of what he achieved, while chuckling at all the memories he left us.

Upon returning to the hotel, we decided we needed an Asian dinner. NYC is just the place for that, so while we relaxed, I googled good Asian restaurants within walking distance. And that’s how we found Real Kung Fu Little Steamed Buns Ramen. Despite the awkward name, this turned out to be a real treasure. Rated as one of the best in the Michelin Guide, RKFLSBR hand pulls and cuts their own noodles. The place is quite small, wedged into a busy street shotgun building, and a 20 minute wait is standard. We lucked out and were seated immediately. I had the Chicken Hand Cut Noodle with soup, and Bob had the Beef Stir Fry Ramen. We also split an order of the Scallion Pancake. Our table was so close to the surrounding tables that the experience was like eating with a large family, and we all noted and exclaimed over each others' selections. Our meal was a feast for the senses, perfectly spiced and filling. So ended a perfect day.

Our play was a 3 pm matinee, so we lounged about and had a much calmer breakfast. Apparently Sunday’s are less busy at this Hilton so there was no comedy value in the breakfast lines. We relaxed and dressed for the play, pretty casual, as it was very cold outside, and walked to the theater. Our Town was in the Ethel Barrymore theate. Built in 1928 for Ethyl Barrymore, it has hosted many classics such as Death of A Salesman, Streetcar Named Desire and Macbeth. This was the last week of the play’s run, and we knew everyone would be at the top of their game.  

I confess I really bought the tickets on a whim, based mostly on who the actors were. I had read the play, by Thornton Wilder many years before, required for some class, and found it to be pretty boring. It is the story of the lives of citizens of the fictional town of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, between 1901 and 1913. The stage setting is minimal, and the actors ‘act out’ everything they do, like cooking meals and cleaning house, which puts the focus solely on the actors. The play won a Pulitzer Prize in 1938, and is considered a classic. It is a quiet play, almost free of action, and explores themes of life, love, death and the critical importance of appreciating the moments of life. This explained why I thought it was boring so many years ago, as I suspect I was not mature enough to appreciate such complex and rich themes. But I was ready for it this time. The actors were superb, and the play struck me as portraying the simple truths about life: it is precious and fleeting, and we must take care not to miss the small, everyday graces we are given.

After wiping our eyes, and sharing an emotional moment, we headed off to our dinner for our last evening. We had selected a restaurant near the theater that was recommended by several members of the cast, Bond 45. This turned out to be an Italian Speak Easy sort of theme, moderately priced, creative and delicious. I had a quinoa and avocado salad, and Bob ordered a pepperoni pizza and we shared.

The rest room situation in this restaurant was a bit surprising, and I imagine somewhat unnerving for people who didn’t expect it or were intimidated by it. The bathrooms were unisex, just like at home, and while the toilet rooms had full coverage walls and doors on each, one does one’s business surrounded by members of the opposite sex doing theirs. There were no urinals, of course. No one seemed the least bit concerned, reinforcing to me that the drama over unisex restrooms is largely manufactured to keep us angry at each other.

After a final good night’s sleep, we headed for the airport in a well-timed Lyft, for our uneventful flight home. It was a cold, but fun vacation, with just the right amount of entertainment, good food and good company.