I was going to write about how New York has changed and how it hasn't changed in the two months since the attack. But, as always, life got in the way.
I started on Saturday night, late. Fell asleep.
Sunday morning my mom calls and reminds me that we're supposed to go to dim sum.
I walked back from Chinatown with my brother. We came up Centre Street to Lafayette, and then on to Broadway up to 34th Street. We made couple of detours around, and ended up going straight up Avenue of the Americas (otherwise known to most New Yorkers as Sixth Ave) to 57th Street, where we turned and headed west. A stop at CompUSA, a few minutes to gawk at a huge fire on Eighth Ave., then on to my parents' house.
Over the dinner table, I negotiated with my mother over what was going to be served for Thanksgiving dinner. It was close-fought and intense. Kind of like Paris in 1972.
I left with an offer to cook dinner at my house, and went to Fairway. I came back home (it was around six) and watched the end of the Giants-Cardinals game (Cards basically gave the game away), and was relaxing on the couch (having assuming that the rest of my family was not planning on eating dinner at my house), trying to plan the rest of the evening (laundry and pontification seemed to float to the top of the list) when the phone rang. It was my mother, informing me that she and my brother were, in fact, planning on taking me up on my offer of dinner, and that they would be over in about 1/2 hour.
Which was fine, except that I hadn't even started to think about actually preparing dinner. (I knew -- roughly -- what I wanted to make, but I hadn't even thought about the hows or the wherefortos). So I scramble to make dinner.
And my cousin phones, saying that she's just landed at the airport and wonders if she could crash overnight.
So much for laundry and pontification. I guess you're spared my over-ponderous musings on the nature of things, the nature of my non-existent life, the meaning of life (there really isn't one), and so on. I'm sure that it would have been self-indulgent wallowing anyway, and who wants to read that?
. . .
Another plane down.