Another beautiful day in Central Park (yesterday)

Now that Bob has gone home, I've had my first day or so alone in the city. I spent it mostly lounging around either at Starbucks or in Central Park, on yet another beautiful Summer day. In the evening, I strolled down Broadway to Lincoln Center to buy movie tickets, and get something to eat. What a big, vibrant mix New York City is. I ate in a noodle house called Ollies. Looking around my seat, I could see a cute Brazilian guy in a muscle t-shirt, an Indian family, an old Jewish hippie couple, and a Chinese musical group playing weird authentic-sounding instrument. It's all food for the senses, and part of why I came to New York for a week. I came intending to do a lot of writing, both on screenplays, and also maybe some personal essays.

The Model-Boat Pond in Central Park. There's something for everyone in the park!

After dinner, I had time to walk around Lincoln Center Plaza. The night sky still had a deep midnight blue to it, and there was a wonderful, comfortable but not opressive warmth to the air, the kind of evening we so rarely get in San Francisco, where you wouldn't go wrong wearing gloves at night, even in July. There were people everywhere, enjoying the evening, and, in the plaza, there was an open-air free swing-dance concert, with live music "Vince Giordanno and the Nighthawks."

Even later on that night, past eleven thirty, when I walked home up Broadway, there were still crowds of people out on the streets. Side-walk vendors still peddled second-hand books, and many of the stores and cafes were still open. What a great city this is.

My good mood was a memory the next day. I got up intending to go running, but went down first, groggy, for my wake-up coffee. I returned to my room to drink it and read the New York Times, then spilt the coffee all over the chair and my shorts. My allergies were playing up, and I just didn't feel up to going running, and I felt the beginnings of a crotchety mood. I decided to take the subway over to the wilds of Queens to see the new temporary Museum of Modern Art (the original is closed down for three years for renovation).

View of the city from the subway station in Queens.

When I'm by myself on vacation, I always experience extremes; on the one hand the joy of exploration and freedom, like last night on Broadway; my time is my own, with no responsibility. And the new sites and sounds inspire and excite.

Unfortunately, I also oscillate to the other extreme, where I grow sullen, and disconsolate in my own company, wondering what I'm doing alone in New York, or wherever it is that I find mself. When I'm at home, I feel the immense pull of wanderlust. But when I'm traveling alone, I sometimes wonder if the actual wandering fills the shoes of the wanderlust.

Of course, both extremes are just part of traveling alone. You can't have the charge of discovering new experiences by yourself without also subjecting yourself to many hours of just your own company. The secret is to feel good enough about yourself and actually enjoy your own company, something I'm not always capable of.

I returned from MOMA feeling hotter and more tired than ever, and retired to my hotel room for a snooze. When I woke up I felt that I should really buckle down to some serious writing. But the idea of being creative is always put to the test when you're forced to make yourself sit down and get to it. What if I sat down with my laptop and nothing came? Or if I felt too tired to write? I took the chance, and walked over to the nearby Cosi cafe on the corner of 66th and Broadway, and just set myself down with a strong coffee.

It was the right decision. I finally finished a long essay, "Full Circle" I've been working on, fitfully, for months, and by the time I wrapped it up, around 5.00, I felt such a charge of energy that I was able to go running, my best run in weeks. I ran through the humid late afternoon down the side of the Hudson, where they've been landscaping a new park. It's by no means the most picturesque park you've ever seen. But like a true New Yorker, you take your bit of peace and beauty where you can get it. So I ran past the collapsed old piers, under the rusted freeway overpasses, past the abandoned lots fronting ugly condominiums, past a huge sit-down of Falung Gong demonstraters across the West Side Highway, all the way down to Pier 79, where the old sheds still bear the name "United States Lines", presumably after the transatlantic liners that used to dock there. As I ran, my mind was filled with the sites and sounds of the last day, and I felt my batteries filling up.