Dear Diary: Freshman
Nothing new to report. And yet, within just the past couple of days, New York has swung the broad arc between winter and summer that ought to be spring. From too cold, it has gone to too hot, and I can only imagine the havoc that this is wreaking among the youngsters.
I still remember one Saturday afternoon, nearly thirty years ago, sitting in the balcony doorway (stop right there!) in running clothes, polishing something arduous, drinking beer and listening to Derek and the D0minoes. It only happened the once. I got it, and then I never did it again.
Spring in New York City is a time of unforeseen possibilities. Not only unforeseen but invisible. You can feel them, though. At the same time, recollections crowd round, memories of every lighthearted moment that you have ever tasted. For me, owing to some quirk of timing and generations, spring in New York always involves a touch of Barefoot in the Park sophistication that is no longer sophisticated. We know everything that they couldn’t pack into the movie — smells, mostly; sharp scents of florid air. Sparkling aternoon light and distant cries of exuberance. The very idea of “the Village.” Which at this point is not that distant from the town that Edith Wharton knew, personally.
Everyone complains about the spread of national mall stores in Manhattan. Nobody complains about the spread of mall attire, though. I do wish that ordinary young New Yorkers would dress a little less comfortably, a little more anxiously. You really ought to channeling the Ed Koch mantra at all times when you’re young in New York: “How’m I doing?” You ought to be entitled to assume that, if you’re looking good, then it’s because you work at it — that you know how to set yourself off in the crowd. Even if it’s unconscious.
New York in the springtime is the last time that you will ever be a freshman. Submit and enjoy. This won’t happen again.