My scarf inhabits me

I lost my scarf somewhere between NY and Albuquerque. When I realized it was gone, it hit me hard; I've had that scarf since India 2007, wore it almost every day through CA winters, NY visits, kids’ graduations, in all my travels. I always had it by my side. It inhabited me. It was my security blanket; it kept my head in place.

my scarf holding my head on

My daughter says forget it! It's over! Maybe it's a lesson in acceptance, that it’s gone, that I can’t get it back, that I was distracted, and in that moment of looking away, it disappeared. But I can’t accept that I can’t change that outcome. I can’t move beyond wanting back what I’ve lost. But it’s gone. It’s gone. And no going back.

In NY, people walk around the city talking to themselves. I suppose in LA they’d do the same if they walked....but when you’re on the street in NY you find people staring straight ahead, gesticulating, talking to some unknown; or bobbing their head up and down to some distant music. 

This is something new, this talking and listening into thin air.  Along these lines, I noticed too that no one reads the newspaper on the subway anymore, no crossword puzzle to solve, no annoying person leaning in to read over your shoulder. Now people are looking at their phones, sitting in their bubble, bobbing and smiling to themselves.

Although the New York I once knew is not totally gone, it’s hard to find among the shiny new stores that have pushed out the mom and pops, the climbing new buildings that totter uneasily against the skyline, the fixed up parks, the swept up sidewalks, even the dirty, last-century buildings in Alphabet City have been pressure washed. Where are all the crazy drug dealers, the agile jugglers, the young, hopeful folk singers in Thompkins Square Park? Now you see families, spreading blankets, having picnics on the ground!  




I had breakfast at B&H on 2nd Ave, and am happy to report that at least there, the old is still true to itself. The challah bread is piled high on the counter, the home fries on the grill. The cook sips the soup, endlessly dipping her ladle to make sure there’s still enough salt, her hair in a net so we don’t get any strays, the big metal pot boiling up behind her. 

Young men come in on their breaks and order pancakes and chew the fat with the guys behind the counter in a language of the east shore, a tough guy vibrato, calibrated for ears that have gone soft from all the noise and the traffic.

They josh, they eat piles of potatoes and pancakes, they ask about the wife, they come to collect the rent (excuses are made), they’re there for the first time and are accepted...while I sit wondering how I can join this club. Admit it, I say to myself, you can’t join. You live in LA now, not the LES. You can't go back. 

But when I walk down 2nd Ave, my old stomping ground, oh, how happy I am to be here for awhile in the land of the everyman and everywoman, the land of the rapidly changing facade, the land where the young still go to reinvent themselves, where newcomers come lugging hope; the land that doesn’t ask much, but takes everything.

Agnus!

I completely forgot about Agnus until I saw the Williamsburg Public Bath House the other day walking down Bedford Ave, and remembered: I used to go to the bath house on the lower East Side, Tenth Street, wasn't it?  So this morning I went to take the baths, the steam, the dry heat, the freezing cold pool of the Russian and Turkish Bath House, built in 1892, the first of its kind in the East Village. Agnus, I was positive, wasn't there any longer, and sure enough new Russian women had taken her place. But they all remembered her, and well, who could forget Agnus? Not quite five-feet, wide as tall, short dark hair and probably a day's growth of beard and [warning: pornographic images forthwith] with the most expansive humongous breasts known to man. Here's how I remember Agnus: 

I'd go to the the baths at least once a month, paying a few kopeks (i.e. ridiculously cheap) for entrance and a massage. I'd start in the Russian room where women sat taking in the heat, at least 120 degrees, then they'd douse themselves with buckets of cold water. I'd work my way steadily from steam room to hot sauna, alternating with dipping into a pool as freezing cold as the Blue Hole of New Mexico. (Although pictures are forbidden, here's one I took from under my robe this morning, avoiding any naked ladies.)

  inside the bath house

After about a half hour of shvitzing, I'd have a massage with Agnus. She'd beat my body with a brush of oak leaves, called Platza, still used today. Agnus' center of gravity was located low to the ground, giving her the strength of a mud wrestler. She'd knead my sore muscles like a loaf of challah. At times I could feel her big floppy breasts bouncing up and down on my back but I thought nothing of it. Back then no one dressed for dinner, if you know what I mean. It's different now, the masseuses wear clothes and some of the patrons wear bathing suits. But for the most part everyone's still pretty relaxed. Eighties punk rockers and Agnus might be gone from the lower East Side scene but the bath house, and its loyal customers, remain. 


After my soak, I walked down Tenth St. through Tompkin's Square Park, from Ave A to B. Since last here, the needles have all been swept away and the homeless uprooted. In their place, young professionals, tulips and squirrels.

East coast black squirrels are very handsome, don't you think?

I finally made it to my lunch date with Cynthia...

 Cynthia at the Cafe Colonial on Houston

Cynthia is one of my oldest friends from our theatre days in New York, when she designed a gigantic lizard tail for a performance piece I did at the Theatre for the New City, which is still there! Cynthia went on to design costumes for big-time movie directors but has returned to working on a smaller scale. Maybe it's true, the more things change the more they stay the same. What does that mean exactly? One gets the feeling in New York, at least, that a fancy facade has been constructed over much of the city, obliterating wide swaths of the original blueprint, which is true, but if you look a little deeper, the authentic spirit of New York is still strong, pumping a creative force that is neither rich nor poor, old or new. Perhaps when you live here permanently, you know the truth of that more than someone like me just passing through.