A languid Sunday in New York. Complacencies of the peignoir, and late coffee and oranges in a sunny chair... The husband begrudgingly wakes, pulls on a pair of sweatpants and makes his way across the street to the deli to purchase the Times. Late coffee and bagels during a desultory reading of the travel insert... planning your vacation to Istanbul. Vaguely exotic. Turkish delight and swarmy snake charmers with twisty Salvador Dali mustaches.. magic carpets.. rubbing a magic lantern. The day is like wide water, without sound, stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet...over the seas to silent Palestine... or silent Istanbul.
In the afternnon, to serendipitously happen upon a street fair and enjoy walking up the middle of Amsterdam Avenue.Thousands milling there. It reminds her of the American version of a medina... the crush of various vendors and food stalls. Bins of bargain underwear and socks. Authentic (but what does that mean?) pashmina shawls that feel, to her perusing fingers, like cheap and papery cotton.Fashion earrings the size of gongs. A man demonstrating a new and improved mop. A Chinese man yells into the crowd "Come here, come here, I'll give you a massage. Very cheap." And the food! Roasted corn on the cob. Crepes. Funnel cakes. Gyros heaped high with shiny meats...the fragrant grease rolling down rapidly devouring chins. Deep fried Oreos? Why would someone want to do that? She remembers the chip shop in Brooklyn where the whacky British owner delights in dipping various foodstuffs in batter and dunking them in a crackling vat of oil. To him it is simply a science experiment, to see what works, what remains edible after his greasy alchemy.
A quick run around the reservoir and back home. To chop Vidallia onions and garlic cloves... making sauce for pasta. The sizzle of a saute pan and a splash of olive oil.. And now, reading from David Kirby's newest book of poems. Remembrance of her time in Tallahassee. A great poet, really. Funny guy. Reminds her a little of Billy Collins Laughing out loud at the poem "Calling Robert Bly" where the college professor talks about settling an angry dispute in a poetry seminar by calling Robert Bly up on the telephone to ask what a particular metaphor meant.