Central Park, New York
It's strange how hearing a song on the radio can start a chain of associations and memories. This happened to me today. The song was "Everybody's Talking", but not the version we know best, with Harry Nilsson, but the version where the man who wrote it sings it himself - Fred Neil. Born in 1936, he was part of the songwriting "factory" at the Brill Building in New York (where Neil Diamond, Burt Bacharach and Carole King also worked), but he never reached fame as a performing artist - his songs were mostly recorded by others. He became an influence on young singers at the time - David Crosby for one lists him as his hero. Fred Neil did sometimes perform at folk and rock clubs, amongst them the Café Wha? in Greeenwich Village, where a young Bob Dylan backed him on harmonica.
Which brings me to my associations - New York. In 1998 we were three friends who visited a fourth friend working in NY, and as we were only there for a long weekend, she had arranged a tight schedule for us in order to get the most out of such a short stay. One of the events was an evening at the Café Wha? I have memories of a sold-out house, stand-up comedy, music, food, wine and fun.
Late 2011 I went back to New York, this time to stay for 8 days. As it happened it was actually my third visit - the first one took place as far back as 1958. My Dad worked there for one year and my Mum and I joined him - I was only three when we arrived on an Atlantic freighter. Obviously I remember very little of this, but I can suddenly catch short glimpses of events that are stored deep down in that hard disc we call Memory. I lived in Brooklyn and on Staten Island, and my Mum would take me into Manhattan on the ferry or on the subway, to walk and play in Central Park. Unfortunately I couldn't find any photos from this period - but I will look for them and publish them later - they're wonderful black-and-whites from yesteryear.
Brooklyn Bridge
In November 2011 we rented a studio (or condo as the American landlady called it) on 2nd Avenue, between 55th and 56th Street. A hazardous taxi ride from Newark Airport lived up to all those NY-myths, swearing driver, other drivers showing their middle fingers, pedestrians shouting when our driver hooted his horn stuck in the frenzy of a non-moving traffic jam: "It doesn't help! It doesn't help!" The taxi stopped outside the building that would be our home for eight days, the grumpy driver turned to us, smiled and said "Welcome to New York!". The moment I stepped out of the car and placed my feet on 2nd Avenue I thought "YES. I could live here."
Our condo on 2nd Ave was in the brown building
More about New York later - I'll end my post today by sharing with you a strange and moving moment for me. On one of the first days of our stay in the Big Apple in November a little over a year ago, we took the ferry over to Staten Island, not to disembark on the island, but to enjoy the famous breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline from the harbour. When we got off the ferry again and walked up the lower parts of the city, past Ground Zero and the Financial district, I experienced an enormous and overwhelming emotion - a strong mixture of déjà-vu and memories that nearly knocked me over. Suddenly I was little, only three and a half years old, holding my mother's hand and bending my neck back to look up at the skyscrapers. I had to ask my husband to give me a moment to collect myself.... and then the déjà-vu was gone, as quickly as it had appeared. I couldn't let go of it for a long time and it still touches me deeply when I think about it now. It took place in the streets I had walked with my mother more than fifty years earlier, after crossing over to Manhattan on the Staten Island ferry. It was in truth a profound moment of nostalgia, blended with my sleeping memories.
Di Palo's in Little Italy
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