Notes from New York

 The recent Toronto snow storm put paid to my Friday night flight, so I was on the first Saturday morning hop to La Guardia. My 4:00 a.m. cab driver was just finishing a twelve-hour shift. Hurtling north on the 427 to Lester B. Pearson Airport, he pointed out the spot he’d done several 360s during the November snow storm. Then, he recounted the hour earlier in the day stuck in a snow bank. “Ever thought about going into PR?” I wondered.

In New York, where my wife had arrived two days earlier, we had tickets for the opera: Rossini’s Il Barbiere di Seviglia. I called The Met in the hope of pre-ordering intermission drinks. I was officiously informed that “only members of the Guild” would be served drinks in the “Decidedly Huffy Room” at the intermission. “Enjoy the line-up, sir.” was the main idea. I thanked her for taking the time to patronize me so effectively, and found myself looking forward to more brazen snobbery.

Since I needed an afternoon nap, we were late having dinner, so took a cab from lower Manhattan. Unlike Monaco’s annual event, New York boasts a daily Grand Prix of “F1 and all” taxi drivers. With the lighter traffic of February, this made for an exhilarating dash up to the Lincoln Center.

The jockeying for pole positions does not end at the curbside. Sidewalk blasts of abuse and more refined over-the-shoulder “tuts” are a Manhattan art form. On the sweeping staircase of the Met itself, a haughty opera type attempted to cut me off en route to the water fountains. I opted not to brake and cede passage. Big sniff in my direction.

The lead performers could sing Rome into ruins. Even we, plain unseasoned opera runts as we are, could see that. Despite this stunning artistry, the classic operatic warble of Jose Manuel Zapata was humorous enough to provoke the odd giggle fit from my wife. This meant we both suffered from bouts of shuddering shoulders at inopportune moments. Slightly embarrassing as this was, at least we didn’t break our chairs, unlike the oversized German lady on our left after an intermission snack or three. Luckily, the warble and the lurching clunk failed to coincide.

Elina Garanca, playing Rosina, has a voice crafted by angels. I couldn’t hit a note if it grabbed me by the ears and blew a raspberry in my face, so, to me, voices like hers just defy comprehension.

A night at the opera demands a hearty breakfast to follow. Luckily, New York is one of the great breakfasting cities. We settled on the relaxing atmosphere of French Roast, whose Mexicana omelette was superb: think fresh herbs, salsa, and just the right amount of egg liquidity.

After a stroll around Chinatown, we stumbled into the immaculately scrubbed streets of Little Italy. I wonder what level of coercion is needed to keep up that level of cleanliness. At least, you don’t worry about sullying your dropped cannoli.

Ten degrees of warm spring-like sunshine, a day at the MoMA, and a night at the Met. Still, it’s always good to get home.

Having a decent vent

Fighting a blizzard as you forge a pioneering passage from the driveway to the front door is what being Canadian is all about. Partly, anyhow.

After your fumbling mittens have chipped the key into the ice-encrusted lock, you shoulder the front door inwards,  beating back the swirling white gale.

The door is vaccuumed shut behind you. Warmth is all around. But you’re not home and dry just yet.

In winter, our entrance gives onto an obstacle course of mats and boot trays.

If you fail to arrive home first of an evening, the mats will be soaked with melted snow, presenting a hazard to over eager socks, newly released from boot captivity. To the unwary, a carefree step to the right can sink you sock-deep in the icy water of a gaping boot tray.

In January, the cheery Hi Honey, I’m home! is replaced by Aw %$(*#! - I’ve been socked!

Uncharacteristically, blame is never apportioned. It is a truth domestically acknowledged that we all share the burden of sodden guilt.

Having negotiated the maze of boot trays and other sock perils, your next trial is to divest yourself of your winterwear and seek heated sanctuary for your outergarments: hat, gloves, boots, scarf.

Here, a primitive mist descends. Vent. Must have vent.

Sadly, all the vents in prime heated areas will have been seized long ago, so the downstairs bathroom is out of the question. Likewise, vents in the proximity of first floor entrances are all doubtless occupied.

There is a small chance that careless children have failed to leave mittens directly atop a vent, leaving the potential for sneak-in-ability by more deserving adult garments.

If all exit vents have been bagged, you must venture deeper into the house in search of vacant grilles.

This is a dangerous strategy.

Finding an inner vent, say in a second floor bedroom in the north wing of one’s abode, may seem like the logical approach.

Next morning, however, when the thrills of the vent hunt have abated, you will be clueless as to where your beloved bobble-hat is steaming in silence.

Despite the nagging voice in your head, you will doggedly begin your search in the downstairs bathroom, moving on to other vents in areas of prime real estate.

Fifteen minutes behind schedule, having risked a besocked morning by venturing close to key exits, you will stumble into the north wing, a faint memory of recognition pawing at your outer brain.

There, with joy within grasp, you will see the woolly scamp of a hat over in a far corner.

Chances are it will be sitting in a small puddle of its own making, glistening several feet to the left of the newly available grille.

Brimming with warlike fury, you look around for a handy child to admonish. You catch sight only of a cat, looking oddly sheepish, rolling around with its favourite scrag end of fabric. The cat is purring happily, a warm, blow-dried look about its well-vented coat.

Warm cat. Shifted hat. Vacant vent. Lightbulb of truth pings above head.

At the end of your own bit of rag, a chilling vow aimed at the cat comes forth unbidden - It’s the wicwoc for you tonight, pal. That’s right, the wicwoc.

But you’re just venting. You’ll get over it.

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