My 30th Trip Around the Sun

My college friend and fellow blogger Lambhat wished me a "happy 30th trip around the sun" on Friday, which was indeed my 30th birthday. I liked it - both the phrase, and my birthday. I shall recount for you the past couple of days that I have spent in my new decade...

Friday: The Day Of. I awoke to a cold, rainy oh-shit-are-the-subways-broken-again morning. No, the subways were not broken again, but that didn't stop me from calling a car service to take me to my 90-minute birthday massage. I emerged from the fancy-pants spa two hours later with jello for muscles and a strong desire to sleep. It was pouring, and about 40 degrees colder than it had been for the entire week prior. I stepped in puddles, cursed, felt the magic of the massage quickly dripping off onto the wet streets, gave up, and hailed a cab. The cabbie bitched at me when I told him that I needed to go back to Brooklyn. He said it was a good thing I was beautiful or he would have kicked me out of the cab. (Note to non-New Yorkers: this is illegal. No cabbie can refuse to take you anywhere unless it's, like, Florida.) I told him to shut up and drive, since it was my 30th birthday. He responded that he would charge me double. Whatever. Just take me some so I can nap.

Once home, Husband and I went to the greasy spoon diner for breakfast. Then I napped, for 3 hours. Now that is a birthday.

Cut to Saturday. I went to my music lesson, but instead of being in Williamsburg it was in Wall Street. Going to that part of Manhattan is always sort of a treat for me because if you look past all the Rite Aids and Ann Taylor Lofts and tourists with their guide books held firm like bibles, you see the oldest part of the city. You see the narrow, winding cobblestone streets. You can imagine the sort of New York from long, long ago... the kind of New York that Pete Hamill writes about with such loving detail. Beyond all the street barriers are the ghosts and echos of what made this city, and if the day is right, you can hear them. After my lesson, feeling very moved by all of this, I went down the water's edge, to Battery Park. This is tourist central, for it is where you catch the boat to Liberty and to Ellis Island. I am also always very moved by both of the landmarks, because I like to let my thoughts wander on various ancestors arriving in the harbor. I am terribly sentimental about history.

As I stood leaning against the rail, watching the boats pass and staring into space in the warm sunshine, I decided that I was going to play my cello for these wandering tourists. I've never played in front of anyone, really, except for my teacher and my husband. And I've really only been studying for 8 months, so I am nowhere near good. But out came the cello, and I played a few scales and shoved my case under the bench so people wouldn't think I was trying to earn money with my shaky attempt at public performance. Some around me perked up a little to listen, some ignored me. I played a few wrong notes, but all in all it was a delightful experience. I played what few songs I know very slowly and mournfully (they sound better that way) and when the people moved on and new listeners moved in, I played the same mournful songs again. (Thus discovering one secret to busking.) After about half an hour I was hot and beginning to get sunburned so I packed up and headed to the subway. On my way down the stairs, I heard someone say "Hey! There's that girl who was practicing by the water!" I was secretly proud that a) she knew I was just practicing and therefore did not judge my crappy sound and b) that I had dared to do it in the first place.

As I boarded the subway, a pirate exited. I don't know if he was a real pirate, having been separated from his vessel and therefore forced to take public transport, but a pirate nonetheless. Once inside the subway, it was discovered that he has left behind a very beautiful and complex balloon hat that quickly became the fascination of a young brother and sister across from me.

I love New York. I really, really do.