Our babysitterandsomuchmore called this morning, she calls every morning at 7:30 to wake us up – to say that she goes lovingly beyond the call of duty is an understatement.

I can always tell how she is from her tone of voice. Today she sounded weary, even sad. "I feel trapped in the apartment," she said. "I want to get to work, need to do some shopping, was supposed to go to the dentist on Nostrand Avenue."

I realized how trapped she must feel. Living all the way out in Coney Island, she is really far away from everywere she needs to be (Nostrand Avenue, Park Slope, downtown Brooklyn) Her son works in the Bronx and it took him hours to get to work yesterday. The strike is a huge inconvenience for so many people.

Our babysitterandsomuchmore said she’d been watching the news and praying that the strike would be settled. She tried to get Eastern Car Service on the phone but the line was busy most of the day. Local Coney Island car services are jacking the prices up. "It’s more than $30 dollars to get to Park Slope," she said. Usually it costs about $12 dollars.

There’s Christmas shopping to be done, health matters to be attended to, jobs to get to (I was supposed to have my lipoma bandage removed yesterday).  I think New Yorkers are going to get sick of this realy fast. Historically, this city pulls together in adversity and this is no diffrerent. And this is also a city that has strong labor leanings. So it’s not about that. It’s the convenience factor. We are dependent on our mass transit.

My heart goes out to the Union, to the businesses of New York, and all of us are being inconvenienced by the situation. The Union is being fined millions of dollars a day. Businesses are losing money during what is usally the busiest week of the year, and New Yorkers are unable to go about their lives.

Everyone loses in the short term.

I told our babysitterandsomuchmore not to worry about coming in today. But that, of course, was not the point. She wants to come in, she wants to get out of the apartment and do what she loves to do. She feels trapped in Coney Island and I feel bad for her. Really, really bad.

For those who left Christmas shopping to the last minute all I can say is this: TROUBLE.

Take my friend, she  was desperate to buy something at the American Girl Place for her daughter and spent the day on the phone (or on hold) with the store, and  on-line trying to locate the desired item for her girl.

The desired item were sold out on the American Girl Internet site. They did have one left at the store. But that was at 4 pm and she couldn’t get into town. She didn’t really believe that there was going to be a transit strike, no doubt.

My friend even looked on eBay to see if they had any of the items she needed. She ended up buying an outfit for a limited edition American Girl doll for close to $50 dollars.

Yeesh. The pull to please one’s children can be pretty strong.

When I spoke to my friend last night, she sounded extremely drained by the entire experience: a day on the telephone and the Internet in hot pursuit of the seemingly unattainable American Girl accessory.

She was flabbergasted when I told her that I’d gone into Manhattan on Monday morning to secure that horse (it’s a gift from my father to Daughter). "If I had known, we could have gone together," she said. I was pretty sure there was going to be a transit strike so I figured it was Monday or Noday.

I was just lucky to get there so close to opening. The store was already packed but I imagine it was still much less crowded than it would become in the ensuing hours.

Rockefeller Center was full to bursting with tourists, school groups, and others lining up to see the Christmas tree and the ice skating rink before the transit strike. I had planned to just jump in and out of the city via the F train – but, you know how it is, once you’re in the big city it takes hold and won’t let go.

One thing led to another (and numerous uses of the debit card) and I found myself on 18th Street and Sixth Avenue. When the plastic handle on the BIG cardboard box with the horse in it was on the verge of breaking, I went into Bed, Bath, and Beyond and asked one of the men in packing to put a string and a new handle on my big horse box. He did it with such friendliness and helpfulness I wanted to KISS him. I loved the machine he used to wrap and cut the string.

I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. I had my horse. I had my handle. I had a perfect shopping morning before the transit strike. And it was done. The shopping that is.

On Tuesday morning,  my friend had to give in and order on-line and pay for premium shipping (guaranteed to arrive before Christmas). I’m not gloating. Really not. We probably should have talked Sunday night and compared notes on gift shopping for our close in age daughters. She had to forgo the stable and the horse. But she did get some other things that will make her daughter very, very happy.

First day of the transit strike and the Slope feels busy and festive. The public school kids started school two hours later than usual. The  parents I saw looked cheerful, happy for the extra hours of sleep (if they didn’t have to schlep into the city themselves). One friend in front of PS 321 said, "You’ve got a story for your blog today."

My personal angle: despite the extra two hours to get ready, Daughter was still a tiny bit late for school. It did seem that a lot of people were late or taking it slow getting to school.  The assistant principal and the math specialist were standing at the entrance and smiling as the kids and parents streamed in.

Seventh Avenue was packed with people as if it were a weekend. At 11:00 this morning, Grand Canyon was full of leisurely breakfast eaters (what? brunch on a Tuesday). At 1 pm, every table at the  Park Diner on Seventh Avenue between Berkeley and Union was full and there was barely room for the waiters to move around.

The Slope feels like a weekend this Tuesday with no subways or buses working in the city. Not so sure about Bloomberg’s line: "The city is working even if the subways and buses are not." He said it this morning crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, having spent the night on a cot at the Department of Emergency Managment, which is in Brooklyn.

But it looks to me like people aren’t going into the office today.

The main difference between this strike and the one in 1980: we’ve got computers now and many of us can work from home.

The phenomenon of women wearing sneakers to work (keeping their heels in their bags) started at the last transit strike. I wonder if there will be any fashion breakthroughs this time around.

Husband was supposed to start a new job today. Not. He decided not to walk to mid-town. Son’s school is already on vacation. Daughter still has a few more days left before Christmas: and she really appreciated the later start time.

Overall, it’s probably a boon to local shops and car services. I haven’t even TRIED to call Eastern Car Service today. I wonder if they’re jacking up the prices.

Hope not. I’d lose all respect for them if they did.

Returning to the scene of "the crime," my sister, Ducky, and I went to the Cocoa Room yesterday in the late afternoon for iced tea and conversation.

We sat in the front of the shop where there is one table, the infamous window seat and shelves with wonderful chocolate gifts. We sat at the table, not daring to return to the site of our much blogged about faux pas.

I saw the Barista, a young woman in a brown Cocoa Bar t-shirt, who’d told us very politely, that it was unlawful and unhygenic to change a baby in a cafe. She seemed to be smiling at me and I was sure that she remembered the incident. Perhaps, she’d  seen the blog.

When I went to the counter to pick up our iced teas, I struck up the conversation with this friendly young woman.

"I’m really sorry about last week," I offered. She looked genuinely puzzled.

"Remember when my sister changed her baby’s diaper on the windowseat," I said.

"Oh yeah. That was the day the bathroom was out-of-order. We’re sorry too," she said.

I went back to our table with the iced teas pleased that she seemed to hold no grudge against us. I was also fairly sure that she hadn’t seen anything about the incident on curbed, brownstoner, or OTBKB.

Sipping our iced teas, my sister and I caught up on the day’s events. I was facing the window seat, when a couple, a man in a wool overcoat and a tall Nordic- looking  woman with a baby in a sling, walked into the cafe. A regular at the cafe, the European woman introduced her husband to the owner and went to the window seat to wait for her husband to bring their coffee drinks and sweets.

Sitting in the window seat, she took her baby out of the sling, unbuttoned her shirt, and began to breastfeed the tiny infant without bothering to cover her breast with a discreet breast blanket. I found her lack of inhibition refreshing. She’s German, I  figured, and they’re so much more progressive about these matters than we Americans are.

Her husband brought her a cup cake and a coffee drink. The woman seemed annoyed with her husband. He went back to the counter and she screamed out: "I vanted the chocolate cake with the vanilla frosting," with a look of total exasperation on her face, as she continued to breastfeed her infant.

My sister and I continued talking but my sister could tell that my attention was divided. "I’m sorry what I have to say isn’t as interesting as what’s going on at the window seat." I apologized and tried to be less obvious about following what was going on between the European woman and her husband.

And then it happened. The woman began to diaper her infant on the window seat – no diaper pad, no nothing.

"You’re not going to believe this," I said to my sister. "Look at the window seat."
"I wonder if they’re going to tell her to stop,"  my sister said.
"Maybe this’ll become the most popular place in Brooklyn to diaper your baby," I said. "They should just put a changing table there."

We watched, fascinated, as the woman quickly and cleanly changed the baby’s diaper.

First she undressed her little one and cleaned his adorable bottom with a wipe. She then exchanged the dirty for a clean diaper, folded the "dirty" diaper and put it into the diaper bag ( I assume) and snapped her infant into his onesie.

Very efficient. Quite discreet. No muss, no fuss.

"This isn’t disgusting," I said to my sister.
"The diaper wasn’t that dirty," she said.
"It’s the most natural thing in the world. I guess I’m immune to it," I said.
‘I bet she won’t be reprimanded she seems to be friendly with the owner." my sister said.
"I don’t think anyone saw. And if anyone says anything, I bet she’ll be pretty irrate," I secretly hoped someone would say something so we could see what the European woman would say.

During the diaper change, she and her husband continued to bicker. I bet she barely gave a thought to the fact that she was diapering her baby in a cafe. It was so matter-of-fact, so simple. The most natural thing in the world.

Which doesn’t mean that my sister will ever change her baby in a cafe again. If the rest room is in order, there’s no reason NOT to do it in three. Yet, as demonstrated yesterday, it is easier and quicker to do it this way.

A highly informative letter arrived home via my 3rd grade daughter’s backpack from PS 321’s Principal Elizabeth Phillips. In it, she discussed a new United Federations of Teachers contract and the ways in which it will change the school schedule and some intervention services. There was also detailed information about the construction projects going on at PS 321, that have  caused the building to be completely covered in scaffolding.

Beginning on FEBRUARY 1, 2006, the school day for most NYC public school students will be 6 hours and 20 minutes instead of 6 hours and 30 minutes. At PS 321, for instance, school will begin at 8:40 and end at 3:00 (NOTE THAT UNTIL 2/1, SCHOOL WILL CONTINUE TO BEGIN AT 8:30.

At most schools, teachers and paraprofessionals will then work with small groups of students for 37 1/2 minutes four days a week, Monday – Thursday. Citywide, this time is designated as a time with students who need extra support and the mandate is no more than a 10 to 1 ratio of students to teachers. "We believe that groups should be smaller than that, and they will be at PS 321," writes principal Elizabeth Phillips, in the note she sent home on December 14. "We will identify the children who need extra support, and they will attend either two or four days per week depending on their needs."

The new UFT contract provides for two additional school days, and school will begin next year on the Tuesday after Labor Day.

In the letter, Principal Phillips also explained the construction projects going on at the school, in which all work is done after 4:30 p.m. so that children are not in the building when construction workers are.

The third floor bathrooms have been renovated. And in January, work will move down to the second floor, and then later on, the first floor.

The other main work is repairs on the outside of the building, including pointing of the brick. According to Phillips, the scaffolding will be up the entire year.

The mini-school, the Quonset hut-type building in the backyard, which houses various classrooms, an art studio and offices, is being re-sided, piece by piece. In February, new windows will be installed. In addition, there is work toward the back of the school yard on both the first and Second Street sides.

Apparently, houses that border the school have water seeping in because of drainage and grading problems, and repairs are being done to rectify this problems. Unfortunately, this means that the new playground at the back of the back yard needs to closed for several months.

MORE NEWS: Through a grant from an Department of Education initiative called "Project Connect," our entire main building and mini-school have been wired for wireless Internet access. PS 321 has received a few different Capital Improvement Grants from he City Council and the State Assembly to purchase equipment so that we can take advantage of this new access.

As far as I can tell, the removal of my lipoma went exceedingly well. I traveled to the hospital in Manhattan early Wednesday morning by subway and arrived in the Ambulatory Care Unit at 8:30 a.m.

By 9 a.m., I was in a hospital gown, paper bathrobe, cap, and cute booties sitting in a Barker lounger being questioned by a friendly Caribbean nurse.
"Where’s your Health Care Proxy?" she asked.
"Oh, was I supposed to bring that in? " I asked.
"Yes, but don’t worry about it," she said.

After conversing with the anesthesiologist, who I found to be warm and friendly (it must be  the nature of the specialty: those in the business of preventing pain tend to be nice), I was interviewed by a physicians assistant and more than one nurse.

The doctor showed up just minutes before I was to be wheeled into the operating room. I’d only met her once at her office about two months ago.

<>

"So what are we doing to you," she asked abruptly.
"You’re removing a lipoma on my sternum." I said helpfully.
"Show me," she said. I pulled my gown down to reveal my ping pong ball size lump.
"Oh yeah," she remembered. "Did you talk to the anesthesiologist? What did he say," she asked.
"He said it was basically a local but that I’d be woozy but not asleep," I said.
"I want you to be out," the surgeon said.
"I don’t mind being woozy but not out," I said.

"But I do. It’s easier for me if you’re out," she said.

OKAY. Needless to say, the surgeon’s somewhat cold demeanor was the only bump of the morning.

The physician assistant and nurse wheeled me into the operating room. I guess I wasn’t expecting the procedure to be such a big deal. I felt like I’d entered a set of the television show, "E.R." It was icy cold in the enormous white tiled room with the bright lights. A nurse covered me in a heated blanket.

"Isn’t that delicious?" the surgeon said suddenly warming up now that we were in the O.R. It did feel incredibly nice. The next thing I knew, the anesthesiologist was putting an IV in me and I was getting very W O O Z Y. More than woozy, I fell asleep. OUT just the way the surgeon wanted.

I woke up in sunny recovery room discussing the possibility of a transit strike with a nurse. Relieved that it was over (and I didn’t remember a thing), I rested for a few minutes until my  surgeon arrived.

"We removed your fatty tumor. Everything went well," she said.
"Thank you so much," I said. "I’m really glad to be rid of that thing."

There was much activity around me. Nurses kept coming by to see how I was doing. One helped me sit up. A nurse offered the guy next to me various juices, coffee, saltines and graham crackers.

"I’ll have all of that," I said feeling a little giddy from relief and hungry since I hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before.

Soon, a nurse arrived with two graham crackers and a cup of coffee. Later my clothing arrived in a big plastic bag. I was able to dress myself, and she eventually wheeled me into lobby, where I waited for various members of my family to show up to take me home.

I’ve got a waterproof bandage on my sternum where my ping pong ball used to be. I still feel like there’s a lump there – phantom limb and all that. I look forward to removing the bandage next week and seeing what the scar, if any, looks like.

Tomorrow I’m going under the knife. Nothing serious. I’m having a
lipoma removed, a small, fatty mass I discovered about eight years ago
on my sternum. I decided a few weeks back to finally take care of it
because I’m sick and tired of feeling it and worrying that maybe, just
maybe, it’s something more serious. (There’s a statistically TINY chance
that a lipoma will develop into Cancer.)

Truth be told, I just want to get rid of it, be done with it for good.

So on Monday I went to the hospital for my  "pre-testing" appointment. A secretary took down information about me. Insurance. Address. Phone number. Allergies. Emergency contact. That
sort of thing.

Then it came time for the Health Care Proxy. On a small white card, I
had to appoint someone to be, in the words of the proxy, my health care
agent who will make all health decisions for me if I become unable to
decide for myself if my agent knows my wishes, decisions about
artifical nutrition and hydration. It said on the card that the proxy will remain in effect
indefinitely, unless I revoke it or state an expiration date.

Whoa. That was sobering. For the most part, I’d been downplaying this
minor surgical procedure. It’s an in and out kind of thing.  In at 8:30
a.m. out by 2 pm. What could go wrong? My surgeon comes highly respected.
Yada. Yada.

But sitting at the desk with that secretary, I knew I was making this
incredibly important, life and death decision. And it got me thinking
about all sorts of life and death stuff. And that just wasn’t what I wanted to be thinking about on Monday morning at 11:30.

But I got there real fast. I wrote my husband’s name on the white card
and started to  visualize him making important decisions for me when I
no longer could.

Hideous, awful, morbid thoughts floated through my mind. Never seeing
my children again.  My husband. My sister. My parents. Family. Friends.
My therapist.

Never again would I see Third Street, Northern California, Florence, Monhegan Island,  Riverside Drive, a painting by Cezanne, Rothko, a photograph by Irving Penn, Atget, Hugh Crawford.

Wouldn’t hear Billie Holiday sing, Suite Bergamasque by Debussy, Joni Mitchell’s Blue, Guys and Dolls, Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited, Schubert lieder…

As these thoughts passed through my mind, I casually filled out the
card like it was the most normal  thing in the world. A school form.
An application. A petition.

But there I was, deciding who would be my proxy if I was no longer,
unthinkably, able to make a decision.  Unable to think. Not conscious.
Not around…

Denial is a good thing. I just went about my business writing out our
address, phone number. "Do you want his cell phone number," I asked
cheerfully thinking that it might be useful if they needed to find my husband in an emergency. "No that won’t be necessary," she said.

It was as if I was talking about someone else. Someone else’s healthcare proxy, someone’s else’s…

Then I noticed the Organ and/or Tissue Donation Donation section and
suddenly I felt quite excited. A good friend of ours needs to have a
kidney transplant sometime in the next year or two. Excitedly, I
checked off the box that said: "any needed organs and/or tissues."
Below that there was a space to write specific instructions. I asked
the nurse if I could specifiy who I wanted to give my kidneys to. I
must say, she looked a little baffled. "No one’s ever asked me that
before," she said. She thought for a moment. "Sure go ahead," she said.

So I wrote down my friend’s name. Give my kidneys to __________  And underneath that I wrote his phone number.

It felt really clear. Name, phone number. All set. Suddenly I felt so much better about something
really awful happening to me when I go under the knife. I’d be able to
help a good friend out, that is, if  our blood types are compatible and
his body will accept my kidneys.

When I was done with the paperwork, a nurse took my blood. I winced a bit but didn’t  really mind having a needle stuck into my skin. When she put the
Band Aid on my arm, she asked, "Do you know how to get to Loehman’s on
Seventh Avenue?"

This took me by surprise and took my mind off the health care proxy and
Wednesday’s minor surgery. "Just take the number 6 train to Union
Sqaure. Walk over to Seventh Avenue or you can take a crosstown bus.
What are you shopping for at Loehmans…" I said.

Then my mind was elsewhere. Oh the small details of life that divert
and distract us from the bigger things from time to time.

Such a good thing. Really.

My friend went with her daughters to see RENT on Friday night. I haven’t seen it yet but I was interested to read her intense reaction.

I saw the movie RENT and having never seen the play, and not having ANY IDEA what
it was all  about

I just came back from shopping for cheese and pate at the little shop that could, the newly enlarged D’Vine Taste on Seventh Avenue between Garfield and Carroll.

For years,
D’Vine Taste was Park Slope’s slightly tepid answer to Zabars. At one time, it was practically the only place in the neighborhood you could get gourmet cheeses, sliced meats, pate, cornichons, a huge selection of olive oil and beers. It was also a great source of homemade middle-eastern specialties like pita bread, tabouli, babaganoush, tahini, and spinach pie. They also had a great selection of spices, dried fruits and nuts sold by the pound.

The smaller D’Vine Tastewas a classic Seventh Avenue establishment: quirky, idiosyncratic, eccentric. They did it their way. It wasn’t the most convenient place to shop or the most comprehensive but we loved it because it was ours.

With the expansion, I am thrilled that D’Vine Taste decided to fight the big guys in their own way. They’ve been in this neighborhood for 18 years and were there for Park Slope when there was nothing else.  

They were there for us, and now it’s our turn to be there for them. And it seems that the neighborhood is coming through.
I asked one of the owners, the tall bearded man, how things were going. 

"We’re going crazy."  he said. "So many people are coming in. It’s good."
"Were you planning the expansion for a long time," I asked.
"For years and years," he said. More than five years," he added.
"So why didn’t you do it sooner?"
"The lady who owns the building wouldn’t rent it to us. She only wanted to rent to Koreans," he said.

The following is some history of the storefront now occupied by D’Vine Taste as told to me by the tall beared man (whose name I don’t know). I didn’t have my notebook with me so I am paraphrasing here. But my memory is good.

According to the tall bearded man, prior to 2000, the space was a laudromat for many years. But in 2000, the laundromat closed and the owner of the building was unwilling to rent to non-Koreans.
Instead, she rented it to some Asians who then rented it to a 99 Cents Store, which was actually owned by Palestineans.

According to the tall, bearded man, the owners of the 99 Cemt Store rarely paid their rent. The owner of the building took them to court many times. They’d pay a few months rent then stop paying again. This went on for five years. Finally, the landlord got them out. Or the Marshals did. And the store was empty for months.

The tall, bearded man asked the owner of that building many times if she’d be willing to rent it to them. But she said, she’d never rent to Arabs again. He suggested she talk to his landlord. "Our landlord told her that we’ve been here for 18 years and we always pay our rent EARLY. We never call them when there is a leak, or a problem. We take care of it ourself. We have NEVER given him any problem."

Still, she would not rent it to them. "In one of our conversations, I said to her: ‘Look at your hand, are all your fingers the same?’ And she said ‘no.’ STILL she wouldn’t rent us the storefront."

The owners of D’Vine Taste were desparate to expand, the knew that the shop could not stay the way it was. In time, they did find a 3000 sq. ft. space on Seventh Avenue above 9th Street and put a 6-month deposit down and began planning a massive renovation.

One day, the tall, bearded man was walking down Seventh, coming back from the new location when he ran into the Korean landlord.
"Do you still want to rent the store?" she asked him. "’We just put down 6 months rent,’ I told her, ‘and we are about to begin fixing up the new store. I wish you had asked me sooner.’" he told me. 

Still, they longed to expand their original location. So the tall, bearded man spoke with his sister and they decided that even if they had to kiss their $60,000 deposit good- bye what they really wanted to do was stay in the same location and expand. And that is  what they did.

The Korean landlord made them promise to do no cooking in her storefront. "I told her we would not. We have a huge kitchen in the other store," he pointed to the other side of the expanded shop. In the back of the new storefront is a gigantic storage refrigerator with an enormous quantity of in it.

I could tell that he feels really good about that decision. And it’s great to see them in their newly expanded digs. The shop is huge, spacious and attractive in a simple way with lovely brick walls. They now have 240 varieties of cheese and are about to feature over 100 different kinds of olives. In every way, they are offering more and better food items.

I hope the new D’Vine Taste can survive the coming onslaught of the large, customer oriented giants — Whole Foods, Fairway, and Trader Joes. Already there’s Union Market, and Blue Apron. But you can’t say they aren’t prepared to go head to head with the big- name grocery Goliaths. 

Yes, it might be easier and faster to shop at some of these other places – but  it won’t be as fun or site specific to Seventh Avenue. 18 years they’ve been here. 18years. I’d miss saying hello to the nice woman with the skunk gray hair and the tall bearded man who was so nice today telling me in such detail the story of his store’s journey.
I for one am pleased and moved that they did it and will do my part by shopping there for some of the gourmet items that are staples around here.

Life is good at the Third Street Commune.

Last night First Floor Neighbor dropped her two kids off in our apartment when she ran out for provisions at Met Food. "There’s a big snowstorm coming. I need to get basics: Annie’s Mac and Cheese, Gorilla Cereal, Organic milk," she said. "Dja need anything?" 

Granny Smiths and dishwasher detergent.

As soon as she left, Husband and I struggled with that age old question: what do we want for dinner? Son wanted burgers, Daughter didn’t know. Husband was too distracted to even think about it. And he’s the cook.

"Let’s order out from Grand Canyon," I said.
"Grand Canyon? I love Grand Canyon," First Floor Neighbor’s 5-year old son shouted from the other end of the apartment.
"Order me some waffles, please. I love their waffles," FFN 8-year-old daughter said.
"Waffles. Waffles," Daughter chanted.
"Franks and beans, please," FFN’s son said.

So I called Grand Canyon and spoke to the man who would make everything right.  When FFN returned with the green apples and soap,  I told her that we’d ordered from Grand Canyon, that underrated and oft-ignored coffee shop on Seventh Avenue next to Pino’s. She agreed that its the perfect dinner solution when everyone’s in the mood for something different, the cook is too distracted to cook, and a healthy dinner isn’t the number one priority.

"That’s great," she said. Except now
they know that Grand Canyon delivers. I’ll never hear the end of it," she said. "

I set the table for 6 trying to create some semblance of a civilized family (or commune) dinner. Before long, the doorbell rang and my husband went down to pay the deliveryman and bring the food upstairs. 

Son didn’t even bother to transfer his hamburger and fries out of its Styrofoam take-out container; he just put it on top of his plate. FFN’s son needed help combing his  frank with his  beans, which came in a coffee cup. The girls wanted their waffles cut into pieces and they enjoyed slathering it with syrup.

Husband and I shared a cheese burger. He plated it and served me a glass of wine; very civilized. FFN just wanted a pickle.

After the feeding frenzy, the girls took a one-hour bubble bath together, FFN’s son waited patiently for them to come out. FFN and I shared news of the day, the world, the neighborhood.

It really makes so much sense to be communal. Sure it helps that our kids are best friends and that we like each other a great deal. Life is overwhelming enough. The company, the collaboration, and the convivialitiy really makes things just a little bit easier.

I wasn’t in New York on December 8, 1980, the night John Lennon died.

At 10:15 p.m., the time he was murdered in front of the Dakota on West 72nd Street, I was asleep in a rooming house in London.

A high school friend, who was studying with a famous English opera teacher, invited me to stay with her for a few weeks at the Repton House in London’s Bloomsbury section, where she was also working as a chambermaid.

I was en-route to Israel set to spend a year on a kibbutz. My planned 2-week stay in London turned into more than a month for reasons I don’t now remember. Perhaps we were were just having too good a time exploring that city and being on our own in a foreign country.

Most of the guests at the Repton House were foreigners who, for one reason or another, were living in London for an extended period of time. The University of London was nearby and  there were quite a few graduate students in the mix. The other chambermaids were young Italian women from Naples, who were studying English in London.

We got friendly with these women who taught us how to curse in Italian. One of them, Rosaria, used to say: Porco Dio, which translates as Pork God.  She’d pronounce it dramatically as she railed against the Repton’s owner who was exploiting the chambermaids terribly.

During my stay at the Repton House, a catastrophic earthquake hit Naples, and we comforted Rosaria in the chambermaid’s kitchen as she cried, uncertain of the fate of her family. She finally spoke to her mother and learned that everyone was okay. She was holding the London Times, which had a photograph of elderly Italian women in black shawls mourning the earthquake dead on its cover.

We used to hang out in the chambermaid’s kitchen in the basement of the hotel, boiling water for tea, which we’d learned to add milk and sugar to. For dinner, we’d make fried eggs and toast slathered with plenty of butter and English jam.

Our room was on the top floor with a perfect view of the rooftops of Bloomsbury. Like an artist’s garret, it felt to me the perfect place to be an American abroad, keeping copious notes in my journal, writing letters home, discovering one of the great cities of the world.

On the night of December 8th there was late-night party at the rooming house. It may have been a party for me as I was leaving the next morning on a flight to Jerusalem. It was a raucous evening, running up and down the stairs, going in and out of each other’s rooms.

There must have been wine, food. Surely we played music and danced. I barely remember anymore what went on. But I do remember there was a wistful feeling in the air. I wasn’t ready to leave, to go off on my own to a part of the world I had never been.

We barely slept that night. The party went late and after it ended, we packed up my things and talked until the first light of dawn.

(Were we awake at the moment of his death? What were we doing? )

On the morning of December 9th, when we went down to the lobby, I noticed that the woman at the reception desk, a cheerful person who reminded me of Lulu, the British singer in "To Sir with Love," was crying. Her dark eye make-up was running; I wondered why she looked so uncharacteristically sad.

"John Lennon died. He was shot." she said. I thought I was hearing things.
"What did you say? " I said certain that I’d misunderstood.
"John Lennon is dead."

I don’t remember how I found out the rest. My friend and I took the Underground to Heathrow, where she waited with me to board the plane. A quiet day at the airport, everyone seemed unaffected by the news. Maybe it was too early. Little did we know of the crowds in Central Park, on West 72nd Street, in Hyde Park.

It was the most awful of good byes. Me flying off alone, my friend returning to a foreign city on her own. John Lennon had been murdered in Manhattan. What was happening to the world?

We discussed my staying longer. Everything seemed up in the air. But I decided to get
on the plane, to go forward with my plans despite the fact that nothing
was the same.

The flight to Jerusalem passed in an instant; a blur of absence and regret. I do remember some Hasidic men standing in the aisles praying. They were davening, moving their upper bodies up and down, while reciting words from tiny Hebrew prayer books. I remember thinking: Say a prayer for John.

My first days in Israel, I stayed with a group of counter-culture Americans who founded a Kibbutz near Jerusalem. They played Beatles records all day in their one-room houses and wanted to talk to me about what had happened, what it had been like in London, in New York. I was a witness from the outside world, but there wasn’t much I could say:

(I woke up in London. Got the terrible news from Lulu. Cried at the airport. Said good bye to a friend. And flew to Jerusalem in a mournful daze.)

Weeks later on another kibbutz, I got a letter from my cousin sadly detailing the
events of the days after John’s death in Manhattan. In her neat, all lower-case print, she conveyed her loss in words I still remember. "nothing
seems to matter. john’s dead. a piece of ourselves is gone." My sister
sent me a similarly sad note and clippings from the  Times and
the Voice about John, which I cherished.

In my no-frills room at the kibbutz, I read and re-read those articles my sister sent and  relived the details of that night.  If I couldn’t have been there, I still wanted to visualize it all: the taxi, the street, the hospital, his bloody eyeglasses. Yoko’s look of utter despair.

(John and Yoko had spent the early part of the evening of December 8th recording Yoko’s single, "Walking on Thin Ice." — "Starting Over: Lennon’s hit single from his new album, Double Fantasy, had been on the radio constantly in the chambermaid’s kitchen.)

I wanted, no needed, to know what 72nd Street looked like with those mournful crowds singing ‘Give Peace a Chance." I tried to imagine those moments of silence in Central Park when an entire city grieved together.

All those miles away, all these years away now, it is still so close — that terrible night. Those awful days after. All these years later it still hurts.

It really does.

Continue reading POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_The Day John Lennon Died →