The hotel was in Tribeca just two streets down from Kennedy's door. The
place was crowded and the smell of hundreds of flowers was sickening.
Found delicious bookstores, finally saw some Hopper paintings, walked till
where my legs could take me, devoured Paul Auster's NY trilogy, listened to
So many things I did, so many things I missed but impossible to be
The schizophrenic young girl stabbed to death at the park and the
Shakespeare play the next day in the same place; Kennedy's plane crashing
and the tv channels going crazy ; mother and daughter dead because an old
building fell apart on them.......
Everytime I saw a child ... remembered mine. Long phone calls.
This guy, a boy actually, around 16 , in front of us in the airport pulls up
his white t-shirt to clean his mother's tears.
Eyes wide open
and Charlotte......no smoking in the squares, plazas, streets, hideous malls,
just an Irish pub to run away from the heat of the afternoon(very beautiful although the bartender was from Iowa and not from Ireland as I wanted to) and the museum where I suddenly found myself in a press conference with Dale Chihuly, the master of
makes the air heavier as if you could touch it, a deeper awareness of the body
the full moon kept me company all the way back.