All of my travel diary entries from New York will be archived here. I have a huge affinity for memory, time, and the process of recounting events. I spent so much time fleshing out my trips to New York, that I decided to make sure they get a prominent place on this blog.

The entries below span a year, beginning with my first trip to New York in December of 2006, then my short trip in April 2007, and May 2007.  They are in that order.

December: Dancing on Stars, notes from New York

Part I: Days 1 and 2

After all the stunning events of December, I felt like I didn’t deserve New York. But there it was, a trip for a Christmas spent in the city, planned and executed by my father. We would arrive on the 20th and stay until the 27th, for a whirlwind week of ballet, and opera, and shopping, and hopefully snow.My mother (who is happily unemployed and enjoying free time) would accompany my sister and I (minus father, who was away on business).When our flight left early and arrived for our layover in Atlanta, Georgia, on December 20, I was so excited I danced and sang in my seat.

This would be our fifth trip to New York (the second was when I was in high school, the third and fourth not too long ago, when Dione was auditioning and doing some things for the Joffrey Ballet). Our layover was short, and our flight seemed shorter. As we approached the city, I looked out my window and could see the skyline below us.

We made plans to room with my aunt, who has an apartment on Fifth Avenue. She was at work for the afternoon, so my two jovial great-uncles would pick us up. They arrived wearing casual leather jackets and childlike smirks, offering up a dozen jokes a minute. We climbed into my great-uncles car and drove to Fifth Avenue, and rode up the elevator to the 18th floor of my aunt’s complex.

“What are you going to do while you’re here?“ my great-uncle Richard asked as we stood around Aunt Brenda’s living room.“Ariel’s going to the opera tomorrow,“ my mother said. I smiled nervously.“Oh?

“ my uncle replied. “Where is that? Is that at Carnegie hall?““No, the MET,“ I said.“The MET?

“ My uncle asked with a confused look on his face.“Yeah,“ great-uncle Charles said. “You’d know that if you’ve been to Lincoln Center. It’s the big glass building, with the doors that all the millionaires go walking through.” He mimicked a “millionaires glide” and punctuated it with a laugh.“What opera?

“ great-uncle Richard asked.“‘The First Emperor,” I said cautiously, hoping that I wouldn’t have to explain the other details: that it was a world premiere, that it was composed by Tan Dun and produced by a tour de force of famous people, and that more than anything, by going to the opera I was fulfilling a life goal.As I’ve written previously, it’s always been a nerdy wish of mine to attend a world premiere of an opera. There’s something about being an audience member at the first concert or performance that makes me feel like a part of musical history. When I found out that one of Tan Dun’s pieces was opening at the MET, I sprung (cautiously) at the first ticket someone was selling (since the concert was sold out).

I got lucky; I nice fellow named Leon from Brooklyn wasn’t using his, so I purchased it via eBay and it arrived just in time. I was a little apprehensive about the show, it would be my first opera in New York, and I would be going all alone. I even asked myself if I was a little crazy for buying a ticket and thinking I had the guts to show up.

But I was about to prove myself wrong.

That night, Aunt Brenda arrived home from work and we all ordered take out Chinese. The next morning we left early for shopping, making sure to stop at Barney’s and Urban Outfitters.

I’m a fashion fan, and nearly died of happiness gazing at a white 3.1 Philip Lim dress at Barney’s, I promised myself I would try it on another day.

We made it back to the apartment at 4 p.m., where I nervously dressed in tweed pants and a sweater for the opera. We rode the bus in the dark to Lincoln Center, and I tried to shake off my fear.

Then suddenly, the bus halted in front of Lincoln Center, and I held my breath. It was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen. As I stepped off the bus and onto the sidewalk my eyes were wide, as I gazed upon those magnificent buildings. The Christmas tree in the center of the plaza was lit, a big cloth sign hung at the MET, and many other opera goers walked beside us and through the front doors.

Everything was happening so fast I didn’t have time to be afraid. I gave my aunt, mother and sister a “thank you” and “goodbye” wave, and then joined the masses up the famous red staircases to the top balcony.Since it was a premiere, a few “stars” were out and about, eating dinner at the first balcony area in floor length gowns. Four or five television anchors and camera’s moved about the floors. When I made it to the top balcony, I walked to the ledge and looked out at the famous people eating and sighed happily.Was this really happening? Was I really standing at the MET, looking down as James Levine and other famous people munched on their dinners?

I must have been the luckiest girl in the world.

The doors to the MET seats opened at 7:30, so I joined the crowd moving toward the family circle. My seat was almost in the very back, row I, seat 101. I sat down comfortably and looked around. Everything was amazingly surreal.

The show started promptly, and every seat was filled. I have a LOT to say about the opera itself, but I need more time to gather my thoughts. But, in short, “The First Emperor”has a lot of kinks to work out before considering itself a minor masterpiece.The first scene was a little strange, Placido Domingo’s accent made the English libretto hard to understand (I ended up turning on my subtitles). After the first act I stood up and stretched to look around. The couple behind me swore they saw composer Howard Shore (ha).

I got a tad bored by the end of the opera, and listened as other people gave it their reviews on the way out. I was interested in what everyone thought of the libretto, especially since I almost wrote some for a student at the Hartt School of Music (he hired someone else later on), and I’ve always wanted to write libretto.

However, I tuned out the chatter when I returned to the first floor of the MET. Everyone was gathered there, and I shoved past the crowds and flashbulbs and walked speedily out onto the plaza.

It was cold, and daunting and crowded, but I didn’t care. I was in my most favorite place in the world, all by myself, at the opera. I had a brief moment where I felt like I was an adult, and that I could dance on the stars.

I called mother, who told me that she had been in the lobby all along, and would meet me at the fountain. At charming couple in mink coats asked me to take a picture of them, and they returned the favor, taking one of my aunt, mother and sister all together at the fountain.

We walked back toward Broadway, and I shot some footage for my NYC vacation video. Dione dug through her Armani shopping bag.

“Guess who’s on the cover of the ABT pamphlet?“ she asked.“Who?“ I asked back, after guessing all the wrong principal dancers. She whipped out a copy of the season pamphlet with a photo of David Hallberg and Herman Cornejo on the cover, both dancers we’ve met before.
I gasped and took it from her. We both smiled.“You know, I don’t know what it is…” I said. “But there’s just something about David’s dancing that makes me go…

” we both exchanged glances and simultaneously took a deep sigh.“I want to come back in June to see him in ‘Swan Lake,’” Dione proclaimed, with an approving nod from mom.While we waited on the bus, they filled me in on their nightly adventures wandering around shopping and eating (and dealing with rude waiters at the West Cafe).

That night we hit the bed immediately after coming home. It took me awhile to sleep, my head was filled with visions of Lincoln Center at night, all a-glow and magical, of red staircases and arias, and the sugarplums to follow the next day.

Part II: Day 3

A woman wearing round gigantic glasses peered over at me from her spot behind the box office window.“Your name?“ she asked. I gave her my first and last name, and she clicked around on her computer.“From Mobile?

“ she asked with a smirk.“Oh yes, that’s where I am from,“ I replied.“Is it still there?

“ she laughed, “I mean, since Katrina and all.” I was surprised to hear that she had even heard of Mobile. Our town received minimal damage from hurricane Katrina. It was enough to shut the city down for two weeks and bring lots of structural damage to the older buildings, but nothing compared to the damage in Mississippi and New Orleans.“Yes, we only had a little damage,“ I said back. She nodded and looked down to hand me a thick envelope, filled with four tickets to the matinee performance of New York City Ballet’s “The Nutcracker.” The previous day I’d been at the opera, and to be back at another show was exciting, especially since it was the New York City Ballet.Mother, sister and I stood off in the lobby waiting on my aunt Brenda to arrive. She stopped at Duane Reade to buy a few umbrellas. It was a cold, wet day that day in Manhattan. We nearly jogged across

George Balanchine Way to avoid the rain.Aunt Brenda showed up a few minutes before the gates to the upstairs Promenade at New York State Theatre opened. We pushed and shoved our way to the staircase and waited around the upstairs areas until the show began. Dione and I were excited to see all the people we knew performing, namely Kathryn Morgan, who we danced with for a number of years. We were also excited to see the others that we read about on The Winger, like Gwyneth Muller and Kristen Sloan.For me, just being at

Lincoln Center was enough excitement. As we waited, I pointed out to Dione where one of the scenes from the film “Center Stage” took place, and we giggled.Our seats were up in the Third ring, right in the center, on the third row. It was far but not too far, not like the previous night in the Family Circle at the Opera. Until the curtains rose, mother, Dione, my aunt Brenda and I chattered excitedly.In the first act, I noticed both

Kristen and Kathryn, and was very amazed by Kathryn’s talent in the snow scene. During intermission Dione and I ran to the Promenade to purchase a few snacks (and for myself, I wanted some champagne, but I refrained). Just when we finished in line the bells started ringing for us to return to our seats. We literally raced back to the third ring before the lights went down.The second act was equally as beautiful as the first. Dione and I agreed that their “Waltz of the Flowers” costumes were far more lovely than ours. Wendy Whelan was the “Sugar Plum Fairy” and I can’t remember who the “Cavalier” was.When the show ended we walked back across

Broadway to check out Fiorello’s, but decided to stick with tradition, and eat at an Italian Restaurant on the upper west side.A few years ago, when we toured Lincoln Center, our tour guide let Dione dance a little on the empty New York State Theatre stage. Afterward, we ate at a particular Italian restaurant for dinner to comically celebrate her “debut.”(Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten the name of it now, and even again after eating there last week.)So we returned, where lighted candles dot the tables and a large Italian painting of the Rome decorates one wall. We dined on salads, calamari, soups, fresh bread and an array of other authentic Italian foods. Mother and I had a chicken and penne dish, and Dione had pizza.

I was dying for pizza, but I couldn’t eat any, since my health has been bad. Before I left Mobile I was sent to the hospital for a number of outpatient tests. As a result, the doctor ordered that I eat no greasy or fatty foods, cheese included. It was a little painful to keep up my diet in New York, where the smell of savory food wavers around every corner, but I just thought of it as a valiant sacrifice and got over it.Following dinner, we took a cross-town bus back to

Urban Outfitters and Barney’s. Barney’s was nearly closing when we arrived, so I shot straight to the contemporary collections, and extracted the 3.1 Phillip Lim dress I desired. They didn’t have it in my size, so I dodged around the other floors, but 9 p.m. came too soon, and we exited just as the store closed.Despite the rain, that night was like the way I imagined rainy New York to be. Dione and I shared an umbrella and danced around puddles in the dark, still all dressed up. I came back to the apartment that night to slip off my wet pointed toe flats and wiggle my toes.

Soon after, I was asleep. 

Part III: Days 4 and 5

December 23 was a rare day. As many times as I have visited New York, I have never had a free day in the city. Every visit was carefully timed and planned and full of activity, even up to our departure flight home. For the first time, we woke up with nothing planned but happenstance.Dione and I wanted to do more shopping, and set out toward Saks Fifth Avenue. The last time I was in the NY Saks was in April. The affair was dizzying and majestic, as we flew through four floors of sheer couture heaven—black Oscar de la Renta gowns puffing and floating over their pale pink carpet, sleek Theory pants, gold sequined sky-high Prada heels. It was a gallery of the greats.

Saks was beyond busy and lacking. On the first floor, we stopped at Burberry (a personal favorite), then up a flight to shoes, where Prada sling backs beckoned.

There was a DJ spinning in the contemporary collections, but nothing stellar there. We decided to then to go Bloomingdale’s on 3rd Avenue. We spent some time in the bustling shoe section, and then scouring the juniors sections with a discerning eye. As I flipped through a few selections, the area near the escalators started to buzz. Soon after, Dione ran to me.

“Do you see?“ she asked.“See who?“ I asked back.“Beyonce!” she hissed. “She just ran by. Like, all the workers were like, ‘There she goes, there she goes,’ and I looked up and she was running onto an escalator. She only had two bodyguards! That’s insane!

“While I shopped, I noticed all the workers standing in clumps, retelling the story of Beyonce’s quick exit.

“What was she wearing?“ “What did she look like?“they asked and whispered. Dione was in such shock, she called all her friends who were big “Dreamgirls” fans.We all grew hungry and a little worn. My aunt Brenda suggested lunch at “40 Carrots” an in-store restaurant on the basement floor. The little cafe was quaint and cute, with an out-of-this-world desert menu. I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich on wheat baguette bread with salsa dressing, but held the cheese. For desert, we all had cake and ice cream.Following lunch, we went back upstairs so I could purchase a pair of polka-dotted Betsey Johnson flats.

The following day was similar. We woke, skipped breakfast and stopped on 89th street for lunch at Uno Pizzeria. I know Uno is a chain restaurant, but I can’t have a trip to New York without a stop at Uno for nostalgic reasons.

I’m very fond of their pizza, but unfortunately, the doctor’s orders hung over my head. So as I watched my aunt and sister devour their personal sized deep dish pizzas, I grumbled quietly while suffering through bland penne pasta.

There was a Barnes and Noble bookstore right around the corner, and being that it was Christmas Eve, it was very busy. I shoved past shoppers to their customer service with a mental list of books to find.

I detest asking for help in busy stores, especially in the city, all the workers seem accommodating, but not polite. I approached the counter, and a blonde woman greeted me.

“I’m looking for a book called ‘The Terry Teachout Reader’” I said softly. The lady looked at me a moment, and then at her computer screen.“The Terry what?“ she asked back.“Teachout Reader,

“ I said.“How is that spelled, is it what? A book on teaching?“ her voice arrogantly rose. She looked at me like I was stupid.“No arts criticism, it’s by Terry Teachout,

“ I said.“Oh, that helps,“ she said. She clicked a few more times, but found no such title, only a few of his older books. “We’d have to order it.” I sighed, thanked her, and ignored the other books I wanted to find, feeling defeated by the evil Barnes and Noble clerk.I went up the escalator to look for Tonya Plank’s book “Swallow,

“ but they didn’t have it. Then I went to the dance section for Arlene Croce’s novel, and they didn’t have that either. For Christmas, I purchased a dance book for Dione. When I reached the counter, the clerk smiled.“Ohhh,” she cooed. “Dance.”After leaving the bookstore, we shopped at a few other stores. Near closing, I popped in Club Monaco and made a lot of purchases, and then finally stopped in Searle before going home for the night.

The next day would be Christmas.Part IV: Days 6 and 7

On Christmas day, we woke, as any other normal day and gathered in my aunt’s living room for breakfast and chatting. We had no presents to exchange, so we dressed and prepared for Christmas mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.I had been to St. Patrick’s twice, but never for a service. My mother loves churches, and cathedrals and basilicas, so we always stopped when we were in the city.

The rest of the east side was a ghost town. The bus ran so fast through the non-existent traffic that he had to buy for time by waiting aimlessly at stops even when no one was getting off.

The touristy areas, for example 5th Avenue and 50th Street, were brimming with people taking pictures and filming video. I suppose for the tourists, even on Christmas you have to milk your vacation for everything its worth.

St. Patrick’s was packed, and everyone was dressed casually. We caught the tail end of the 10:15 a.m. mass, and grabbed a seat for the noon mass. There was a press photographer there, and I had never been to a mass more crowded in my life. On the way back to my aunt’s apartment, we took the bus down Madison Avenue. Everything was still very empty and closed for the holiday.

Back at the apartment, we changed into more comfortable clothes, and took a taxi cab to the Bronx, where my great uncle Richard and all my great-aunts and uncles were having a Christmas dinner. I (surprisingly) had a great time there. I sat on the couch next to my old fashioned, great-aunt Stella.

“You’re quiet,“ she said. “But that means that you’re a good child.“My cousin Wanda used to take classes at Alvin Ailey, and somehow, she and Dione began discussing open classes at Steps. The next thing you know, they’re at the computer planning for a few classes the next day. Dione printed out a schedule and decided to go to their 1 p.m. open class.

At the end of the gathering, we waved good-bye and hugged everyone. It was dark, and great-uncle Richard drove us back to Aunt Brenda’s apartment. We dined on left-over desert and watched a little TV.

The next day, was our last day in New York. My aunt Brenda couldn’t request off from work, and warned us that we’d have to brave the city on our own. I was the only one who knew my way around Manhattan, so mother and Dione would have to put their trust into my hands, as I led them around and directed them to the right buses.

This was going to be interesting.

By the time we woke, aunt Brenda had already left for work. We sat and discussed what would we should do on our very last day. Dione decided against going to Steps, since she was recovering from at Nutcracker related injury.

We agreed that it would be best to try and eat at Serendipity. So I guided them to the bus stop on 5th and we rode to 60th Avenue, and walked all the way to 3rd street. Serendipity was beyond crowded, and the wait was an hour and a half long. So we scratched that idea, and ate at the Brasserie cafe.

The Brasserie was quaint, cute, and had an amazing menu. Granted, I could only eat a few things on it (Doctors orders). So I chose a Maryland crab cake burger, holding the French fries. Mother ordered soup, and Dione a burger. We had been arguing the whole morning, and for the first time, we were having fun conversations, while watching the people leaving Bloomingdale’s across the street.

I must of eaten something that was on my list of foods to avoid, because immediately after I became viciously ill. We ran to Bloomingdale’s to use their bathroom, just in case I had to vomit. Luckily, I didn’t. So we left and walked back toward 5th Avenue.

The only thing I could think of to do was go on a walk toward Times Square so we boarded the bus, and stopped at the little shops at Bryant Park and watched the ice skaters float by on the in-park rink.

“It’s just like something out of a Christmas card,“ mother would say a few days later. The more I think of it, I agree. It was perhaps the most beautiful scene: ice skaters, a magnificent tree, and little quaint shops.After buying dozens of items, I visited one shop that sold matted photographs on the city. As I reached in my purse to pay for an eight by ten black and white canvas picture of Lincoln Center, I dropped my digital camera on the store floor, and it cracked open.

“Hopefully it still works,“ a woman said, as she watched me fret about it. I tried turning it on, and it still worked. I sighed happily and shoved it into my purse. Thank God, I told myself as we left Bryant Park.We walked toward Times Square; passing the Conde Nast building (we kept an eye out for Anna Wintour). Times Square was tourist ridden, and packed with people. The more I pushed through Times Square, the more I regretted having gone to begin with.

We stopped our trek at the Virgin Records Megastore, and went up the escalator to the second floor. Following another spell of illness and a trip to the bathroom, I scoured the racks in the Classical section picking up three recordings: Arvo Part, Brahms 1st, conducted by Marian Alsip, and John Adam’s “Shaker Loops.” By this time, I felt like I was going to faint. The record store was hot, too hot. I almost pulled off my coat and rested on their dirty floors. We left the store as a bunch of kids were having a fist fight (that’s the city for you), and back through the sea of people to 6th Avenue.

Dione waits for the number 7 bus.

We waited forever for a number 7 bus and when one finally came, it was so crowded I couldn’t sit. When I finally did we were driving through Columbus Circle, and I remembered that it was my last day in New York.

In the recesses of my brain, I heard a sad song playing. Tears welled up in my eyes, and as I took a last glimpse at Lincoln Center, I wanted to bawl.

At the apartment, Dione asked to see all the videos and pictures I captured. I handed her my digital camera.

“You only took eight pictures?“ she asked.“No, more like 40…what do you mean eight!?” I asked back. I took the camera from her and frantically began flipping through the photos. The camera only showed that there were eight pictures taken. But that couldn’t be true.I opened the side compartment where the memory stick was kept. But it wasn’t there. It was gone.

“Oh my God, oh my God,“ I said, and Dione and I began racing through the apartment and dumping all of our purses out onto the couch. The memory stick was lost.After many tears, we told the story to mother. I told her about dropping it at the shops, but not noticing that it came out. I had planned on putting together a travel video, and sharing all of the pictures, now every single treasured memory was gone. I was heartbroken.

That night, for dinner we ate Chinese take-out, and my aunt promised to visit Bryant Park the next day to look for my memory stick.

We all went to sleep early; since we had to wake up the next morning at 5 a.m. Leaving New York is always the same for me. On the short ride to LaGuardia airport, I look over my shoulder and try to get one last look at the city.

It’s so hard to say goodbye to your favorite place in the world.

Dione waits at the Starbucks at the Atlanta Hartsfield Airport.

In Atlanta, our flight to Mobile was canceled, so we hung around for hours, in an out of airport stores and restaurants to kill time. We arrived in Mobile at 7 p.m., with my luggage still lost in Atlanta, and my heart still lost in New York.

  

April: The Solitary Journey (April 12-14)

If I were to list my most transcendent life moments in the last year, only a few occasions would come to mind, (1) meeting Scott Speck, conductor of the Mobile Symphony only to have him compliment me on my writing, (2) that December evening at the MET Opera house, during the world premiere of “The First Emperor,” and (3) being locked outside in the winter night with American Ballet Theatre dancer David Hallberg.However, my solitary day in New York City last week is slowly creeping past those other events and becoming one of the most important days of this year by far. One that I day dreamed of, and planned without ever predicting its probability.

As I have written previously, I had a few prospects for summer internships in New York City. I had been operating with a few ideals in the back of my mind, and like some force of magic dealt a lucky card and I was invited to interview at one of my favorite prestigious magazines.

All of this was supposed to happen in May, but another magazine called and asked for an interview sooner, so there I was, packing and fussing, and getting things ready for a weekend trip to New York. Strictly business, compliments of my super generous parents.

It would be my first solo trip to the city, but my 6th visit there. I had just left in December, and before that, I had been there in April. My mother sobbed without tears on the days leading up to my departure, and when I hugged them good bye and went through security at the airport, I did not look back at them. I had to be an adult.

I had a semi-smooth flight to the city, with one minor postponed flight from Atlanta. There were no worries, though; my gate came with in-house entertainment, compliments to the large family of cousins, aunts, nieces and nephews sitting beside me, and their two toddler children who placed their tiny hands upon my knees to brace their first steps.

I met my Harlem-dwelling aunt B at the gate, and we took a taxi to her apartment. After chatting and a little Food Network, we fell into bed. I didn’t rise till 7 a.m. the next morning, and that’s when things began.

I showered nervously, dressed myself in my new Alara top and BCBG slacks. For the day I had my provisions stuffed in a quilted Diane vonFurstenburg bag. Mother phoned periodically to remind me of minor details. I turned on NY1 news to see the weather, as a broadcaster kept talking about “Noir Easter,” and I asked myself, “What is that?”

At 9 a.m., I left the apartment, and braced the winds of Fifth Avenue. I took the number 1 bus all the way 42nd Street by the library.

I had much time to spare, so I walked to the Virgin Megastore, and then to the Gap. If I felt any nerves the whole day, it was definitely in those moments that I flipped through racks of clothes pretending to be shopping but really glancing at my watch. Here I was, getting ready to interview for my first ever internship in the city, at my dream magazine.

When the time of my interview neared, I headed inside their offices, and approached the security desk. After going through the motions a man working the security desk smiled and handed me back my I.D.

“So she does exist?” he said. “You know what I mean right?” I laughed.

“Yeah.”

“You know, ‘The Little Mermaid,’” he laughed and then opened up the modern turnstile, and I was in.

The whole event was surreal, and I was less nervous as it wore on. I met a great deal of nice, down to earth influential editors. Then I waved good bye and floated via elevator and cloud, back to the streets of New York.

I immediately took a bus to the Upper West Side for my next interview that was still hours away. I parked myself in Starbucks, where the ambiance was favorable. I called mother and watched people pass from the cafe to the restroom and people pass on the street. A little after, I went to the Time Warner center for shopping, and looked down at the view of Columbus Circle.

My next interview was on the Lincoln Center campus, so I walked to the area, and took an elevator to the floor. A nice secretary gave me a wink and directed me to sit on a plush chair.

Again I met with two other editors, who were extremely nice for people who are so…important. I had two hours to spare until my Aunt B was off of work and I would have to meet her at Mount Sinai, so I walked to the Barnes and Noble to browse.I became quickly bored and went to the MET Opera gift shop, flipped through the ABT photo book, and then went back to Time Warner Center to do some shopping at Esprit. At Borders I picked up a copy of the magazine I interviewed with, only to see one of the editors I spoke to in the inside, which made me smile.

Around 4:40 I walked cautiously down Broadway, afraid to raise my hand and attempt at catching a cab. I didn’t want to be embarrassed, standing on the street with my hand in the air. Silly I know, but with all those passerby wouldn’t they laugh?

When I saw a sea of cabs approaching in the distance, I raised my hand, and a turban wearing driver pulled up.

“98th between Madison and 5th,” I said without hesitation, and we were off. We took a drive cross-town through Central Park (a route I’ve never taken in all of my 6 trips to the city) and he dropped me off at Madison, thanking me for my large tip.

That evening my Aunt B and I dressed for the colder weather and ate dinner at B.B.Q’s (or B-B-Q’s) a rowdy, restaurant on 72nd and 3rd, covered in mirrors and colorful people, drinking margarita’s out of insanely large glasses.

That night we slept and woke for dual flights back home. From Atlanta to Mobile, patches of lightning struck far away cities, a beautiful and haunting ending to the trip. I listened to Holst as the deadly light show flashed below me, feeling thankful that it was over, and trying to form sentences to tell the story to you.

I have less than a week until I know for sure what internships I’ve got. I’m nervous, but slightly anxious to see how well (or not well) I did.

May 23 through the 28th

New York, days 1 and 2: Meeting Anne Midgette and the arrival

I get worried when I hear myself say things like, “I can now die happy,” because pure satisfaction is a dangerous thing. But last Friday afternoon, I slid into a wooden chair at a Starbucks on Broadway, and when those words slipped out of my mouth, I meant it. It had been a perfect week that just kept growing into something…more.The first day of my seventh vacation to New York began early at 1:10 p.m. It’s customary for us to arrive in the city around 9 or 10 p.m., so we took advantage of the daylight and good weather.
After purchasing metro cards in the Harlem subway, we took the bus down Fifth Avenue, headed for the shops on 3rd.

The last time I’d been in the city was in April, for a quick three days of stressful interviews. Anyone who knows me knows that New York City is my heart. I love to be there, and I love to write about being there, so as we shopped and snacked on Wednesday afternoon my head was in the stars.

Thursday afternoon was the most important. I rose at 9 and left the apartment at 10:30, dressed appropriately for an afternoon lunch with Anne Midgette, the first female music critic of the New York Times. I’ve been reading Mrs. Midgette’s reviews since I began college, and have looked to them as a guide for myself. Mrs. Midgette has an awful lot of skill, and always makes her short reviews potent–not a word gets wasted.

After a stuffy, long ride through the Upper West side, Dione, mother and I landed in midtown Manhattan, smack dab in the middle of Time Square. I speed walked a few blocks to Pigalle Restaurant, and parted with my family.

Mrs. Midgette hadn’t arrived so I got us a table a few feet from their floor length open windows. I nervously scanned my menu, hoping to settle on steak. After a few moments of fidgeting, she appeared a tall in tights and a polka dotted dress. She looked just like the photograph of her on the back of she and Herbert Breslin’s novel, “The King and I.” She sat across from me and together we chatted about a host of things, mainly her job, and the critics of New York.

Somehow, as I munched on the raw steak I ordered, we got to discussing the New York Philharmonic. On my list of “Things to do in Manhattan,” attending one of their concerts was on the list. But after breaking the bank for tickets to see both New York City Ballet, and American Ballet Theatre, I had no change left to attend an NY Phil concert.

Mrs. Midgette explained that she would be reviewing that night, and then suddenly she jumped in her seat–

“I have an extra ticket if you would like to go!” she exclaimed, and of course I was pleasantly surprised! I wanted to jump up and say “Of course!” but first I’d have to consult it with my mother. I told her I would let her know, and mentally devised a plan of getting to the concert.

I had to part with Mrs. Midgette around 1:45, as she had an appointment. I walked with her to the corner and waved goodbye, feeling quite pleased that she was so fabulously nice, and willing to put up with my flighty conversation.

I met mother and Dione outside the restaurant again, and we went walking to 39th Street, where supposedly there was an American Apparel store. We ended up on a wild goose chase, and stopped at Starbucks for something to cool us from the heat.

Afterwards, we trekked through Herald Square, stopping at H/M and Forever 21. Around 4 p.m., I called Mrs. Midgette to see if the invitation was still open, and it was. I happily took a bus to Lincoln Center at 6, waited nervously at Barnes and Noble for a solid hour, then crossed the street and waited in the lobby at Avery Fisher Hall.

I was to wait for Mrs. Midgette in the lobby, and around 7:30 she appeared, with a new haircut, but still dressed as she was from the afternoon.

“This is the first time I’ve gone to the symphony and not known what’s on the program,” I told Mrs. Midgette.

“Sometimes Greg (Sandow, her husband) doesn’t look at the program so he can see if he can guess which pieces they’re playing,” she laughed.

We rode up an escalator of the golden hued Lincoln Center, entered through door five, and sat in row T, in the two seats reserved for the critics from the New York Times. As soon as we sat, Mrs. Midgette introduced me to one of the press coordinators at the New York Philharmonic.

“She’s an aspiring critic,” she said as I shook his hand.

“Well, I’m an aspiring PR professional,” he laughed.

I met another pair of individuals, Jay Nordlinger, the music critic from the New York Sun, and his guest, a violinist who’s name I have forgotten. The lights went down in the middle of our chat, and Mr. Nordlinger leaned into me and whispered:

“Going to the symphony with Anne Midgette is like going to a baseball game with Babe Ru–” and before he could finish, Mrs. Midgette was hitting him playfully on the shoulder with her program, and he scampered to his seat.

The first half, Rimsky Korsakov’s “Russian Easter Overture,” and Saint-Saen’s “Third Violin Concerto” went by rather quickly. I noted to Mrs. Midgette about the orchestra’s forte.
“Maazel is such a technician, and that last forte was much different than the first,” she said. It was an observation I didn’t even notice, and I made a mental mark in my brain. “Must listen more.”

During intermission, Mrs. Midgette and I walked out into the lobby with Mr. Nordlinger and the violinist. I listened intently to their comments, and none of them enjoyed the first half.

We all walked to the balcony at Avery Fisher Hall.

“What’s wrong with them?” someone exclaimed in disgust about the concert.

“It was so…pedestrian!” exclaimed Nordlinger, noting that the Phil usually do much better in the second half of a concert. In fact he even used that exact phrase in his review.

Everyone discussed music for a long while, and Mr. Nordlinger asked where I’m from. Mrs. Midgette discussed her time in Munich, and when the violinist cursed, Mr. Nordlinger reprimanded him, “Don’t curse around Ariel.”

The violinist mentioned Joan Acoella, the dance critic from the New Yorker. He had coffee with her earlier in the week.

“She says she like, goes through this thing, with the–” he pretended to nervously down coffee, smoke a cigarette with a slight tick, and then finally let his left hand wither to the ground like a dying fly.

“Well, I think every writer goes through this period of agony,” said Mrs. Midgette to my surprise.

The lights then flickered and the outdoor crowd began to shuffle back inside. The violinist excused himself to speak to a friend, and before parting looked at me, placing a hand on his neck.

“Do you have a mark yet?” he asked me, referring to the black mark all violinists get below their jaw from placing the violin under their neck. I touched my own neck.

“Not yet,” I said.

“You will,” he said. “Good luck.”

When Mrs. Midgette and I returned to our seats, the violinist returned with news from backstage. Supposedly the orchestra’s poor playing was due to their 11 p.m. arrival back in New York, and a single morning rehearsal. The lights then went down for the second half, and as Lorin Maazel strolled onstage, I whispered to Mrs. Midgette, “No score,” and she nodded,
“Right.”

The Bartok “Concerto for Orchestra” was very nice, and I am partly too intimidated to comment on it critically. Their last movement was much drippier than the recording I have at home.

At the end of the evening, Mrs. Midgette and I skipped out the second the applause started.

“They used to call that the ‘critics exit’ but now everybody does it,” she said.

In the lobby I parted with Mrs. Midgette after thanking her profusely. My mother, sister and aunt were waiting for me in the plaza, and as I greeted them I saw her drifting toward Midtown at a steady pace, headed home for an 11 p.m. deadline. (I later read her review online.)

I was kind of sad that the evening went by so quickly, everyone I met was so nice, I could do that every evening for the rest of my life.

That night we rode deeper into the Upper West Side for Chinese Take-out. After our late night feast I settled into bed, and couldn’t stop replaying the meetings and conversations in my head. 

Day 3: NYCB, David Hallberg, and the nighttime air.

The next day, mother and I went out grocery shopping, and in the evening, dressed for the ballet. New York City Ballet was doing “Four Voices,” and more importantly, Dione’s old friend Kathryn Morgan was dancing the lead in Christopher Wheeldon’s “Carousel.”It was a delightful, sunny ride to Lincoln Center. We were early, so we strolled the area and stopped at Starbucks for a pre-show drink.Atop a travertine flower pot, Dione and I sat chatting about the events of the day. In the middle of our conversation, Dione spotted a very tall dancer was gliding across Lincoln Center plaza, in slip-on Vans, and shorts with a shirt.

“David!” Dione exclaimed happily. He was both our favorite principal dancer with ABT, and both of us had the pleasure of meeting him last December. Dione hopped excitedly off of the flower pot and started to jog in his direction.“Let’s chase him!” she yelped.

“You know,” I said nervously, “I don’t feel like chasing famous ballet dancers today.” What would we say to him once we caught up with him besides: “Oh how are you?” and all that other bumbling small talk. But I hopped down reluctantly; linked arms with Dione and the pair of us went racing past the people in the plaza. But David walks quickly and smoothly. Fast enough that he was already down the MET lobby escalator.

“Darnit!” we said and quickly whipped out our cellular phones to tell everyone we knew that we had seen David Hallberg. I called mother, who calls him “The nicest dancer I’ve ever met,” and she was ecstatic.

“You saw him! Did you talk to him?” she asked. I think she was more excited about it than we were.

Near sundown, we entered New York State Theatre, and took seats in the Fourth Ring. I was very interested in the program, only because all the works would be totally new to me. And as a fan of Wheeldon’s work in “Center Stage” (he choreographed the piece to Rachmaninoff’s “Piano Concerto No. 2” in the film) I was especially interested in “Carousel” which proved to be so original! Kathryn was perfect, as she almost always is.They did another really tight, and innovative piece, “Middle Duet” which was extremely modern, jaunty, and a very cool use of a very small stage space. The score was so sparse–just a little percussion instruments–but the whole thing just worked. Maria Kowroski was so athletic and I was so envious of how she executed the whole thing without showing signs of losing stamina.After intermission we saw

“Moves,” Jerome Robbins’ “silent ballet,” that could drive one batty. Dione couldn’t wait until it was over, and I was more intrigued than bored.My favorite of all was the final piece, “La Sonnabula.” There wasn’t a plot summary to be found in the program, and as I watched, I struggled to figure out what the heck was happening.“What was

that?” I asked as the lights went up. “Some lady fell in love with some guy who fell in love with a ghost that killed him?”As soon as I said that, Dione burst into laughter. She had actually read the program and knew that Wendy Wheelan’s character was a sleepwalker not a ghost, and that the “Baron” danced by Amar Ramasar actually had killed him, and she carried his body as he died.

Or something like that.

After the ballet, we hoped we’d see Mrs. Morgan, Kathryn’s mother, walking in the lobby. As we exited State Theatre, we saw her standing outside, and we all greeted each other with warm hugs. When in New York, seeing a familiar face from home is nice, and we all talked well into the evening, even after the lights at State Theatre shut off in the dark.I learned that night that nothing rivals the summertime breeze that floats through Manhattan after sundown. We waited for the bus Friday night, watching guests dine at Fiorello’s. I made sure in that moment to be thankful, for even the small things like that breeze, and that gorgeous view of Lincoln Center across Broadway, and for the meetings, hugs and handshakes I’d had in the past two days.

I couldn’t top that feeling. So the appreciation and the night time breeze became equals.

Day 4: ABT
David and Ethan and Gillian oh my!

We rose late the next day, and dressed for the two p.m. matinee of ABT’s ‘The Dream” and “Symphonie Concertante.” Dione and I arrived again at Lincoln Center early, and walked around their outdoor market to look at art and watch people go by.It’s a rarity for us to be in New York and off on our own, so we promised ourselves to do something fun after the show was over.

For the long wait, we went to the MET opera house gift shop and flipped through a startling book of Alexandra Ferri photos (some were nude!) and then waited with the crowds until the theatre was opened.At the fourth floor balcony we overlooked the guests flowing in from the downstairs lobby. The last time I was at the MET was for “The First Emperor” and memories came flooding back to me, and this time, I was gladly sharing the experience with Dione.

We had the front row seats of the Balcony, right in the center. Part of me wanted to skip “Symphonie Concertante” and watch the “The Dream,” but “Symphonie Concertante,” with its balance, and mimic of Mozart’s work, was really lovely. From high up in the balcony, we could see all of the intricate staging that Balanchine created for the ballet. Michelle Wiles and Veronica Part where the two leads, each performing as the “violin” and “viola.” Wiles was amazing, truly, and in the middle of the show Dione leaned in to whisper, “Her control is killer.” And I agreed.She’s just so strong, she doesn’t spin, she turns, with perfect landing and finesse.

During intermission, we went to the lobby and stood looking at the patrons. We swore for a moment that we saw Davis Robinson from Joffrey Ballet and his wife, but we weren’t exactly sure, it was so hard to see their faces from far away.“Are you two dancers?” a short woman, in black crop pants and top asked. Dione said that she was.

“Well you’re both so thin!” she said and laughed. “I’m sure you’re enjoying it (the show).” Then she disappeared. Dione and I began to chat again, and she reappeared.

“I just think this is so interesting that you are dancers!” she exclaimed. “I used to be an athlete, but I was a skier. What do you do?” she looked at me.

“I write,” I said.

“Well, what sort of things do you write?” she asked.

“Everything, creative nonfiction, articles…” I responded.

“I wrote two books,” she said. “One was on skiing, it was called ‘From the Mountaintop.’ Isn’t that wonderful!” For a stranger, she had an awful lot of enthusiasm, and as she said “wonderful” her eyes lit up and she threw up her hands.

“What was your other book?” Dione and I asked simultaneously.

“It’s not out yet, but you can get it at Barnes and Noble, it’s about the wrongs within the Catholic Church.”

Dione and I instantly exchanged a wary glance and said, “Oooohh,” politely as we could.

“Are you Catholic?” she asked.

“Yes,” we said together. She spent the next fifteen minutes telling us about her book, and how Jesus spoke to her as a child. As quickly as she appeared she disappeared again, making sure to spell her last name, just in case we wanted to read her book.

When she disappeared into the crowds, Dione and I simply rolled our eyes at each other, and floated back to our seats.

Dione and I often disagree on dancers, but the only dancer we agree is top notch is David Hallberg. I’ve been arguing my case of why Gillian Murphy is a good dancer for years to her, but she always shrugged her shoulders and disagreed. “Too athletic,” she always said.After “The Dream” her opinion changed. When she and David took the stage for their curtain call, Dione was whooping and yelling right along with me.

It was my first time seeing “The Dream,” and my first time viewing anything choreographed by Frederick Ashton, despite the fact that I have his autograph in my room (long story). Ashton’s choreography, especially for the faeries, was so testy—lots of fast footwork and petite allegro. I felt like if I ever attempted it myself I would of fainted.

The pas de deux between David and Gillian was very romantic, and I think Alistair Macaulay wrote it right in saying that the choreography for “Oberon” was slightly androgynous. I noticed it the second David launched into a panche.I liked “The Dream” essentially because of its humor and length. While Dione and I dissected the show on our way down the MET staircases, I decided that it has to be in one of my top five favorite ballets.

When I e-mailed David Hallberg a few weeks ago, he suggested hanging around the MET stage door to see all of the dancers after the show. I love meeting famous people, but the whole ordeal makes me so nervous. As we took the escalator down to the parking garage, I could feel my stomach already turning.

Lots of other patrons were waiting by the stage door, and after asking around, survey showed that everyone was waiting to see David Hallberg.

There was a little 8 year old there, who probably rivals Dione, mother and I as David’s number one fan. She had met him a year ago.

“He picked me up!” she exclaimed as she recounted the tale to us.

“He’s very very nice,” said her mother, who brought along 8 by 10 photographs of their first meeting.

The little girl took dance lessons, and knew every ballet and had seen almost all of them.

“When David and Michelle perform its perfect,” she mused to us with a long sigh. Dione and I giggled at how knowledgeable she was about ballet.

The dancers started to flow out the stage door in spurts. First the corps and then slowly a few soloists filtered out. Carlos Lopez’s mother danced around the parking lot telling everyone who she was.“I am so proud,” she said in Spanish. “Proud mama.” He had a slew of guests there, all the way from Madrid waiting to see him. When he finally appeared, Dione took a photo of him and his whole family.

Kevin McKenzie strolled out inconspicuously, and as he waded past me, I blew his cover. Oops.“Can we have a picture?” I asked. Dione stopped and took a photograph with him, but he seemed very dead and tired.

“Are you doing anything with the collegiate summer program?” she asked him.

“No,” he shook his head with his eyes half closed. “I’m busy with this new ballet…and stuff.” He waved his hands around in the air and went to the next person for a photograph.

“Do you have any room in your company for a growing dancer?” joked the little girl’s mother, but he didn’t seem to think it was funny.

“Heh, nah,” he said.

After Mr. McKenzie exited, it was a long while before the next batch of dancers would come through. We stood around with the little girl and her family, talking ballet for what seemed like forever.

Dione turned to me. “I hope Ethan is with Gillian,” she said. I rolled my eyes.

“I doubt it, don’t get your hopes up,” I said, hoping that I wouldn’t get too excited about seeing Ethan either. But I was wrong. Very wrong.

While chatting, Dione and I noticed a pair walking down the hallway.

“I told you!” Dione said, and I looked up to see both Ethan and Gillian walking through the MET stage door. I was so shocked that I heard myself say “Oh my freaking god,” before I realized the words were coming out of my mouth.Gillian stopped to take photographs with the 8-year-old. And Ethan stood off to the side. Dione and I both approached him, and as he signed Dione’s autograph, I heard myself speaking. Speaking to Ethan Stiefel! I must have had a moment of insanity.

“My friend saw you on the subway yesterday and she was so excited she didn’t even speak to you,” I said quickly and stupidly.

“Oh yeah,” he said, mid signature. I took a photo of him and Dione together and then one of him and me. We thanked him a million times, then ran back to Gillian, for photos and autographs.

In the face of my favorite dancer, Gillian Murphy, I was near speechless.

“You were beautiful,” I said, and mentally cursed myself for not being eloquent enough. We took photos, thanked her and watched as she and Ethan walked off into the sunset, with their arms casually wrapped about each other’s waists.

It was a long wait for David. So long that Dione even threatened to give him “fifteen more minutes or else.”

“Well he has to take off all that make-up,” I said. Dione nodded.

“You’re right.”

The crowd that had been hanging back, suddenly pushed toward the door when David came strolling out. The little girl gave him a white rose.

“It’s been a year,” he said, and he bent down to talk to her for a long while. Everyone “awwwed” at how nice he was and how excited and happy she seemed.

Dione and I were right behind her in the little “line” that had formed. When he approached he looked twice, and then smiled and gave us warm hugs.

“How are you?” Dione asked.

“I need a beer,” he said. “And dinner.”

“We saw you in the plaza yesterday,” Dione said.

“Yeah,” David said. “Schlumping through the plaza.” I thought to myself, “schlumping!?” it was more like “gliding!”

We told him about the ballet’s we’d seen the night before, and Dione asked when he’d be performing again.

“Well if you’re going to come to anything else, just let me know, or you can always come to the stage door.”

After we parted, we went back up the escalator the MET deeply believing that David Hallberg is the nicest dancer alive. Despite us all hardly knowing each other, he spoke to us for a very long while. Hardly able to contain our excitement, Dione and I both called everyone we knew on the phone to tell them who we saw. I called mother again and she was very happy.

Hoping to extend the fun a little longer, we walked to the Starbucks on Broadway for post show desert. As I stood in line at the door, I noticed a very attractive and familiar guy walking out. He was almost out the door when my brain registered that he was semi-famous pianist Andrew vonOeyen!

“Oh my god, that was Andrew von Oeyen!” I shrieked to Dione. Everyone in line at Starbucks giggled as my eyes widened in disbelief. He stood on the corner awhile, then turned and I watched as he passed the window. “I need to call Dave, I need to call somebody! It was Andrew vonOeyen! I can’t believe I just saw Andrew vonOeyen!”

This went on for the whole hour as we ate our cookies and drank iced coffee at a corner table of the Starbucks.

“That was just awesome,” I said to Dione about the afternoon. “I can’t believe we met Ethan Stiefel and Gillian Murphy. I can now die happy. My life is complete.”

“Ethan was pretty,” Dione said. “I told you he’d be there.”

We rode the bus back to Harlem, and met the family in the lobby of the apartment. Dione suggested going out to dinner at Chevy’s in Times Square, so we hopped back on the bus and reached 42nd street near sundown.The whole dinner we talked ballet, how everyone looked up close, who danced well, what we spoke to David about. After dinner we stopped by Duane Reade, and it hit me. I was supposed to pick up a New York Times.It was near 10 p.m., and there were lots of little newsstands around I could pick one up at. It was only important because Mrs. Midgette’s review from the concert we attended would be running in the Saturday issue and I was dying to read it.

My aunt knew of a newsstand at the bus station, so we waded through the heavy tourist crowds of Times Square. We passed a man shouting out headlines on the street.

“Get your New York Times, be a day ahead of the game!” he yelled. I stopped by him.

“Do you have Saturday’s?” I asked.

“No, Sundays issue,” he said. “Don’t you want Sundays?”

I didn’t answer, and had a similar problem at the newsstand. They only had Sunday’s copy, but no Saturday copies, and it wasn’t even Sunday yet!

I suggested we try to the newsstand in Harlem, since it was farther away from the Times building and it might take longer for delivery trucks to reach it. My aunt however, was flabbergasted at how fast the Times were delivering papers. It felt, as we raced from newsstand to newsstand along 42nd street, that we were missing the Saturday copies the second the Sunday ones were being delivered.

“It’s like, race the New York Times,” I said as we waited at a bus stop—defeated. “I’ll just read it online.”

Back at the apartment the stairs were broken, so we rode the elevator in the adjacent building then walked up 9 flights of stairs. Dione and I spent the night flipping through our photos on the camera. I couldn’t wait to take them home and share them, and stupidly put them all on Dione’s camera, so I’d have to wait until her summer program was over.

That night was another night of appreciation, and it seemed that nothing could be better than three days of Lincoln Center and famous critics and dancers. All my New York dreams had come true.