New York, New York

Edward, my 17-year-old son, and I took our trip this last weekend to New York to see Carmen at the Metropolitan Opera. We had a great time and enjoyed ourselves immensely, even though we were so far back that it was a little bit like sitting in Boston and watching something in Washington. It was perhaps not quite as sexy as a 17-year-old might have hoped. The next time I will take him to Salome. Having been a bit condescending about the opera when I last wrote about it — “all a bit tuneful for my tastes” — let me now apologize to the spirit of Bizet. It really is a very well-made piece of work, with a terrific theme running through and holding the story together — the obsession of the young soldier Don Jose and Carmen’s self-awareness that she cannot love one person for long and must be free to move on, even though she realizes that this will lead to her death. And the music plays a vital role in the story, with the ominous leitmotif of death, building right up to the climax outside the bullring. 

We often complain about the silliness of the plots in opera — think Il Trovatore — but the great opera composers sure did know how to write for the stage. Frankly I don’t think that Puccini is that great a composer — Oh gosh, after the rain of criticism for my comments about Catcher in the Rye, what is going to happen to me now? — but I will happily agree that no one could whip up an audience like he does. Turandot (which I saw last fall in the Met’s HD series in the local cinema) was an amazing revelation for its brilliant use of melody to convey emotion and sparked sheer admiration for a master craftsman. And then there is Fidelio. I will fully agree that Beethoven is a way greater composer than any of them, and yet Fidelio as an opera is a total mess. It would be much better as an oratorio or some such thing. Everyone in turn bellowing out stuff about love and honor and so forth and the rest of the cast having to stand around until the singer has finished and the next one takes a turn.

Ed and I stayed at the Warldorf Astoria. You would be surprised at how reasonable the rates can be at the weekend. Apparently the Sunday brunch there is famous. I can say that it is horrendously expensive — $95 a person! It was all laid out in the foyer for all to see as they check out. At one level the puritan in me was uncomfortable at that much food — omelets, dim sun, shrimp, salmon, cured hams, roast beef and lamb, pastas galore, salads of every variety, and a chocolate fountain to finish it off — when there are starving people all over the world, not the least on a wrecked island just south of Florida. At another level, I am shocked that anyone would pay that much for a brunch. But then, Ed and I had spent more on our tickets the night before, so why should we deny others their pleasures? But the main level I think was surprise that anyone would or could eat that much food in the middle of the day. I would have indigestion for a week. I suppose you could say that you shouldn’t or needn’t eat that much, but isn’t that the whole point of these things?

Finally, since it is becoming something of a tradition that I don’t like to finish my posts without saying something to upset at least half of my readers, I came away with yet again a feeling of ambivalence about New York. I love what it has to offer. The music, the art galleries, the museums.  The dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum absolutely blow my mind away, equaled only across the park by those European paintings, especially the Vermeers, at the Metropolitan Musem of Art. And yet as a city I find Manhatten deeply claustrophobic — and dirty and noisy. All of those buildings, row after row, line after line. And the traffic — yet one more example, I am afraid, of the deeply dysfunctional American political system that prevented the mayor from introducing a traffic charge to the downtown area. 

My feeling is certainly not a general feeling about American cities — I love Boston and Chicago and (above all) San Francisco. I love cities generally — London, Amsterdam, Saint Petersburg, Sydney, Toronto, and above all Paris. But though all these places hold huge numbers of people, there is a sense that there is space to move and breathe. Paris is the triumph, with the stunning Baron Haussmann boulevards that run through the center of the city. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to have the Seine and Notre Dame right in the middle of the city. 

New York for me just doesn’t do it. Don’t misunderstand me. My feeling is one of ambivalence, not dislike. I want to go back. And I do want to end on a grateful note to New York for the weekend that I just spent there with my son.