As if the sky were full of shooting stars.
As the church bells pealed twelve times.
As the ground was snow-covered, white, the floor of a cloud.
As everyone kissed and hugged one another.
Bottles of champagne and Brennivin, an Icelandic schnapps—clear and strong.
As the New Year began.
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1-13-13: Home a week and still adjusting, wishing in some ways we were still in Iceland. The gentleness of life there suits me … suits us.
People even swim gently there, not kicking and splashing—never—as swimmers do in New York, where all seem to be training for triathlons in their minds.
From Reykjavik, we took a little prop plane up north to Akureyri. It was already dark at three in the afternoon, and we went directly to the community pool. I swam some laps then stood in the shallow end. I saw an almost miraculous sight: in the adjacent lap pool, where a swim team was practicing, the outreaching arms of swimmers doing the backstroke and crawl—there must have been twelve or so—and from my pavement-level view, all I could see were the motions of the arms, so elegant, smooth, rising, arcing, falling, like the hands of a dozen clocks, all set at slightly different times, in slightly different time zones.
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1-23-13: 9:40 P.M., 17 degrees;
Such a clear night, you can see stars in Manhattan.
The gurgling sound of my heater.
The comical kerplunk over and over of cabs on Eighth hitting a metal plate on the avenue. I imagine the plate itself: feeling every single hit, bemoaning its fate, putting up with it…
I go to my window, watch the dance down below:
How every step taken by every person seems to have a purpose, to be part of a larger purpose, a rhythm moving us forward, life forward; what appears random isn’t—the choreography of pedestrians: An old man’s gait changes; suddenly he’s scampering across the street.
A girl dashes, frantic.
A woman in a wheelchair smoothly rolls.
And all the while: Kerplunk. Kerplunk. Kerplunk.
A WOMAN WHO KNEW HER WAY
I once met a young woman at a party who almost got into a fight over directions.
That’s pretty much exactly what she said when she came up to me: “I almost just got into a fight with a guy out there over directions.” She glanced at the sidewalk. She was still incensed. She had long blonde hair and wore a newsboy cap. I didn’t know her name. We hadn’t met yet. She wasn’t really even talking to me. She said what she’d said to the young woman to whom I had been talking. We hadn’t met yet, either. I had been standing in a corner by the window; it was a very crowded room; the first woman asked me how I knew the guys who were hosting this party.
“I don’t really know them,” I admitted. I told her I liked the shop, I liked the clothes here, I lived in the neighborhood.
Only the last part was true. I had actually just been out taking a walk, looking at the Christmas lights on people’s houses and fire escapes—it was a clear, cold night, about ten o’clock—when I came upon this shop at the corner of Perry and West Eleventh. It was a surf shop—surfboards visible through the large plate-glass windows—that much I knew. The little shop was filled with people, a holiday party clearly, and the party had spilled out onto the sidewalk; it looked warm and inviting. Why not? I thought. I opened the door and slipped in.
I headed right to the bar like I knew exactly where I was going. I was handed a drink, a sweet and very strong holiday punch. Five parts rum or something: perfect. Everyone at the party seemed to be outstandingly good-looking, women and men alike, so much so one might wonder if this was a criterion for getting invited. I pushed my way through the crowd, around the circuit once, then retreated to a corner to take it all in. That’s how the first woman and I started talking. But my claim that I liked the shop, liked the clothes, hadn’t satisfied her. “You don’t surf?” she said.
I considered lying, saying, “Yeah, sometimes I surf,” or, “I used to surf, but not anymore.” She might have believed that. I could’ve told her about California, where I used to live. But in the instant I knew my lie would somehow be found out. So I said I liked the clothes—they also sold T-shirts and sweaters and stuff. She took a sip of her drink then said, “You really don’t surf?”
That’s when the blonde in the newsboy cap walked up. The two said hi, like they knew each other, and then she said the thing about almost getting into a fight over directions.
It was very noisy so I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I’d heard right. I asked if that’s what she’d said.
She nodded, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I was so pissed off. We’re talking and he nods in that direction”—she pointed toward the northeast—“and he says he’s going to a party in the East Village, just sort of nods his head. You know?”