Dinner and a Show, For One

In my lifetime, I've walked out of Penn Station onto the grimey, frenzied streets of Manhattan, say a dozen times. That's probably being generous. Undoubtedly every time I make that walk, I start off in the wrong direction from my intended destination. It's all a pulsing, honking, hurrying Jackson Pollock painting that my feet carry me into, and rather than stop and deduce my next steps, I just get shoved one way by the mass of humanity, and it's always the wrong way. I hit the first well-marked intersection and realize that I want to numbers to get bigger, not smaller. (But the avenue numbers to get smaller, not bigger.) Seems like there should be a sing-song mnemonic to help new arrivals: "If you smell pee a-flowing, then it's north you're going." See, honey, I told you this was the right way!

Traveling alone allows you make make wrong turns without judgment or ridicule. Wrong turns, wrong decisions. Walking from Penn Station at 33rd and 8th to my hotel at 45th and Lexington was the wrong decision after my wrong turn. But after sitting in a train seat for seven hours, walking in midtown on a sunny fall Friday felt like good therapy. So, hey, good decision!

Traveling alone allows you to make all the turns and decisions, negating the goodness or badness of each one. The rest of my day in the Big Apple was nothing but good decisions and right turns.

My editor-friend Tracy had told me about a great little restaurant called "Burger and Lobster." With a name like that, sounded like a very good decision. I sat at a small table, next to a party of six or seven older Black women dressed in their finest church-going clothes, complete with fascinators of lace or tulle. They were a celebratory bunch, and they paid me no mind,which was fine with me. I had an excellent "Beast Burger," and 5 ounce patty topped with, you guessed it, lobster (and lettuce and Swiss cheese and a truffle tarragon mayo). It was delicious, but it lost a few points for getting soggy after a few bites. And the fancy mayo spread was a wee overpowering, to the point where I felt like i was emitting a truffle tarragon cartoon thought-bubble everytime I exhaled. I couldn't wait to get home at the end of the night to brush my teeth. 

I had an early dinner, so I had time to kill before the 7:30 curtain of my theatre offering. I was close to Times Square. I waded in and enjoyed sitting to enjoy the sights and sounds of that carnival. When I walked, I let the flow of humanity take me easily this time. No wrong turns, no wrong decisions.

I had a ticket for a new musical from London called "Operation Mincemeat" at the Golden Theatre on 45th Street by 8th Avenue. I got to the theatre early, even before a line had formed, and so I stood with man about my age under the marquee. Being a card-carrying introvert, I detest small talk. And this guy had a full deck of it. Just the highlights: "casino," "Cabo," "a 32-year-old Panamanian girl," "smokin' hot," and "a Porsche 911 with a 5.5 something or other." Yeah, pal, you're why women hate men, okay? And why most men hate men too. I finally pulled a Ralphie from A Christmas Story: "Yeah, I'm busy" just so he'd shut the hell up. I should've just breathed on him with my truffle tarragon dragon breath.

The Golden Theatre seats about 800 people. I had a great seat, front row of the balcony, which is becoming my favorite spot to see a show. The musical was great, silly and thoughtful, and as one ad said, "zany." Another ad announced, "Part Monty Python, part Hamilton," which i think says a lot. Five actors telling the story, playing dozens of characters. I cant wait to get home to get the soundtrack, just so I can catch all the words I missed.

A brisk walk down 45th Street back to my hotel. In for the night. When I had checked in, the hostess asked if I wanted a room high up or close to the ground. I took the high-up one. Tonight I sleep on the 23rd floor of the Club Quarters Hotel, with no wrong turns, no wrong decisions.