A Hobbit's New York Tale, Part the First

In which I visit the Big Apple and make you some content

Recently, it came to my attention that two of my best friends were hatching a plot to meet each other in New York City over President’s Day weekend. Not wanting to be left out, I made like Sam Gamgee and announced, “Of course you are. And I’m coming with you!”

You see, if you’re like me, most of your friends are online. And while the nature of online-ness can lead to some line-blurring, confusion and heartbreak when you’re trying to figure out who your friends are, sometimes it can also lead you to meet real kindred spirits. And occasionally, when stars align, you get the chance to leap out of the Internet into real life together.

My friend Bethany, a New York native who works in publishing and seems to know almost everyone worth knowing in the city, simultaneously served as my host and tour guide. This made the trip orders of magnitude more fun and relaxing than it would have been otherwise. I am emphatically not a city mouse, so I make it a habit never to visit and try to navigate a big city without local help. Bethany’s family warmly welcomed me into their home and cooked delicious food for the days when we weren’t eating out on the town.

The third corner of this friendship triangle is Duncan, our honorary little brother. He is an officer in the Marines, currently working his way through what he likes to call “college with guns.” In a bold move, he drove a car all the way up from Washington and picked me up at the airport on the very night of his arrival. Duncan is an exceptionally thoughtful writer with a Substack here, where he posts reflections on his former life as an EMT and his current life as a Marine. I have told him many times that he should write more. I also have his permission to tell the (younger 20-something conservative Protestant) ladies that he is single and yearning. Bethany and I love Duncan and have a wonderful plan for his life.

Perhaps you can tell already that I chose wisely, and to convince you of the same, I’ve prepared a little diary of my week’s adventures in sight-seeing, eating, theatergoing, subway people-watching, walking, walking, and more walking. (Bethany remarked that in New York, you’re likely to walk off the extra calories you’d otherwise accumulate from New York food.) In fact, I packed so much into the week that I’m splitting the diary into a few parts. This part the first is free. Parts the second (and third?) will be mostly reserved for paid readers.

Friday the 13th: The Journey Begins

I am not a superstitious person. I set out late Friday afternoon blissfully confident that my evening travels would go smoothly, and I would touch down to meet my intrepid Marine escort at a reasonable 10 PM or so, headed for a reasonable bedtime no later than midnight. It’s not like it was Friday the 13th or anything. Ha, ha!

The first leg, my “puddle-jumper” from Michigan to Chicago O’Hare, was uneventful enough. And it seemed, at first, as if my connecting flight would be the same. Boarding proceeded as usual. As per tradition, being smol and weak, I asked the person behind me to help schlep my carryon into the overhead bin, then settled in and waited for takeoff. The two books I had packed were both gifts from Duncan: Karl Marlantes’ What It is Like to Go To War, a favorite of his, and James Matthew Wilson’s little monograph The Wayward Thomist, about the forgotten poet John Finlay, which I’d requested when Duncan asked what book I wanted for Christmas. Because friends give each other books like that. In fact, he ended up sending the latter to me twice, and I ended up leaving this extra copy behind with Bethany, because friends like the same books like that.

About half an hour later, our plane had not moved, in either the second or the third dimension. Then we heard the captain’s voice sheepishly inform us over the intercom that they were only now realizing this plane had, in fact, been completely grounded by a maintenance team before we ever boarded. We would all need to return to the gate and await further instructions. The time was approximately 7:45 PM.

The gate agents appeared to be as clueless and frazzled as we were, but we were finally given an alternate gate and made our heavy-laden way over, like the Exodus, or The Grapes of Wrath. The next hour was punctuated by gradual updates on the preparations for our new plane. First it had to be cleaned, then catering had to get set up, etc., etc., and so on and so forth. Finally, finally, we were boarding again.

And then, the line stopped. We all stood in the bridge and waited. And waited. At the back, I saw one of the agents tiffing a little with a passenger, something to do with the fact that he had three bags. “Well, you didn’t comply when I asked, so I’m gonna have to ask you to…” I wondered if this might explain the delay, but we’d already been held up before this tiff broke out, and while it seemed to fizzle without further drama, we remained stalled. We started to make small talk with each other. The two ladies ahead of me were chatting away about their kids’ school routines. Maybe they knew each other, but at this point that wasn’t a necessary condition. I sent a ripple of laughter along the line by suggesting a “Why are we not boarding yet? Wrong answers only” poll.

Our frazzled gate agent walked past us into the plane, then came back out a few minutes later looking no less frazzled. It would be “a few more minutes,” he said, apologizing. I asked what was wrong. “Uhhhh, they didn’t tell us. They never tell us anything.” As he passed us by, someone muttered, “Maybe they’ll have the first flight fixed by now.”

I sat down, backpack for my pillow. Others did the same. “Think we’ll board today?” someone wondered. “50/50?” “I’ll fly the plane,” someone else offered, “I got my pilot license.” We remained clueless as to what sort of situation would strand us precisely here, on the bridge, instead of having us sit back down in the gating area. But a philosophically-minded passenger concluded that “it’s meaningful, whatever it is.” The time was now 9:15 PM.

Then, all of a sudden, we were told to move forward. It was happening! It was really happening! Slowly, I made my way back to the same seat I’d had on the previous plane. The same gentleman was already seated behind me and, with an elaborately wry face, signaled his readiness to help me with my carry-on a second time. “I feel like we’ve done this before,” he said. It occurred to me that this would make a great hook for a Hallmark movie.

The inciting incident, we were now informed, was that catering had created a door seal, requiring the services of maintenance. Why we had been kept standing in line the whole time this drama unfolded, we would never know. All that mattered to me was that I was on my way at last. Meanwhile, in the group chat with Duncan and Bethany, I confirmed to my relief that we are all night owls and that Duncan had gun college homework to keep himself happily occupied until my arrival.

This story wouldn’t be complete without one last epilogue delay in which Duncan and I endeavored to locate each other in the vast LaGuardia Airport, but we finally succeeded, to our great joy.

As I unpacked, I anxiously checked on the status of the lembas bread apple cookies I’d thrown together the night before and tried to wrap protectively in my carry-on. They were already an inferior batch, owing to the overmelted butter, for which I’d been ruthlessly roasted by Christian Housewife Twitter, but I had deemed them edible. Alas and alack, they were now broken up as well. But then they were meant for Duncan, who’s less bothered about such things than I am.

Saturday the 14th: A Grand Valentine’s Day Out

Valentine’s Day is traditionally a day to celebrate erotic and (hopefully) agapic love between a man and a woman. But for us three, it was a day to celebrate phileō love, the love of friendship. The weather arranged itself accordingly. Looking at the forecast for this week and the week before my arrival, I’m struck by our good luck.

There were, however, a few more slight misadventures in transportation, partly owing to weekend subway track construction. This forced Bethany and me to take a shuttle between trains, breaking up what she assured me was normally a pleasantly straightforward commute. On the shuttle, we sat across from a group of three black girls. The littlest one wore a paper crown and had a puckish smile. Were they three sisters? Mother, daughter, and aunt? No way to tell, but they were beautiful.

We met Duncan in a small coffeeshop and plotted our (Bethany’s) itinerary—first to The Met, for artistic education (riding Bethany’s coattails since she’s a city native), then to Williamsburg for pizza, then to The Strand for book-browsing, then to an evening at New York Encounter, a free annual Catholic conference where I hoped to meet a couple other Twitter acquaintances. Looking out the shop window, I noticed one of these little advertisements for a Jewish cult. I have some good news for whoever made it, but I’m not sure they’re going to like it.

At the Met, we were greeted by the Guardian Squirrel:

Before looking at the paintings, we lost ourselves in the displays of beautiful old weaponry.

The detail of the craftsmanship was extraordinary, sometimes even whimsical, like this design involving flowers, birds and bunnies:

One of my personal favorites was this horsy sword pommel:

You can’t see it well in this picture, but this priming flask depicts the near-sacrifice of Isaac. It was seized by the Nazis from the collection of one Baron Rothschild.

Among the art pieces, I loved discovering not just works by the masters but pieces by artists I’d never heard of before. Sometimes, one finds a work whose origin is debated—was it the master himself or a student, or an admirer? The painting Old Woman Cutting Her Nails is a lovely example of something that may or may not be a Rembrandt:

This piece was also very striking to me, by Borgianni:

A poignant Goya piece:

Among the landscapes, we lingered a bit at van der Neer’s Sports On a Frozen Lake. Duncan said he could feel the cold blowing off the picture:

Volaire’s Eruption of Vesuvius caught my eye:

Of course we can’t forget the Venetian landscapes. I love the washing hung out to dry, the tiny dogs darting around:

Among the sacred art, I was drawn to Ricci’s Baptism of Christ. The chubby cherubic angels are silly, but I like the way the bystanders seem shook up:

Shout-out to these glorified Royal Hungarian saints, welcomed into Paradise by St. Stephen at the summit:

A very famous El Greco Christ:

By contrast, this is a striking “ugly Christ,” whose title and artist escape me at the moment. “He had no beauty that we should desire him…”

I don’t technically approve of fox hunts, but this massive painting of one was kind of awesome. Look how tiny we are!

Duncan carried a Polaroid camera in his backpack, and for one heart-stopping minute we feared he had lost it, but thankfully all was well. Some of the Polaroids came out better than others, but all will be treasured.

In the Japanese section, Bethany guided us to a lovely resting spot in the style of a garden. The resident fishies welcomed us politely:

As you know if you’ve visited, the view from the Met steps is great. Here is the tourist in her natural habitat:

The pizza at Williamsburg was amazingly cheap and high quality, worth noting for whenever you visit. I had three different kinds of pizza that week, and this may have been the best. I wished we all could have had more than one lunch together here.

From here, if memory serves, we took a train to The Strand. On one of the trains we took today, a woman and child came walking past us trying to sell candy. Duncan, ever the gentleman, was ready to leap up and give away his seat, only to realize they were in perpetual motion. One of the times we were walking out of the subway, I can’t recall which day it was, he noticed a forlorn-looking older woman hovering by the entry, apparently unable to pay for a ticket. In passing, he swiped his own card for her.

At one point in our walking we passed by a vendors’ table with lots of hats, one of which Bethany generously bought me as replacement for the hat I lost in the Michigan airport. Naturally, I would then proceed to almost lose the new hat at least twice.

At The Strand, we spent a generous chunk of the afternoon browsing, with special attention to the sections for vintage classics, poetry, history, and mass market paperbacks.

Duncan heroically restrained himself from buying anything. After some agonizing, Bethany picked out an O. Henry folio collection, and I picked out…a few things.

We still had some time before heading to New York Encounter, which we spent eating gelato for dinner.

Then it was a brisk night walk to the venue, with the Empire State Building lit up pink in the distance. I like how this picture makes Duncan look like a ghost:

At The Encounter, we mingled a bit and took in two panel discussions. We learned that earlier discussions had disappointed, but we arrived in time to catch a wonderfully moving short conversation with Joe Gleason, the editor of Terrence Malick’s A Hidden Life. For those who don’t know the film, it depicts the life and martyrdom of Franz Jagerstatter, a farmer who refused to fight for the Nazis when he was called up. I consider it Malick’s best work, and Gleason’s editing is a strong part of what makes it so good. Apparently he got the job after writing Malick a fan letter. He also happens to be a devout Catholic, and he offered insightful reflections on Franz and his wife Franziska’s legacy, the symbolism of the film, and how it can teach us to live our own “hidden lives” well. While Franz is a “red” martyr, suffering the cross of an early death, Gleason suggested that Franziska should be remembered as a “white” martyr, carrying her cross of a long life without Franz.

At one point, Gleason took a single shot from the picture and broke down the significance of each element: The hero and heroine holding scythes, a symbol of death. The grass cut down in its prime, like Franz. The church hovers behind them, and we hear the church bell ringing throughout the film, like Franz’s voice of truth. And looming over all, the mountains, where in the film’s last line Franny promises Franz she will meet him. Gleason reflects that “these mountains become icons of hope and of resurrection, as well as icons of struggle and sacrifice. Because in order to meet in the mountains, we first have to climb the mountains.”

The young student woman interviewing Gleason also offered a beautiful reflection about how the film made her consider the hiddenness of her own life, serving at a school, performing minor tasks that she could nevertheless see as laden with significance. Even the fact that the ketchup dispenser now had less ketchup on it was significant.

The next panel was a three-way discussion about the conception of a “dwelling place” in Jewish and Arabic traditions. I have to confess that the Arab philologist didn’t keep my attention very well. But the Jewish panelist, Malka Simkovich, had some touching reflections on what it meant to her to grow up Jewish-American. As a schoolchild, she began her day in the gym with two flagpoles, one for the American flag, one for the flag of Israel, and went through her daily liturgy: saying the Pledge of Allegiance, singing “My Country ‘Tis of Thee,” and singing “Hatikvah.” What could be more normal? For Malka, the phrase “dual loyalty” strikes her oddly, because she doesn’t see why it should be a slur. Who in the room didn’t have more than one loyalty—not just double but for some of us triple, quadruple, and more?

I was sitting next to my friend Susannah, a Jewish-American convert to Christianity, and somewhere around this point she passed me a phone note saying “ok that got me in the feels.”

Afterwards, Susannah kidnapped all three of us along with a few of her assorted other friends for cocktails, because this is what Susannah does. A mutual acquaintance picked a spot he remembered as being quiet. In the event, it was not quiet at all, but we enjoyed ourselves anyway. Susannah used an excellent icebreaker question, asking us to go around and state our most off-brand opinions—that is, the opinions that might surprise someone who had a certain (perhaps stereotypical) idea of what we think about things. Since I try not to leave anyone in suspense about what I think about anything, I had a bit of trouble with this one. Probably my best answer would have been that I think conservatives have a hard time discussing police violence well, which seemed to surprise quite a few people in my right-wing circles a few weeks ago. In the event, I said that I thought lefties tended to make better art than righties—although I could be persuaded out of this, and I recognize that our sample size has been distorted by considerations other than merit (plus, of course, including much terrible left-wing art).

Thus concluded my first full day in New York. Coming up: two nights at the theater (one on Broadway, including a seating debacle you will not want to miss, and the other at the Classic Stage Company), Ash Wednesday jazz on a roof, lunch at a fancy club, and more!