the romance....

of the night, is that what cityboy found last evening, after he left the Dive Bar?  Possibly---lets back track a little. Finished the novel, We Are Not Ourselves in Bloomingdale Library. Returned to apartment, too tired to go downtown or to Brooklyn. Had a nice experience three weeks earlier at the Dive Bar (discounting bathrooms) so decided to check it out again, watch some baseball. Arrived, hoping to find bartender Rebecca, with whom I had had a nice talk three weeks previous. She was not there, but Olivia, another bartender was very accommodating, worked hard to find me a baseball game---made me feel at home---had a frank and a beer, watched for a while, decided to leave, but could have stayed at the bar. But it was just 8:30, much to early to return to apartment, no interest in a movie, where to then.? Decided to walk north on Broadway, check out (look into windows) the numerous bars that line the street---move up towards Columbia.
Arrived at 110th street, followed a black mother and her talkative child west on 111street, crossed Riverside to 112th, got a very specific feeling from the area, people out, much room on the street---finally returned to Broadway, walked up to bookstore on 114th--it has been there forever---on the bench outside was "The Letters of Leonard Bernstein"; I knew just where to look---Sondheim's letter to Bernstein in October of 57---after the opening of West Side Story, "Lenny" went to Europe, Sondheim was writing him a report about the recording session run by Godard Lieberson and a few adventures regarding illnessses, substitutions in the musical, etc. One interesting note, Carol Lawrence got ill during Somewhere, and her standby, Stephanie Augustine had to take over in mid show. Reading the letter---I felt that I was at home, knew all the references, a sense of belonging took me over. Wandered around the bookstore for about 15 minutes, by the end it was empty except for myself and the cashier. She saw me as I left, gave me a very warm smile---did not follow up.
Wandered to next block, 115th street, remembered that Paul Auster wrote in one of his memoirs that during a frantic summer in the late sixties, lived in a small apartment on this block. Stood there, thinking about that, feeling that there was not much distance between that moment and where I was now. Yes, it is about 48 years later, but...still, it was as if I could understand and identify completely with him.
Finished the walk by walking south on Amsterdam, passed the immortal Hungarian Pastry Shop, outside full, inside lighted (finally). Remembered how I never went in until my first "date" with
E. in March of 87. After that, particularly during the days after my mother's death (summer 88) went in there a lot, remember reading Updike short stories that summer, also while I was reading plays for the Playwrights Conference would take the 104 up Broadway, then go to Pastry Shop and try to read at least one of them. Somehow stopped a while ago, seems like a strange part of my past, don't know if I would go in today, at that time (late 80's and before) it was a phenomenon---the only place one could go into and sit for a long time, now of course...feel more at home at that place on Fulton Street in Brooklyn across from the bookstore.
Finished up along Amsterdam to 106th, checked out a few other bars, finally got in the subway and returned home---it was after 10, I had got what I wanted from the evening.
Tonight, plan is to try to see Sound and Fury, if not check out some games probably at Professor Tom's or maybe afterwards. We will see...