There are places in New York City which I consider my
places: Strand, Sanrio, Forbidden Planet—places I love to go when I visit. I have
memories, too, that could have taken place in no other city besides New York. Seeing
Cabaret at Studio 54, Purim at
Abigail’s, countless meals and celebrations. My husband proposed on Mother’s
Day in Central Park, in a gazebo where the tables are chess boards and flowers
twine over the slatted wooden roof. My first view of the city was from a
Greyhound Bus window when I was eighteen and on spring break. Finally, finally,
I was in a real place where real things happened. I had left behind the
one-stop-light town with its single blinking light and subdivision after subdivision
separated only by farm land. New York was where it all began, all the dreams
that had been crammed into our bodies in our youth, this was where those dreams
grew cement foundations and steel girders.
Since I have never lived in New York City, the place remains
a fairy tale to me. Sure, I know the different sections and the subway system
much better. I can get to Brooklyn and Queens and back to the city. But these
are always visits. I am never there to stay.
There were times, in the past, when I would have traded a
less necessary finger or toe to live in NYC, but now I see that never having
lived there is a blessing: because for me, I am still the little green suburban
girl entering a land of castles and art. There are more hidden restaurants to
explore, as well as museums, and parks. I have never been to the top of the
Empire State Building or to the Statue of Liberty. For me, there is always
more.
If I had lived in New York City, the magic would not have
remained. My fairy tale would have been lost in the exhaust and trash and just
missing public transportation, and, of course, the struggle to pay rent on an
apartment not big enough to keep a bed and a dresser at the same time. So I keep
my fantasy land and some of the delusions I harbor about living in a land of celebrities,
artists, and outrageously successful business people.
Last weekend was the first time I was back in the city as a
married woman, the first time I was back since my husband’s romantic proposal.
The city, of course, looks no different, though it was warm for December,
barely a chill in the air. I took the train with a close friend to celebrate
her birthday with brunch and a show. We ate at Mr. Broadway and watched Finding Neverland, the musical based on
the movie about J.M. Barry’s inspiration for writing Peter Pan. In the show, Barry meets a young window and her four
sons, and finds himself becoming more and more entwined with their story as the
story he is writing becomes more and more entwined with them.
The train ride from New Jersey is always entertaining, as
there is always good people watching. Families, fans headed to sporting events,
couples, and groups of friends crowd in and do not keep their conversations
private. Their clothes often demonstrate interesting choices, as do their
parenting styles. My friend and I talked off and on and read our books.
Sundays, of course, are for doing whatever you couldn’t complete during the
week, and not surprisingly, for me, that is often a book.
From Penn Station, we wandered to Macy’s to check out the
store windows. This year, the windows tell the story of Charlie Brown’s Christmas,
and there is the narrative of the cartoon written out on the glass, illustrated
with a scene for each plot point, depicting the characters and including many
mechanical moving pieces. The famous sad tree bends down under the weight of a
single bulb, only to stand back up so it can lean over again. Charlie Brown’s
Christmas is an interesting choice for one of the world’s largest and most
expensive department stores, since the message of the cartoon is to refocus on
the Christian story and “Goodwill and peace unto all men.”
Being in Manhattan means that there is always something to
look at and something to buy. There are street vendors with paintings, photos,
and crafts. Store windows decorated with mannequins and merchandise. Restaurants
display vivid pictures of food. On our way to Mr. Broadway, I felt enticed to
enter every store, to haunt the aisles where I would find a million things I
did not need, but wanted to buy.
We were ready to eat by the time we arrived at the restaurant,
and I was pleased by the half-sour pickles and coleslaw that was set before us.
The menu offered deli meat sandwiches with a few variations, as well as entrees
and salads—a typical New York diner-style restaurant. Eating out at restaurants
has always felt like a treat to me. Coming from a large family, we didn’t often
go out to eat. And now that I keep kosher, I have even less opportunity. There
is something particularly indulgent about eating food prepared by someone not
related to you, served to you buy someone else, and you can choose whatever you
want from the menu, regardless of what the rest of the table orders. Our
friends gathered, we ate unhealthy meals, beginning with an appetizer of
chicken liver bruschetta.
Finding Neverland combines
the movie plot with musical numbers to create a world of longing and
imagination. The Llewellyn Davies boys, having recently lost their father, are rambunctious
and seeking the escape of play, with the exception of Peter, who finds that he
has lost his belief in anything that is not grounded and hopeless. He has given
up on anything outside the realm of seeing and condemned himself to misery.
Barry finds himself immediately drawn to Peter and dedicated
to bringing him back to the land of pretend and hope. He finds himself equally
drawn to the boys’ mother, who is kind, carefree, and not indulged in the
grownup world of dinner affairs, charity balls, and being known to have the
right friends. The foil to Barry’s wife, a former actress who now strives to
have her influence known in society by giving and raising for the right
charities, including the theater where Barry’s plays are performed.
The more that Barry is taken into the life of the boys, the
more he laments his adult lack of play, his repetitive writing, and all of the
joy that he has lost as he built his career and marriage. He throws away the
play he has almost very nearly not really completed in an act of whimsy and
instead spends his time with the Llewelyn Davies boys and their mother, making
believe in the park and on their property, and as the show progresses, the
audience begins to see from whence Barry originated his ideas for Neverland,
Peter Pan, and Captain James Hook.
The musical numbers were forgettable overall, though
pleasurable to listen to. The orchestra and the acting were phenomenal. The children
far outshined the rest of the cast. The plot was fairly predictable (even more
predictable if you happened to have already seen the movie with Kate Winslet
and Johnny Depp), but what I was most impressed with were the special effects
created on the stage. I have never been witness to such incredible use of
lights, scrims, fans, ropes, dancing—such illusions that were created on the
stage! I was quite amazed. Admittedly, I have not been to many Broadway shows,
but it was very impressive.
For me, New York is much like Neverland: beautiful and
fantastical, a wonderful place to get away when the everyday gets to be too
much. But should I actually live there, I fear that my Neverland would become
more like a place for lost boys and girls, where you are not attached to the earth
and your play becomes too ordinary, too selfish, and no longer serves its
purpose. As Finding Neverland hints
at but does not ultimately address, Barry must eventually not only embrace a
sense of play, but also a sense of responsibility. Without the balance between
whimsy and the hard work of caring for ourselves and others, we do not have
much of a life, nor much of an adventure, nor much of a family at all.
