By the time I got back from a biz trip to DC, I was too tired to do much.
I found the energy to eat and drink though! Mom and her friends visited Saturday and we went to our old favorite, Pellegrino’s.
When the group departed, I met up with friends at Linen Hall (one rushed Manhattan) and Omar’s (two delectable Manhattans).
How was your weekend?
There will always be complaints about New York City: that it’s too gritty, that is too cleaned up, something.
People who live in new condos on the Bowery – previously home to CBGB – complain about noise from area clubs.
Via therealdeal.com
Recently Martin Scorsese lamented that the neighborhood of his youth has been taken over by Whole Foods, towering skyscrapers, expensive hotels and the like.
On the other hand, consider this gem of a video shared by BensonhurstBean and Curbed showing what it was like to ride the subway in 1987.
Thanks to BensonhurstBean and Curbed for sharing the subway video.
I agree with Scorsese that homogeneity is lamentable, but really – is he going to move back to a studio in his old building on Elizabeth Street anytime soon?
Via urbanedgeny.com
I don’t think so.
Change is painful, but inevitable.
Other posts about life in NYC:
My mother’s first breath after crossing the Williamsburg Bridge into Brooklyn today was a sigh. She wishes I lived in Manhattan, I know. She tells me every chance she gets.
As Mom drove north on Havemeyer toward my apartment, I saw Williamsburg through her eyes: graffiti, old unpretty buildings, men with weird facial hair weaving in and out of traffic on bikes, more graffiti. I get it. She doesn’t see what I see and I have stopped trying to persuade her of my neighborhood’s charms.
My parents visit me in NYC from the Scranton area every so often. In theory, they enjoy visiting. In theory.
Sometimes they come to Brooklyn and then complain about the graffiti, the parking, the traffic and/or the “distance” from ‘New York.’
My retort that Brooklyn IS New York gets ignored.
More often than not, my parents ask me to meet them in Manhattan at their favorite restaurant–and then complain about the availability of parking, the cost of parking, the crowds and/or my hair/outfit/weight/lack of boyfriend or husband (that last bit is all Mom).
At Pellegrino’s in Little Italy, our small family’s every idiosyncrasy is known, accepted, embraced and even fawned over because, you see, we started going there in 1995 or 1996.
Even though I went through times where I didn’t want to go there, preferring new! and! exciting! sceney! places! and bitchfaced through meals, I still have my own antipasto that isn’t on the menu. They make it for me without me asking.
OneChicklette 