Let Me Take You Down, ‘Cause I’m Going to Strawberry Fields

Late morning, Mordecai and I decided it was too nice a day to not head up to Central Park. We hoofed it up 7th Avenue, past all our superhero friends in Times Square, and felt the grass beneath our feet for the first time in days. First stop was Strawberry Fields, where we paid our respects to John Lennon, and took some comfort in how it’s still such a special place for so many people.

Wandered through The Ramble for a little over an hour, taking the unpaved paths around the lake. I’d tell you that Mordecai went for a little swim, but no dogs are allowed in the water, and I have no interest in visiting another pound this week, tow or otherwise. Let’s just say that if he did go in for a swim, he enjoyed it very much.

Found our way to Belvedere Castle and the Turtle Pond, then wandered over to the Navy Terrace. The promenade leading up to the terrace was well stocked with guitarists, saxophonists, performance artists and portraitists. Probably some other ists too, but they went undetected.

We went back home down 8th Avenue. Around 34th Street, a young woman was leaning against the building, talking on her phone. As we passed, she gently, almost absent-mindedly, reached out to feel Mordecai’s coat pass beneath her hand. I think they both were better for the experience.

After a half-hour waiting in line on the George Washington bridge, Gill embraced her inner New York cabbie and went rogue. She saw her opportunity and seized it, jumping the Mini over the median and crossing three lanes to get onto the lower level lanes which were moving much faster. I imagine a deafening combination of horns and applause shaking the bridge as she found her way home.

We had a drink in the apartment before walking down to John’s Pizzeria on Bleecker. Since 1929, salad, pizza, calzone. That’s it. Simple, fresh, delicious.

After dinner, we headed over to the meatpacking district, looking for a ginger margarita at the Spice Market. Turns out the Spice Market turns into a dance club on Friday nights. My love of show tunes is only surpassed by my love of dance music, so we decided we try again another time.

Instead, we found our way to the High Line. It’s a magnificently designed garden/trail/artspace on an historic freight rail line elevated above the streets over Greenwich Village and Chelsea.

Great day, great evening. Even without a ginger margarita.