A tale of two cities

 Annamaria on Monday

I have stolen this title from Charles Dickens, as I'm sure you all know. But I think I have the right. This is a story about highly improbable coincidences. But every word of it is true.

Dickens, as I have written about before in these precincts, was a master unparalleled at making outrageous coincidences believable in his fiction. No one but he could have gotten away, for instance, with the number of times David Copperfield accidentally encounters Mister Micawber. 

As you've probably noticed, I have nothing approaching Dickinsons's skill. Well, whether you believe it or not, what I am going to tell you today is the truth, every word of it.  It won't be as weird a tale as the one Caro told last week, and very likely not as entertaining, but I can't help but recount it because, on some level, my strange story also feels paranormal.

Ultra-fortunate person that I am, I live in two apartments, each in one of the most wondrous cities on our sacred planet.  Over the past few months, the buildings that house my two apartments have been living uncannily parallel lives.

Both Florence and New York have, this past year, required apartment buildings to inspect their façades and to correct any faults.  Consequently, in both cities the building managers and owners scrambled to get this work done and avoid hefty fines. In both Florence and New York, the buildings where I own apartments have found that work needed to be done.  During the work, both buildings required scaffolding to protect pedestrians from any accidents.  Both buildings also had roofs that needed repair, and it was decided that, since scaffolding would be in place, it would be a good time to repair the neglected roofs as well.

As plans went ahead in both cities, it became clear that there were not enough materials available to erect scaffolding in so many places in order to have the repairs completed before the end of 2021. In both cities, the government extended the deadline because of the lack of available scaffolding. In both cities the management and the residents of the buildings decided they would postpone beginning the work until the end of March.

I had been laughing at the fact that these buildings were leading parallel lives, and chalked it up to an unlikely but possible coincidence. I do know for sure that I am the only person who owns an apartment in both these buildings.

Then something really weird happened. About a week ago, I came into my building here in Florence and found the elevator was out of order. Some nitwit had opened the doors before the elevator came to a halt, managed to get out, but left the elevator out of service. I called the number posted to ask for assistance and walked up to the seventh floor. When I got to my place, I checked my email only to find that my neighbors in New York were emailing each other, including me, that the elevator was broken.  These two buildings, six time zones apart, both had a broken elevator at the same moment                                                                                               

The next thing that happened put the icing on the paranormal cake. At 3 o'clock in the afternoon in Florence, my doorbell rang.  It was the elevator technician, asking me to let him in so that he could make the repair. As I was pressing the button to open the front door, I received a message on my phone.  It was from the building manager in New York, where it was 9 AM, asking if I could buzz in the elevator technician who was waiting at the front door.

????.......

Where Do We Go From Here?

Jeff–Saturday

 

September marks a major event in my life.

 

No, it’s not that the tenth book in my Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis series--THE MYKONOS MOB--is available throughout September across all e-book formats for a mere $1.99 by clicking on this link. https://books2read.com/u/mKw7LZ

 

Nor is it the inevitable sadness I’ll feel as we approach next Saturday, and eye-witness recollections of that day 20 years ago in Manhattan return in a rush. I’ll write about that next week, on September 11, 2021.

 

Rather, it’s something seemingly mundane in the scheme of things, but quite significant to me.  For this week was the first time in twenty months Barbara and I ate in a New York City restaurant.  And by in I mean inside a restaurant.

 

About a month ago, when an optimistic Covid mood was still in bloom, we agreed to get together in New York at a neighborhood restaurant with a dear friend whom we hadn’t seen in two years. He’s one of the world’s top physicians, and someone on whose medical advice I’d several times entrusted my life--successfully.

 

We’ve been great buddies for many years, and though we have significantly different political positions on many issues, none of that has ever impacted our friendship.  I respect his views and how he presents them, and (I think) he respects mine.

 

Our first topic of discussion was the obvious elephant in the middle of everyone’s room everywhere on earth.  We had no difference of opinion on that situation. Covid is dangerous, now more virulent than before, and a worsening problem, but a communal exercise of common sense would allow us to conquer it.  The question is, how do you convince the unvaccinated of the error of their ways? 

 

For those who do not trust the safety of Covid vaccines, how many more hundreds of millions of vaccinations with extraordinarily high success rates do they need to see before they’ll accept its efficacy?  A hundred million? Five hundred million? A billion?

 

For some, statistics won’t matter, and I’m not just talking about off-the-wall conspiracy theorists convinced that Bill Gates is using vaccinations to implant tiny devices to track the vaccinated’s every move.  (I guess to pick up the few who aren’t already being surveilled courtesy of their cell phones.)

 

I’m referring to the honestly concerned and truly anxious who put their faith in anecdotal stories (which may or may not be true) obtained from a family member, a friend, a Facebook post, or simple gossip, that tell of those who caught Covid despite being vaccinated, or who experienced a bad reaction from a vaccine. They resist statistics demonstrating that the efficacy rate of Covid vaccines puts them among the top tier of common vaccines long administered for a myriad of other diseases, because even with a 99% success rate, when billions are successfully vaccinated there remain tens of millions with anecdotal tales to share.

 

Many vaccine resisters share a common trait. Rather than accepting a statistical reality and trusting science to protect them and their loved ones, they choose to entrust themselves to MAGICAL THINKING.

 

By that I’m talking about the sort of thinking that serves as an emotional security blanket for children who imagine reality does not apply to them. Magical thinking allows them to fly to the moon atop unicorns, swim beneath the seas amid mermaids, and soar like a bird through the sky, all without consequences. Personally, I treasure that sort of imagination in children.

 

But adults who think that their vitamins, pills, and exercise regimes alone will spare them from this plague, are engaged in magical thinking of a very different order.  One that might bring them a lifetime of grief, if not cost them their lives.

 

I pray for them.

 

Having addressed that problem, my friend and I moved on to swapping anecdotal observations on a related but different topic, the state of New York City.   New York has taken a big hit from Covid. You can tell from the vacant store fronts, shuttered businesses, homeless on its streets, exodus of many of its bulwark supporters to other regions, and a pervasive sense of lost direction.

 

New York will always be a player on the world stage. No doubt about it.  Those finger-like, Tower of Babel height, residential skyscrapers sprouting up in prime Manhattan locations are a testament to that reality--even though many apartments are virtually unoccupied.  Investors willing to pay humongous prices for the benefit of anonymously parking millions in Manhattan real estate without regard to the true value of their investments, seem willing to overlook how much they may lose in the transaction, taking consolation in how much they’ll get to keep.

 

Still, it’s strange how different the city feels, and as we said good night, our conversation left me wondering how to explain that feeling.  

 

Today, as Barbara and I drove back from the City to our farm, a thought came as I dodged a plethora of overtly aggressive drivers.  I’m used to that kind of driver. After all, I’ve driven in NYC since my twenties and spent many a summer on Mykonos among DUI macho tourists driving wildly, believing the gods of the neighboring holy island of Delos would somehow protect them from harm.

 

Yet, never had I experienced such aggression and patent road rage among drivers of practically every sort of vehicle, from motorcycles to eighteen-wheelers. Why is that, I wondered. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then it hit me—at about the same time as an eighteen-wheeler jerked across two lanes of an interstate into the passing lane.

 

For many, getting behind the wheel transports them into an entirely different world, one offering them perhaps their only means of demonstrating a semblance of control over where their lives are headed. They live in a world where a Covid induced anxiety bordering on a mind-fog is real. Do we mask or not? Do we need a booster shot? How secure is my job? Will I lose my business? My home?  Will my children be in school? Will they be at risk of infection?

 

Their “will” questions and anxieties are endless, but as they sit behind the wheel exerting control over how they steer, how fast they go and when to brake, woe be it to those they see as infringing upon their remaining power over the direction of their lives.

 

I don’t know if I’m right or wrong on that observation, but if I’m right I’d venture to say there are a lot of others out there who’ve noticed a distinct change in what it now takes to drive defensively.

 

Stay safe.

 

–Jeff

 

Manhattanhenge

Annamaria on 14th Street

Sunset on Manhattanhenge

To calibrate the relationship of the earth to the sun, the English have this:

We New Yorkers have this:

When the Commissioners' Plan of 1811 laid out midtown Manhattan, they set the grid 29 degrees clockwise from true east-west.

Still twice a year the streets line up with the sunrise and twice a year with the sunset, which can be pretty spectacular if the weather cooperates.

New York's favorite astrophysicist, Neil DeGrasse Tyson named the phenomenon Manhattanhenge, and each year it attracts more and more NYC denizens and tourists to enjoy the sunset view.  This year on July 12th, the evening was clear, and we gawkers stopped the traffic on 14th Street:

Meanwhile, in another part of the solar system, the moon was nestling on the steeple of nearby Grace Church:

Closeup of the above

Do You See a Moral in This True New York Story?

Jeff—Saturday

The other night Barbara and I had dinner with old friends at a trendy, upscale French restaurant on the Upper Eastside.  Let’s call him Jack, and her Jill.  That’s not their names, but it adds an alliterative touch to the tale.  

I’ve known Jack for forty years. I respect him, admire him, and trust him completely.  He’s one of the smartest, genuinely well-informed people I know. He also has views on some subjects quite different from my own. Over the years, that’s led to lively debates, and I expected our dinner to be no different.  Sort of like what we each wished the US Senate still experienced.

We sat at a table in the middle of the main dining room, with Jack seated directly across from me.  As a seeming harbinger of things to come, an elegant woman in a red, white and blue sequined jacket reminiscent of the US flag, sat with her companion at a banquette directly behind Jack.  To give proper credit to flag lady’s fashion taste, her choice of couture was several quantum levels higher than that employed by Counselor to the President, Kellyanne Conway, in choosing the flag-inspired outfit she wore to her boss’s inauguration.

We were humming along nicely, talking about family and careers, when Jill raised an accelerant subject. Her political views are often far different from Jack’s, and our conversation soon moved on to the myriad of issues polarizing our country today.  At times with voices reaching a level turning heads at nearby tables.  Frankly, I paid no attention to any table other than flag lady’s, for she’d become my secret canary in the mine, signaling any impact our overheard conversation might be having on others in the room.

Things got particularly heated over the subject of President Trump, his policies, and his behavior’s threat to the Republic.  That led to a detailed back and forth over whether Hillary Clinton was the worst of candidates the Democrats could have chosen.  Of course, her husband’s philandering got some attention, too, in juxtaposition to that of #45. 

All the while, flag lady’s eyes kept bouncing from our table to others in the room.  I assumed she and her dinner companion were enjoying this bit of polarized American dinner theater.

Midway through dessert, during a particularly heated exchange on the subject of Hillary, an ashen-faced Jill abruptly whispered, “Shhhh.”  

The conversation paused, and Jill leaned in toward the middle of the table.

“The four at the next table have been listening to us all evening.” 

That did not surprise me, but what she said next did, for I’d been focusing on the wrong canary.  Flag lady’s attention had been centered on a far grander show playing out in the room, involving a larger cast than those at our table.

Jill bit at her lip.  “I just realized who’s sitting at the table next to us.  Chelsea Clinton.”

Dead silence.

Recovery effort on Jack’s part: “I voted for her father twice.” 

My approach: “Check please.”

—Jeff

BOUCHERCON HIATUS: My September 11, 2001

We’re still at Bouchercon, doing all the things that make hanging out with friends and fans worthwhile, but I’ll leave the telling of those tales to others.  After all, “What happens in St. Louis stays in St. Louis.”  Though I must admit, Dan, I'm having a really hard time not saying at least something about Ysra bringing that sheep's head into the hotel bar.

Today’s post was written at the request of a New York City-based newspaper to be part of its 9/11 10th year commemorative issue.  I was asked to talk about where I was that Tuesday morning.  Here is what I wrote. 

I like it over here by the United Nations.  Beekman Place is different from other New York City streets; it’s more like a quiet, residential private road in an elegant European city.  My walk to my office is down First Avenue overlooking the East River and alongside the gardens and flags of the UN.  It gives me a few daily moments of serenity and escape from the often out of control state of my life as a lawyer here.

I need this walk today.  The sky is so blue and clear, except for the few smoke-like clouds on the downtown horizon.  I’m up by the UN General Assembly Building when I call my friend Panos to find out how his date went last night.  He’s frantic and says he can’t talk.  He’s waiting for his mother to call him from Greece.  I ask if everything is OK.  He says she’ll be worried when she hears that his office was struck by a plane.  I must have misunderstood him.  He works in the World Trade Center.  He says his office building is burning and he has to get off the phone.

Those are not clouds on the horizon, it’s smoke.

I tell him to get out of the building.  He says it’s not necessary.  He’s okay.  His date kept him out late and he’s still at home.  He’ll go to work in the afternoon, after the fire is out.  He hangs up.

How could a plane have hit the World Trade Center on a day as clear as this one?  Something must have happened to the pilot.  I hear sirens everywhere and move a little faster toward my office.  By the time I get upstairs everyone is looking out the windows on the south side of our building.  It has an unobstructed view of the Towers.  Now they’re both burning.  I’m told a second plane hit the second Tower.  We all know what that means—even before learning about the Pentagon.  Someone tells me a plane hit Pittsburgh, my hometown.  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.  I call my daughter, she lives in Greenwich Village.  She’s frightened.  We all are.  I tell her to keep calm. My son is in Cincinnati, I’m sure he’s safe but I can’t reach him.

We’re all glued to the big screen TV in my law firm’s main conference room.  The first tower begins to fall and we turn en masse from the television to look out our windows as it crumbles to the ground before our eyes.  It’s surreal, it can’t be happening.  But it happens again.  Not a word is said while we watch the second tower fall.   We are at war.  But with whom?

My mind can’t fix on what all this means.  I focus on a rumor that there’s an imminent biological anthrax attack and race to the pharmacy for enough antibiotic for my daughter.  That’s something I can do.  Again, I think, my son is in Cincinnati.  He’s safe there.

When I moved to NYC in 1969 my first job was blocks away from the Trade Center site.  The Towers were in the midst of construction and I saw them every morning across the Brooklyn Bridge as I’d head to work.  In August 1974 I watched Philippe Petit do his high wire walk between them, and three years later glimpsed at mountain climber George Willig scale one in the wind.  Even after moving my office uptown they were always in view from my window.  They spanned my career as a lawyer in NYC.  I can’t believe they’re gone.

 

The City is in shock.  Lines of thousands of refugees from downtown are trekking up Third Avenue toward home or simply to somewhere other than where they were.  No one is talking.  The smell is everywhere, acrid and bitter.  There seems to be grey dust on the shoes of every cop and will be for days.

I stop at a restaurant halfway between my office and home.  It’s Greek and run by a friend.   It’s the only place I can think of to go.  There is no one at home and I can’t get downtown to my daughter.  She’s fine.  Panos comes in.   I try making a joke about his date from last night.  I say he should marry her, she saved his life.  It’s not that funny.

A half dozen or so young men and women of about the age I was when I started working in NYC are sitting quietly at a table along the front windows.  A cell phone rings—one of the few that must be working—and one of the women answers.  She’s a dark haired girl.  She listens, shuts her phone and starts sobbing.  She says something to the others; they hug each other and cry.

Damnit.

It’s after midnight by the time I head home.  My cell phone rings on the way.  It’s a friend from Capri in Italy.  He’s been trying to reach me all day to see if I’m okay.  I hang up and continue home.  I’m tearing.  Friendship like his is what life’s all about.  Family and friends are what matter.

A week later I drive to my farm, get in my pickup and head to Pittsburgh to visit my brother and sister-in-law.  I decide not to go back to NYC but drive south, toward the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  I’ve never been there before, but it just seems the place to be.  I have to drive by Washington, DC to get there.  It’s only when I see the first sign for DC that I realize I’ve made an unconscious pilgrimage past the three sites of the 9/11 massacre—NYC, Western PA, DC.

 

Duck, NC is chilly in the off-season and the ocean is wild.  I lock myself in a hotel room overlooking the sea and complete my first novel.  I’m driven to make something good come out of all of this bad.  A week later I drive back to NYC.  I’m on the Jersey Turnpike heading north and close to the City, but I can’t tell where it begins.  Its southern landmark is gone.  This world is insane.

A few years later I give up my life in NYC and move to the Aegean island of Mykonos to pursue my dream of writing mysteries exploring the heart and soul of Greece.   There is no reason to wait any longer.  Is there?

Jeff—Saturday