Inclined to Practice

Slight wheeze.  Dander in the air.  Me and the ageing kitten, staked out at the fort.  I’m not in the mood to practice mortal combat with our kitten.  I haven’t been in the mood all day.  Hers is a world of unceasing danger.  I feel like Poncho Sanchez pointing out that the shopping bag isn’t actually a raccoon. This gal must learn to attack and defend, to survive in the jungle of her genes.  This house is devoid of predators, and devoid of prey.  The only animate objects she can cogitate are four humans.  I can muster the energy for practicing kitty-gong-fu, for about fifteen minutes a day with this feline.  But she is inclined to practice for sixteen hours or more, if she could.  So every time I walk from one room to another, she follows me looking for an opportunity sink her incisor into my ankle  It’s cute, till its not.

Last night my wife and I went in to the city to eat.  The kids are already back in the U.S.  “Hey, why not head out?”  All the while we kept saying that this is what it will be like when the kids have split for colleague.  It’s still six years out till their both gone.  But six years is nothing.  All you can imagine by way of comparison is a time from before they were born.  But the period after they leave won’t be anything like that twenty-something era.  It couldn’t be.  For one thing the conversation by the twenty-year olds at the neighboring table adjoining us is intolerable. I hate the way the guy laughs.  I hate the way the ladies laugh in response.   I imagine I already know everything they’re planning to do tonight. 

We dined at Migas, which is a time honored Spanish joint, down in Nali Patio.  Suddenly, real olives.  “Which of these reds has a leathery taste?”  A potato polenta with cucumber caviar (new to me) and cuts of mackerel.  Outstanding.  I’ve decided to order the black squid-ink rice as well, but the plate upon which it comes is already parked at the next table and looks big enough to feed a barrio.  Besides I don't like sea cucumbers, which are part of what you get.  The chorizo is gooey and salty, but my wife has decided that Spanish food is simply too salty.  I imagine “Spanish” food for a moment.  Well, I suppose there is something to that.

“It’s only 100 yards from here.”  My wife doesn’t believe me.  It’s kinda cold, but not really cold.  It’s kinda late, but not really late.  An old friend is in town.  Someone who used to live here who is back for business.  Someday that will be me.  He wants to rendezvous at a bar at the new San Li Tun monolith, the Intercontinental Hotel.  This place is as far away from Migas as I say it is.  The new tower is yet another enormous construction with a requisite light show flashing interminably on the walls that rise in the night sky.  I remember looking at office space in the neighboring SoHo building before this new tower was here.  “You see, you’ll have great views here.”  “Yeah, but they’ve broken ground a neighboring site down there.  How many floors is that supposed to be?"  “Oh that thing?  It will never reach up to here.”  It must be at least forty stories tall, towering over those SoHo buildings and any ideas they had of an easterly view.

We secured a perch on the second floor bar.  My friend knew the DJ, who seemed a serious if silent young lady.  And the place was reasonably crowded but a bit lifeless.   I appreciated the view out the window that cast a familiar set of lights and activities at a brand new angle. To secure it they had to ruin how many other views?  We had a drink and prepared to leave because my friend hadn’t shown yet.  We ran into him on the way out, heading down the circular stairs as he and two friends with him, were plodding up.   And it was grand to see him and meet his chums and I’d say we all had a good time, though the room felt sharp and cold and not especially inviting. Everyone seemed to agree. I think as nesters-to-be we will regularly find ourselves leaving the ‘greatest’ new place convinced that we were no longer the target audience, as we did this evening.