Bon Voyage
Tomorrow morning I'll wake up in New Jersey but at night, when I lay my weary head on a pillow, I will be in the Magic Kingdom. No, not Manhattan. The other Magic Kingdom. The initial horror I felt about vacationing in Disneyworld has dissipated and has been replace with something that I vaguely recognize as enthusiasm. Nobody is more surprised about this change of heart than I am. It'll be sunny and warm and I'll get to wear shorts for the next five days. My marvelous chalk-white Northeast legs will be exposed for all of Orlando to enjoy.
We're staying at a nice resort/spa with some very adult amenities. A masseuse! Cocktails! Cable porn! (Ha, just kidding about that third one. It is Disney, after all.) Best of all, I won't see the inside of Benevolent Dictators, Inc. until Monday morning. How bad can it be? We're spending just the right amount of time there—out on Wednesday, back on Sunday. I keep reminding myself that there's always the distant chance I'll find a crap table somewhere in the vicinity. On the flight down I'll teach 2-Year Old Daughter how to shout, "A dime on the pass, press my hard eight!" To 6-Year Old Daughter, I will explain the rejuvenating benefits of sipping a chilled dirty martini at sunset.
* * *
I just received another welcome sign that summer has finally returned to the city. Each summer, every day at noon, weather permitting, the City of New York pays a pianist to sit at a straight-backed piano on the patio of Bryant Park and play American popular standards for one hour. Someone To Watch Over Me. It Had To Be You. Stardust. The usual fare. Today was the first day for that particular pleasure. I had forgotten all about it and was pleasantly surprised when I walked into the park for lunch and heard these beautiful songs rolling off the patio and onto the lawn. It was like seeing an old friend again. If you're sitting under a blue sky listening to someone play a lazy version of I'll Take Manhattan on a piano, and you look up and see the sun gleam off the spire of the Chrysler Building, what right would you have to complain about anything? You would be a fool.
We're staying at a nice resort/spa with some very adult amenities. A masseuse! Cocktails! Cable porn! (Ha, just kidding about that third one. It is Disney, after all.) Best of all, I won't see the inside of Benevolent Dictators, Inc. until Monday morning. How bad can it be? We're spending just the right amount of time there—out on Wednesday, back on Sunday. I keep reminding myself that there's always the distant chance I'll find a crap table somewhere in the vicinity. On the flight down I'll teach 2-Year Old Daughter how to shout, "A dime on the pass, press my hard eight!" To 6-Year Old Daughter, I will explain the rejuvenating benefits of sipping a chilled dirty martini at sunset.
* * *
I just received another welcome sign that summer has finally returned to the city. Each summer, every day at noon, weather permitting, the City of New York pays a pianist to sit at a straight-backed piano on the patio of Bryant Park and play American popular standards for one hour. Someone To Watch Over Me. It Had To Be You. Stardust. The usual fare. Today was the first day for that particular pleasure. I had forgotten all about it and was pleasantly surprised when I walked into the park for lunch and heard these beautiful songs rolling off the patio and onto the lawn. It was like seeing an old friend again. If you're sitting under a blue sky listening to someone play a lazy version of I'll Take Manhattan on a piano, and you look up and see the sun gleam off the spire of the Chrysler Building, what right would you have to complain about anything? You would be a fool.
posted by The Unbearable Banishment at
3:39 PM
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