I will never complain about getting up in time for an eight o'clock aquafit class. Don't let anyone tell you that 4:30 is early morning. It feels like the middle of the night as does the traffic on the highway to the airport. Dark and early is much more appropriate than bright and early.
Despite the clear roads, the airport is amazingly crowded, but with web check in and the machines to print baggage tags, it takes no time to enter the scary world of US Customs. The worst part of any trip has got to be the airport but traveling to the States is doubly so. First there is one room through which a large crowd, toting bags snakes its way around. Slowly . . .very slowly. Suddenly an attendant announces that anyone on a seven o'clock flight needs to by- pass the line to the next room. What is in the next room? Another snaking line! This one ends in a bank of kiosks, where you scan your passport, verify your personal information and destination and are told to look at the camera for a grainy black and white photo. You now have the official mugshot. Move along to yet more lines, ending with an interview as to why you seek entry to the Land of the Free. Permission granted, You now can drop off your luggage. But there is more! Take off your jacket, your belt, your boots, empty your pockets, take out your computer, surrender your carry ons to X-ray examination and walk through the metal detector. The departure gates are finally in sight, but the machinery objects loudly and you have to submit to a further indignity. Spread your arms and legs and wait while a wand announces the studs on your jeans, the fasteners to your bra, your necklace and your knee replacement. You turn to your examiner, smile and say "Thank you for making me feel like a criminal." Did you know that in order to work for US customs you have to have your funny bone surgically removed? The guard turns to me with a withering glare. I collect my belongings before she changes her mind about letting me through and find a chair to sit on while I put my boots back on. I arrived at the airport at five. It is now six twenty, only ten minutes to boarding. My journey through the verification that I am no threat to the other passengers or American on the other side of the border has taken longer than the 58 minute flight!
The flight is short and uneventful. I text Dov that I have landed. No reply. I trot to the luggage carousel where my bag is already waiting for me and head out to find a cab. Again there is no delay. The cab driver stows my bag in the trunk and asks me for a Manhatten destination. I tell him I'm heading for Brooklyn and provide the address. Once on the expressway, the cabbie asks if I have an iPhone. Why? He seldom travels to Brooklyn and isn't sure of the location of Bedford Ave. No, he doesn't have a GPS. My phone now objects and refuses to find the appropriate map.
I call Dov. No answer. The cabbie hails some pedestrians for directions but he is ignored. The cab passes through graffiti filled walls and abandoned buildings while the cabbie assures me he is headed in the right direction. He just isn't sure about the exact location of the address I have given him. Dov calls back. He is incredulous that the cabbie doesn't know how to get to Bedford Ave. I tell him our location, he finds the map on his computer and directs the cabbie. The neighbourhood changes to a street lined with graceful brownstones. The cabbie comments that this is a Jewish neighbourhood and is very safe. According to him, Jews always live in better areas of the city. I see no synagogues, no kosher butcher shops, only streets inhabited by Hispanics and Blacks walking dogs, waiting for buses, washing their cars to the beat of blaring hip hop music. We finally arrive. This has been one of the stranger cab rides I have ever had.
Marissa is walking the dog and sees me arrive. I get warm hugs and an escort up to the the third floor apartment. There are no elevators in brownstones. Dov greets me fondly at the door and invites me in. It is a beautiful apartment. There is a narrow entranceway that opens into an impressive main room with dark stained burled oak floors laid diagonally, an inlaid perimeter border, oak trim and a beamed ceiling. One end of the room is dominated by a large bay window and a rad cover that provides a ledge to sit on, both in oak. The other end of the room is has oak pocket doors that open to a bedroom with lots of natural light. The rest of the apartment consists of a second bedroom, a small kitchen and bathroom, in all, a very inviting home with lovely wool rugs, lots of photographs and art work everywhere. I am impressed.
The first thing out of my bag is the quilt. It looks beautiful on the bed and the colours are perfectly coordinated with everything else in the room. I am pleased that Marissa and Dov are pleased with the gift. We engage in some chit chat and tell them how happy I am seeing them together in this warm home. Marissa says she is glad and invites me to visit again in June. With pleasure, any time.
The love and affection in this room are obvious. Dov is calmer, happier, more settled than I have ever seen him. Marissa is warm and centred and so devoted to Dov. There appears to be mutual respect and consideration between the two of them.
Later in the day, Marissa and I had some time to spend together while Dov went to a class. This is the first time I have had an opportunity to get to know her. She seemed to be totally open to me and while making the challah, talking about anything and everything. She exudes a delight in everything she does and there is an openness and an innocence that is totally engaging. She is excited about going through my old stained Second Helpings Cookbook, she is curious about my life and my feelings. It is the perfect way to spend my first evening in New York. I have always been concerned about Dov making his way in the world, but after seeing him together with Marissa I feel that he has matured and has become a responsible adult moving forward with more confidence and purpose than I have seen before.
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