When I pass the United Nations headquarters in Manhattan, I think about my father, and not really because his diplomacy was occasionally the only thing that prevented our Brooklyn apartment from erupting into all out war. I think about riding in the back seat of his Cadillac on Saturday mornings, catching a glimpse of the windowless southern flank of the soaring symbol of peaceful international coexistence as we turned off the FDR Drive onto the 42nd street exit.
We were, more often than not, on our way to Bloomingdale's. Both my parents looked forward to these Saturday morning excursions. My mother was always impeccably dressed in whatever designer clothing was in vogue at the time. My father, as I recall, was impeccably dressed in Sans-a-belt slacks and, usually, a sport coat. My mother's credit cards were fired up. My father's cigar was ready to be fired up. He had everything he needed with him: the cigar, the tiny guillotine he would use to cut off the tip, a lighter, and his New York Times. I don't remember being particularly excited about the trip, but I don't remember being particularly unexcited either. It was just part of the routine -- as predictable as reading the cereal boxes while I ate breakfast and sipped milk laced with coffee at our tiny kitchen table.
Rounding the corner to head north on 1st Avenue, I would marvel at the broad gleaming windowed facade of the U.N. and the rainbow of international flags waving in the breeze. I rarely thought about what was going on inside, although I had been on a tour there, once, on a school trip. What fascinated me was the swiftness of the traffic flow on 1st Avenue. New York's urban planners had gotten things just right, syncing the traffic lights on 1st Avenue to facilitate uninterrupted trips north for a never ending stream of taxis, buses, and regular old passenger cars like ours. It was the reason we exited the FDR at 42nd rather than 61st, only a block north of our destination.
Intelligently programmed traffic lights: these are the things New Yorkers love about New York, the hidden gems that make life just a little easier in an otherwise overly hectic place. They are the things you take for granted the way you take all the famous tourist sites for granted -- you only notice them when they are gone. Which is why I was slightly annoyed the other day when, green light notwithstanding, I was held up so that a large black SUV with flashing blue and red lights could pull out of the United Nations gates. With its meager entourage of only one nondescript car, the SUV could not have been transporting anybody other than a minor dignitary. Nevertheless, diplomatic privileges trumped what I had long thought of as an entitlement to unimpeded progress all the way to East 59th Street.
The unexpected stall forced me to notice my surroundings, not the least of which was the massive tourist attraction to the right. What struck me, this time, was not the gleaming facade or the row of colorful flags but the small crowds of visitors with cameras poised so they could memorialize, I assume, their trip to the U.N., and not the marvel of the northbound traffic flow on 1st Avenue. They crisscrossed the broad street with abandon, thwarting our progress further as they focused with single minded attention on capturing a good shot. They were oblivious to the true beauty of the city, and they were pissing me off.
So many things have changed in New York since those days in the sixties and seventies when my father would chauffeur his ladies up to Bloomingdale's so he could enjoy a few hours of pure joy with his cigar and his Cadillac and his New York Times. Those were the days when cars had ashtrays, not cup holders. Those were the days before police cars stationed themselves at both ends of every bridge and tunnel crossing into Manhattan. I often wonder how they know when a passing car poses a threat and when, on the other hand, a passing car is just a passing car, just a Jewish guy with his cigar, miniature guillotine, and butane lighter.
Almost a decade and a half after terrorists altered my favorite view from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway of lower Manhattan, I am still annoyed. The ravaged southern tip of the island has been rebuilt and reinvented. It gleams with new restaurants and stores and hotels and a twenty-first century tower that soars out of Ground Zero to remind us of our resilience and our freedom (even though we decided not to call it the Freedom Tower). There are probably lots of tourists on the revamped streets, taking pictures, memorializing their visit. I think, though, they are missing the true gems of New York, the ones the natives count on, the gems that you notice most when they are gone, like the twin towers. I still see them when I look across the river from Brooklyn, their shadows like missing teeth in the skyline.
I miss them. I miss the Saturday morning excursions in my father's Cadillac. I miss the smell of his cigar. I miss the swift ride up 1st Avenue; I don't appreciate when interlopers with cameras and minor dignitaries in black SUV's interfere with my view of the world as it should be. At least I still have mom, and Bloomingdale's.
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