Thank you for this heart opener. Tenderness for your parents, their lives and your own relationship to them and that magical city. Sometimes memories are enough . Such a gift this piece .
Lovely memories, even with maternal fights included, compared to the horrors that may await us. And yet, where I sit in NE Portland, the sun is shining, the autumn leaves are turning, people are walking and bicycling in the brisk air, and some semblance of those times do not seem so very far away.
Remember this era of NYC well, especially Scribners. And yes, having grown up in Munich as an American ex-Pat, the spatzergang, is highly regarded. Also popular for working off all that heavy German and East European food.
Tears in my eyes! A perfect piece, thank you 🙏🏼 I’m in the last few days of my Manhattan life after 20+ years, and I was a flaneur for sure 🥲 Walking this little island has been a joy. ✨
I am a couple of years older than you. Grew up in Yorkville, like my mom. Knew Mrs. Herbst’s well (and Kramer’s and the original Orwasher’s, among other German and Hungarian bakeries), as well as Soup Burg (that one - and Carl Schurz - made me smile). The whole neighborhood, north of 72nd or 79th (depending on the year) and up to about 106th was filled with specialty shops (that’s what we call them now), bakers, butchers, spice shops, chocolate, marzipan. Of course we walked, to take in the smells and the sights. Greet the shopkeepers and our neighbors. I so miss those days. But I hope . . . and I walk.
Elissa, you are describing something so foreign to much of America today. We are so wedded to our automobiles. Perhaps the fact owning a car in Manhattan was not the greatest idea contributed to the fact people walked more. I am kind of surprised you find you walk less at your Connecticut home. There is so much written about the beautiful countryside and quaint stopovers. But keep doing as much as you can. There is a lot of science to support the notion this will contribute significantly to your longevity. One thing I readily identify with is the reward system which assures a wonderful taste of something at the end of the trek. For me, the hook invariably involves chocolate. Best, John
Strange blessings, but the Pandammit made something of a flâneur of me. A change of employment left me without a commute, so that suddenly uncommitted hour became an opportunity to stroll around and through my neighborhood.
It was a measure, in retrospect, of a rough patch I hit this summer, in that I could barely make myself get up and out the door for much of the summer. In healthier days I averaged a good three miles before work and often wedged in a stop at either the library or one of the several bakeries around me. So to refuse the siren call of dawn clouds and temperate wind (not to mention cream puffs, kolachky, and Amir Alexander's latest) shows just how deeply I had fallen.
It is late fall, now, in the upper Midwest, and sunrise is too late, sunset too early to afford me an hour's untrammeled tramping. But I yearn once again for spring, for miles under my feet, and I feel myself to be myself again.
Elissa Altman: There is NOTHING frivolous in your loving memories of flaneuring in Manhattan with Mom and Dad.
Being older than you (1948), I remember those days less idyllically.
What you are remembering is not better times.
What you are remembering is family love.
You still can flaneur with loved ones in Manhattan -- I have done it with the Woman-I-have-LOVED-for 53 years, Nancy (with whom married 51 years).
It is beautiful to soak in Central Park or to enjoy the culture of the museums, bookshops, Broadway, Carnegie Hall.
I wish I could afford it. I would live in NYC and forget the rest of America, shut out the news, and enjoy the culture that ONLY NYC can offer.
But alas, I cannot. So, I am in a semi-rural suburb of Memphis, where the darkened minds don't even SEE the neo-Nazism in the neo-Nazism.
But your memories are beautiful and form the inner beauty of the person you are.
Let us have inner peace and maintain our integrity.
Even with a victory of our Joyful Warrior, Kamala Harris, we have the Jim-Crow of Texas, Alabama and Florida to fight.
Our war is in the long haul, it is not over in 10 days.
We have to build our inner strength, and your beautiful excursions are not a luxury but are the very stuff that makes you STRONG to continue your quest.
Keep the beautiful visions before your eyes and mind for the long years ahead.
We can lead strong, beautiful lives in love and integrity no matter the times.
Only our girl Elissa could pen a sentence like this below, and we are all the richer for sharing in her reflections of a simpler time.
As we stare down the barrel of a primed and dangerous weapon. We are breathing. And we are reflecting with the help of talent like this.
“Maybe it’s a manifestation of my mother’s tentacular imagination which has grown fainter with age but is still veneered like the caramel on a Dobos Torte with a thin layer of chronic fibbing.”
What a lovely reflection. I recently read A Walking Life by Antonia Malchik, got me thinking about some similar things - you might enjoy it if you haven't come across it already!
This is such a tender, beautiful read ♥️ thank you!
Thank you for this heart opener. Tenderness for your parents, their lives and your own relationship to them and that magical city. Sometimes memories are enough . Such a gift this piece .
Lovely memories, even with maternal fights included, compared to the horrors that may await us. And yet, where I sit in NE Portland, the sun is shining, the autumn leaves are turning, people are walking and bicycling in the brisk air, and some semblance of those times do not seem so very far away.
You are a wonder. Vivid descriptions.
Remember this era of NYC well, especially Scribners. And yes, having grown up in Munich as an American ex-Pat, the spatzergang, is highly regarded. Also popular for working off all that heavy German and East European food.
Tears in my eyes! A perfect piece, thank you 🙏🏼 I’m in the last few days of my Manhattan life after 20+ years, and I was a flaneur for sure 🥲 Walking this little island has been a joy. ✨
I am a couple of years older than you. Grew up in Yorkville, like my mom. Knew Mrs. Herbst’s well (and Kramer’s and the original Orwasher’s, among other German and Hungarian bakeries), as well as Soup Burg (that one - and Carl Schurz - made me smile). The whole neighborhood, north of 72nd or 79th (depending on the year) and up to about 106th was filled with specialty shops (that’s what we call them now), bakers, butchers, spice shops, chocolate, marzipan. Of course we walked, to take in the smells and the sights. Greet the shopkeepers and our neighbors. I so miss those days. But I hope . . . and I walk.
And now I aspire to flaneurdom, er flaneuritude, and cabbage streudel.
I dread the day when I can no longer walk everywhere
Beautiful. Thank you.
Elissa, you are describing something so foreign to much of America today. We are so wedded to our automobiles. Perhaps the fact owning a car in Manhattan was not the greatest idea contributed to the fact people walked more. I am kind of surprised you find you walk less at your Connecticut home. There is so much written about the beautiful countryside and quaint stopovers. But keep doing as much as you can. There is a lot of science to support the notion this will contribute significantly to your longevity. One thing I readily identify with is the reward system which assures a wonderful taste of something at the end of the trek. For me, the hook invariably involves chocolate. Best, John
Oh, that was lovely.
Strange blessings, but the Pandammit made something of a flâneur of me. A change of employment left me without a commute, so that suddenly uncommitted hour became an opportunity to stroll around and through my neighborhood.
It was a measure, in retrospect, of a rough patch I hit this summer, in that I could barely make myself get up and out the door for much of the summer. In healthier days I averaged a good three miles before work and often wedged in a stop at either the library or one of the several bakeries around me. So to refuse the siren call of dawn clouds and temperate wind (not to mention cream puffs, kolachky, and Amir Alexander's latest) shows just how deeply I had fallen.
It is late fall, now, in the upper Midwest, and sunrise is too late, sunset too early to afford me an hour's untrammeled tramping. But I yearn once again for spring, for miles under my feet, and I feel myself to be myself again.
Elissa Altman: There is NOTHING frivolous in your loving memories of flaneuring in Manhattan with Mom and Dad.
Being older than you (1948), I remember those days less idyllically.
What you are remembering is not better times.
What you are remembering is family love.
You still can flaneur with loved ones in Manhattan -- I have done it with the Woman-I-have-LOVED-for 53 years, Nancy (with whom married 51 years).
It is beautiful to soak in Central Park or to enjoy the culture of the museums, bookshops, Broadway, Carnegie Hall.
I wish I could afford it. I would live in NYC and forget the rest of America, shut out the news, and enjoy the culture that ONLY NYC can offer.
But alas, I cannot. So, I am in a semi-rural suburb of Memphis, where the darkened minds don't even SEE the neo-Nazism in the neo-Nazism.
But your memories are beautiful and form the inner beauty of the person you are.
Let us have inner peace and maintain our integrity.
Even with a victory of our Joyful Warrior, Kamala Harris, we have the Jim-Crow of Texas, Alabama and Florida to fight.
Our war is in the long haul, it is not over in 10 days.
We have to build our inner strength, and your beautiful excursions are not a luxury but are the very stuff that makes you STRONG to continue your quest.
Keep the beautiful visions before your eyes and mind for the long years ahead.
We can lead strong, beautiful lives in love and integrity no matter the times.
Well said. Thank you.
Only our girl Elissa could pen a sentence like this below, and we are all the richer for sharing in her reflections of a simpler time.
As we stare down the barrel of a primed and dangerous weapon. We are breathing. And we are reflecting with the help of talent like this.
“Maybe it’s a manifestation of my mother’s tentacular imagination which has grown fainter with age but is still veneered like the caramel on a Dobos Torte with a thin layer of chronic fibbing.”
Excellent, thank you!
What a lovely reflection. I recently read A Walking Life by Antonia Malchik, got me thinking about some similar things - you might enjoy it if you haven't come across it already!