Damn Yankees

I’m out at the end of Long Island for the summer. Ok, I’m in the Hamptons, I admit it. Today was a perfect gym day and I even managed to find a parking space, which is nothing short of a miracle. So there I was on the cross-trainer or whatever they call it, watching television, WABC, when suddenly there is a news flash interrupting the programme. I get into a somewhat panicky mode when this happens because the first thing that enters my mind is that NYC has been attacked once again and there I am, safe and sound, while my daughter is in the city. But no, NYC was not attacked. The news flash was because 80 year old George Steinbrenner, owner of the NY Yankees, had died.
Prior to today I had never heard of this man. His family has my sympathy at their loss and I extend my condolences to his many fans and supporters. But the truth of the matter is that I really do not see that this is earth-shaking, and news flash-worthy; in short, this, to me, is part of the dumbing down of news programs.
When the mid-day news finally comes on, and I am still on the trainer, I discover that people are scratching around for nice things to say about this man; “not universally liked” was the comment from one reporter. There are tapes of him screaming at one of his managers and stories of him firing various people. Later in the day, as I am changing clothes and dressing for the evening, the opening episode of the 24th season of Oprah, bless her, is also broken into with further news flashes on the death of Mr. Steinbrenner. By now the news people have managed to round up some decent things to say. But couldn’t it have waited for a normal news slot? Senator Byrd’s passing got less coverage than this and I can only wonder if someone higher up the ladder of power were to pass on, would he or she also get this sort of coverage?
A while ago WPIX news had some game show elements worked into their broadcast where contestants had to dash into a cage and gather up as much money as they could in the allotted time. The embarrassment on anchors Jim Watkins’ and Kaity Tong’s faces was something to behold; they hadn’t signed on for this. The game show seems to have stopped, yet we still have ‘Help Me Howard’ handing out money on Fridays to people who seem to pretend they had no idea he had a pocketful of cash to give away. Over on WABC, the reporters seem to have adapted a reporting style reminiscent of a 19th Century melodrama. They come only short of beginning their slots with, ‘It was a dark and stormy night…’ The Beeb, or Aunty as we liked to call the BBC, was never thus.
When did news from around the world and the country become so unimportant in this country that the news broadcasts have to drum up business by not being all news?

WEST SIDE STORY

I was so lucky. I managed to sell my London apt. just as the crash started to have an effect on the property market. So, I didn’t get quite the handsome sum I had envisioned for my London flat. but I managed to sell it, which was more than I can say for many people. I headed back to the USA, walked into my summer home with a good dose of arrhythmia from the stress, settled down a bit and, in the autumn and winter, started to look for a NYC apt.

I was aided in this effort by my niece, C, a practicing real estate broker (estate agent to those from the other side of the pond). C is charming, beautiful and competent—in short, everything I am not-- but she is also a veritable Rottweiler when it comes to business. Like a dog with a bone, she does not let go until she has reached her goal for her client. This is excellent news for those of us who want to get things done quickly. She knows exactly what her client wants, even if they do not, and goes for it. She does not stand for any funny business, does not let her client buy anything they will regret. So, whereas I went in saying I did not want an apt. where you came directly into the kitchen, I wanted a condo which I could eventually rent, and I wanted to be a floor above 4, I have bought a co-op on the 2^nd floor where you walk directly into the kitchen. But, hey, that’s ok; she did not let me buy the completely dilapidated apt. with plenty of room I thought I might do up and whose building had an entrance way like Grand Central Station. She did not let me buy the magnificent 23rd floor apt. over on the upper east side while I really wanted to be near my daughter on the west side. And we had lovely afternoons sipping hot chocolate and reviewing the apts. we had seen.

C is French but she has been duly Americanized by my nephew and her long stay on these shores. She is a shining example, to me, of what can and will no doubt happen to a European who spends too much time here. She checked in with her Nanny every afternoon for a 15 minute conversation ensuring that little A had been duly sanitized, debugged and debriefed on her return from play dates. Since my own daughter, now 26, grew up with her own wheelbarrow and was placed on various dirty floors to play, these conversations C has are eye openers. But I am not criticizing, I hasten to say: it was me who whipped out the hand sanitizer (circa 2006 from a trip to Machu Picchu) after an open house where the broker on duty was sniffling all over the place. We stood out on Broadway and 81^st spraying ourselves as if we had just been exposed to Ebola in a major effort not to catch his cold.

Now here was a difficult situation. Prices were tumbling and I had no idea what to offer on the various apt.s in which I was interested. We went through several permutations of offers, rejections, counter bids, valuations for remodeling and second serious offers. In the end my offer was accepted on this lovely corner apt. overlooking the museums and park, 5 blocks from my daughter. As any New Yorker knows: this was only the beginning…

YOU CAN’T GO HOME AGAIN

Thomas Wolfe knew what he was talking about. The pleasant things we remember from our childhood- how easy life used to be- are simply no longer there when we return home. As an adult you have to cope; you have to deal with all those nasty things your parents dealt with which made your life easy and pleasant. I’m not going to tell you how many years I’ve been away from NYC; that would be ‘aging’ me and I certainly don’t want to do that. However, I will say that I moved to the UK when aubergines (eggplants) and courgettes (zucchini) were the most exotic vegetables in the market (note I leave out the adjective “super”) and eating garlic was something only foreigners did. I had gone to do an M.A. course, made the mistake of getting married, and stayed on….until this past year. Like the convergence of the moon and the sun forming an eclipse, events converged in my life to force me to move back. Against my will. Against my better judgment.

One reason was that I became ill. For a time it looked as if I might need an operation. I lived alone, friends were working, and it appeared I had no one to look after me. Divorced now and with my daughter safely settled in NYC, she would have to take time off work in order to come over to care for me. This happily was not necessary but it was food for thought. And then the British Government struck. They came up with a fund-raising effort: why don’t we charge, they said, non-domiciled foreign residents, of which I was one, 35K GBP a year for the privilege of living here?

Listen, I’m no fool. I know when to get out. I came home again.

Admittedly, it isn’t as if I hadn’t been back in the USA all those years. I had had holidays (vacations) here; my daughter attended university here and I was privileged enough to own a ‘second home’ here. But owning a second home isn’t quite the same thing as owning a first home and being resident. I have come from a country with free medical care, much lower property tax, tiny maintenance charges on apts., an incredibly clean underground (subway) system with escalators, and a government which doesn’t seem to regulate and license everything and everyone. OK, so I’m prejudiced. I admit it. I like upholstered seats in the subway. I like reminders from doctors when my next bone-density scan is due. I like clean streets. But I’m coping.

So far….