It is a call of the wild to a New Yorker. A heady, sunlit drink with a twist of aphrodisiac, no ice, and pardon me, but are you taken for this dance? Strangers not only smile at one another on such a day, but their eyes grope the air to make contact with any other human being who, with a background of fresh breezes sterilized by bright yellow sunlight, is assumed to be a lady or gentleman of great innocence and unending good will.
Such a day makes one long to have lived a century before, when men could tip their hats to ladies; and then suddenly, it doesn’t matter which century this is, because it is March 5, and you are a gentleman, and all of the ladies in the world love you, and the crocuses are pushing their little pointed heads up through the lush, plush, delicious earth, and before you know it, you have walked twenty-five blocks, turned, and entered the opulent and austere dark premises where royalty buys and Cynthia Wylie sells the most expensive pianos in the world.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish