John Jack, our Lebanese Uber driver, picks us up on the upper level at LaGuardia in his big black Chevy Suburban and ferries us away from the construction mess of the airport - due to be complete in 2022. Not enough space, he tells me, careening around cars as we head onto the QBE, the bridge that quickly becomes a parking lot. We bail off to the right. “ We’re going local,” says John Jack, and we head into the Brooklyn night of a neighborhood crawling with men with long, dark beards, trench coats and wide-brimmed hats. Orthodox or Hasidic Jews - I’m not sure which. Rowan comments on this, and John Jack explains that they run everything. “You want to be president? You got to get their blessing first.”
Patty and Drew welcome us to their colored flag-festooned home, and Berit, Bennett and I stay up talking with them a while.
I don’t sleep great on the air mattress with Griffin, but I’m fortunate to keep falling back into sleep. In fact, it’s 10:30 before I get out of bed, and it’s 1 pm before we leave the apartment. Patty is working today, and our family is headed into Manhattan this evening for The Book of Mormon, so we make it a Brooklyn day, joining Drew and Fiona on the G train Williamsburg. Drew’s off to the dentist, and we split off from them onto the L train to head to the Brooklyn Flea Market in Williamsburg. It’s not there, but we find its supposed location at the East River Park on Kent Street. Griffin has sequestered himself from us with his headphones, and I know he’s hungry and tired (angry too, it turns out), and I know we’d better get some food. The girls have stopped in a shop called Bulletin, where Berit buys a SMASH A PATRIARCHY wristband, and we gather them up and go to the nearby taco truck - BEST TACOS IN AMERICA. We walk our food back to the East River Park and feast at the wooden picnic tables there. Rowan and I walk down to the river bank to take moody teen photos before we all head back to the train.
On the way back to Park Slope, while we wait for the G train, Griffin discovers a card magician and points him out to me. We go back to him, and he has me draw a card. Six of diamonds. He has me tell him what it is, and then he repeatedly makes it disappear and reappear, alternately changing it into the ten of clubs, which eventually, he rips up and then causes to reassemble itself within the confines of my fist. It’s all very well done, but our train is arriving and we’ve got to run. We keep the card and he hands us his business card. Justin Syte.
Back in Park Slope we ready ourselves and head back out to catch the F train to Manahatta. We don’t get it right - Bennett and I both leading us astray - and we walk around in a square. Still we make it to Rockefeller Station in plenty of time to get fast food prior to the show. The girls get long bread caprisi sandwiches at a little indoor cafe and Bennett, Griffin and I get hot dogs from a street vendor. Coffees all around.
We’re at the Eugene O’Neill Theater well in advance of showtime, and we fall into the line outside with everyone, taking obligatory selfies as we file in. Row R, seats 108-112 is at the back of the Orchestra section, but still incredible seats. The Book of Mormon is a great show - funny the whole time and the music and dancing is wonderful. After the show, we split up. Bennett and the girls go back, and I keep Griffin behind to try to help work out tension that has been building. I don’t know if my approach was the right one, but he blows off steam and, as I said to him, we’re all just doing the best we can. He and I follow the others, grabbing an F train back to Brooklyn. At one point, Griffin looks at our rapidly filling train car and notes that we’re not going to be able to see or hear our stop with all of these people. We’re seated next to the door between cars through which a whole bunch of riders have just streamed through, but we look through the windows and see that the next car is mostly empty. We get up and head into it, quickly realizing the reason for the mass exodus - someone has vomited in this car, and the rank bile odor is unbearable. Griffin and I hold out for the ten seconds until the next stop before running around to the next car. “Don’t go in this one,” he warns a boarding passenger.
Tomorrow is a latter day.
