Everything's coming up roses

It's the final day of my trip and I decide I want to see a show. Not just any show, mind you, but the show with the mother of all stage mothers: Mama Rose. Even before the show was to be produced, I knew I had to see it because of LuPone. But, before I see the show, I have a few hours to spend.

Because M told me to call him up when in town, I do so. Unfortunately, he just had surgery and is feeling nauseous. He says he'll try to make it, but isn't too sure he'll survive. I take this as a confirmation that he won't be coming. Still, I have hope that he'll pop into the city, if only for just an hour, for us to have lunch. Even thin people eat, contrary to popular belief.

After purchasing my ticket at the TKTS booth (now located in the Marriott Marquis), I make my way down to 14th Street. M told me Chelsea is the best neighbourhood to get some brunch. As I stroll down, the clouds start to threaten the brightness that started off the day. Within a few minutes, I pull out my umbrella, if only for a few minutes. Water and curly hair do not (and should never) mix.

While waiting for M to call me back, I dial Chris' number. I spoken to since I've been in NYC. He knew I was coming down for the weekend, but he already had plans (which included bathing). At least he told me he was busy before I came down. We talk for a couple of minutes and he tells me he would rather tell someone that he doesn't want to go out instead of promising them and backing out at the last minute. It makes sense: just be non-committal.

I make a couple of other phone calls; namely to those I was supposed to "meet" while in town. Like everyone on my trip, they're not answering. Whatever. Fuck them. Or, to be precise, they're not fucked.

My stomach starts to grumble and I can't take it anymore. I walk into the nearest McDonald's and order something with a small iced tea. Strangely enough, a small iced tea comes in a container that resembles a slurpy cup and it tastes like brewed tea that's been cooled. I eat the burger in a minute, but carry the cup with me, taking the occasional sip.

When I look at my watch, I know I don't have too much time to waste, so I around and between the streets on my way up to the theatre. The rain starts again, and I get drenched. Stepping into Macy's dries me up for a second, but everyone else had the same idea. The store is crowded and steamy. Still, I make my way out in time to see LuPone.

Gypsy is amazing and I feel great empathy for the mother of all stage mothers. She does everything for her children, and loves them unconditionally. True, she has a vicarious way of showing that affection, but what mother doesn't? I start to think of my mother while watching the show and begin to dislike her a little less by the time the 11 o'clock number starts, ending the first act. Mama Rose and my ma can be the same person, only my ma can't belt out a song. By the end of the show, I'm crying. Now, I hate my mother for making me think of her while watching a Broadway show. Damnit.

I walk out with the crowd and stroll towards 46th Street where I spent some time with G last year when he was visiting. Memories, both good and bad start to pass through my mind. I pull out my phone and call M. He says he called me, but it went straight to voicemail. It happens when my phone is in roaming. We talk for a couple of minutes and make plans for his trip to Toronto in the fall. Not too long after, I get a call from my mother. That conversation is a lot shorter, since all I want to do is wish my father a safe flight (he's leaving the country for six months).

Now, as the day winds down, just like my holiday in NYC, I slow things down and take a couple of last looks around the city. I stroll through Lexington, Park and Fifth Avenues, peering into store windows, wanting to break them and running off with thousands of dollars of merchandise. I take photos of the sunset reflecting off of tall buildings. I walk in front of Central Park, on 59th Street and make my way to Columbus Circle since that's my subway entrance. Before going underground, I turn around, look up, breathe deeply, taking in as much of NYC before I go. Unlike Gypsy, it doesn't smell like everything's coming up roses, but diesel fumes.

No matter what happened this time around, I don't have any ill feelings towards the city. I'll keep coming back, year after year, if my schedule allows for it. Whether, or not, I'll be able to do the things (and people) I want to do depends on a series of variables; many of which I can't control (although someday, I will because I will rule the world).

From the sights to the sounds, friends and food, this is a place I will return to in 2009.

I love NY.