When a friend of mine asked me what I did this weekend, I told them, and then they asked me if I was okay. Yes I’m okay. Why shouldn’t I be okay? I didn’t get mugged or assaulted or get hit by a bus, I didn’t get food poisoning, or lose a lot of money in the stock market (like I even have enough money to begin with). No, what prompted the question of “are you okay?” was that everything I told my friend I did this weekend, I did alone.
In a city where there is never a lack of things to do, why should it be surprising that a single gal spent the weekend doing things by herself? Coffee and writing at the Starbucks around the corner on Friday night (I know, very cliché) where dinner was a venti soy latte that lasted me through a few chapters. I watched couples stroll in and out, on the way back from or to dinner, maybe at Due or the posh new Brazilian restaurant Buzina Pop on 73rd and Lex. I listened as the two girls (smart) next to me debate over whether or not Donnie Darko and Donnie Brasco are indeed, the same movie. They left the discussion agreeing to disagree, deciding that they would both ask their friends Mark and Robbie that they were meeting later to make the final decision, and the loser would have to buy the other one a bud light at Doc Watson’s.
I strolled down 5th Ave on Saturday night, the Upper East Side looking barren and quiet, to The Paris Theatre, tucked nicely next to The Plaza to catch the latest French import “Changing Times.” I bought my ticket “one please,” walked in and bought a box of Milk Duds, “one please,” and made it through the next two hours of subtitles and Gerard Depardieu. It was no Green Card, but it had its charms (namely Catherine Deneuve). French films have an uncanny ability of making a basically interesting story into something a lot more bizarre. Gerard’s character has come to Tangier to track down the love of his life, whom he hasn’t seen/found in 31 years (actually 31 years, 8 months and 20 days). While I’m already rolling my eyes at the overall absurdity of this love plot (like any man can still love someone after 31 years of not having seen them), we move from a love story to a closeted gay son story, to a sheep slaughtering, to a coma. Les temps qui changent indeed.
As I left the theatre, the New York night humid and hot, I trailed closely behind some of the other couples to hear their opinions of the film. As most of them were over fifty, they didn’t seem to understand it, and those that did, were speaking in rapid fire French.
Sunday was a day walking around Manhattan as the bad weather finally broke and I spent almost three hours in the MET checking out the new installments and revisiting my old favorites (the Impressionist wing, especially Monet’s Haystacks, The American Wing, and the circular panoramic view of Versailles that makes you feel like you’re actually there). I stopped by the Telegraph Café for a cappuccino and a pain au chocolat and another weekend passed just like all the rest.
Why is it people always seem unable to understand the concept of living life on your own? This is Manhattan, you’re never alone. And besides, I like the things I do alone, like as soon as I get The New Yorker in the mail I stand at the counter eating pistachios, drinking a diet coke and I circle in the calendar section (after checking out the cartoon contest in the back) all of the wonderful things I’m going to do next weekend.
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