Summer in the City

Yeah, I know that summer doesn't officially start for another 9 days. But it sure feels like it's here already. For the past two weeks, the temps have topped out in the upper 80s and, occasionally, the low 90s. It's too hot to wear a jacket (even if it's thin cotton, as I discovered last Monday). Even a three-block walk in the city, wearing flip flops and a tank top and a loose-fitting skirt, will leave your newly exposed skin pink and covered in perspiration and grime. And if you're unlucky enough to find yourself on a subway car without A/C, as I did yesterday, you'll not only have to endure the stifling heat, but the complaints--and the B.O.--of dozens of other straphangers squeezed up against you. It's enough to make you want to splurge on a $20 cab ride. Even if the cab has no A/C, at least you'll be alone in the back seat and you can open the windows to allow a cross-breeze.
This is what I was thinking when, for the fifth time yesterday afternoon, I got on the A train, which did not have A/C--at least in my car--and was making all local stops because the local train was out of service for repairs (making my train ride nearly twice as long as normal). I was also thinking that normally I wouldn't even be on this [expletive] train anyway because the [expletive] L train would be working. But, due to "necessary track work," the L train was only operating to Union Square, two stops--and three and a half long blocks--from where I needed to be. I was also thinking that if I hadn't left my [expletive] make-up bag at the hair salon in Brooklyn Heights and forgotten about it until I got off the [expletive] A train in Chelsea and stopped by my gym for a quick workout, I could have spared myself two unanticipated rides on the A train (not to mention, an hour of my afternoon).
It's a good thing that I have an unlimited metro card.
When I finally got home at 7:45 Saturday night, I figured I'd spent about two hours and 45 minutes riding on eight different subways (or waiting for them on the platform). Calculations like that make me a little nostalgic for my car. Though, with the weekend traffic, I assured myself, I might not have saved much time in transit (though the ride definitely would have smelled better).
Victor and I had left the apartment at 9:45 that morning to attend a Jewish naming ceremony for Mike and Stacie's baby girl, Rachel. We'd never been to one before and didn't know what to expect. Stacie had written "9:30" on the emailed invite, but told me later that the actual baby naming part of the service would probably not begin before 10:30, and it was all right if we showed up then. Apparently, not everyone got that memo. When we arrived at 10:35, the inner doors to the temple were wide open and at least a third of the pews (the synagogue had formerly been a church) were filled with members of the couple's extended families and friends: parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, a half-sister, and two other girl friends of Stacie's who eventually moved back to sit with Victor and me. The service was long and almost entirely in Hebrew, with the notable exception of a tribute Stacie made to her grandfather in explaining how she chose her baby's middle name (Morgan). Once the couple's baby had received her Jewish names and been blessed by the rabbi, the three of them proceeded out into the lobby--and almost their entire contingent followed. It was about 11:40 a.m. The two other friends who'd attended made their apologies and left after the ceremony, but Victor and I decided to stick around for the reception, which we'd assumed (wrongly) would immediately follow the ceremony. Turns out the service was still going on, and would be for another 55 minutes. But in the meantime, we moved along with the family to the reception hall, where attendants were laying out piles of bagels alongside plates of egg salad, whitefish spread, cream cheese, fruit, and cookies on a long table.
By now it was after noon, and Victor and I had nothing in our stomachs but coffee and seltzer. We were starving. But we'd heard that no one could touch a morsel of the food that had been spread out on the table before us until the rabbi had blessed it. That didn't end up happening until 12:45. And, of course, just as the plastic cups were being raised to toast the food, my cell phone started vibrating. It was someone from the copy desk calling with a question about the story that had kept me in the office until almost midnight the night before. I had to sneak outside quickly since cell phone use was strictly prohibited (it was the sabbath after all) in the temple or reception hall. By the time I'd returned, the whitefish spread and the egg salad were gone and there were only "everything" bagels left. I smeared some cream cheese on one and grabbed a bunch of grapes, and Victor and I stood by the wall to eat (we'd given up our seats for the elderly and pregnant, both of which were well represented). We split soon after, giving Stacie and Mike big hugs and a gift bag with a ruffly cotton dress, a towel, and a couple sea creature finger puppets for the baby (who was upstairs with the nurse, per the pediatrician's orders to keep her away from the masses till her immune system had a chance to build itself up).
Then Victor went home and I went to the hair salon. And, well, you know the rest. Except that the make-up bag was not all I forgot. I'd left my umbrella at home too. It had been bright and sunny when we left that morning. But, you guessed it, almost as soon as I stepped out of the salon, the rain started falling and I had to run to the subway station--in heels (the ceremony was also formal). Did I mention that I was wearing a black, long-sleeved, though lacy cardigan over a matching sleeveless shirt and black pants (on Stacie's recommendation that I dress conservatively and cover my shoulders for the service)? And carrying 35 pages of notes, and a print-out of my story (on my editor's instructions, should someone have a question on the story while I was out that day)--along with a magazine, gym clothes, toiletries, daybook, and sunglasses?
This was the kind of day that tests your patience and endurance as a New Yorker. By the time I got home, I had blisters on my feet. My clothes were wet with rain and perspiration. My hair was frizzy. And my stomach was grumbling.
But it was good to be home. Victor greeted me with a kiss and a cold beer. And the A/C was on. And after I ate a burrito and showered, I slipped my feet into my padded J Crew slippers with no plans of taking them off again until I went to bed. And vowed that Sunday would be a day of rest.