Originally published April 19th 2024
I’ve pledged (to myself) to write 52 columns this year. Dave Rogers, the avant editor of The Daily News, first presented me with this chance last fall. I’m grateful for his generous offer to a novice writer who’s somewhat conservative, a tad long winded, and carries a few extra pounds. Each week is different: sometimes a story finds me, other times I seek one out, and then there are weeks like this when it’s tough to fall in love with a subject. Back in November, I wrote a piece I liked, but it remained unpublished as other urgent stories took precedence. I will be on the lookout for a fresh beat for next week, but in the meantime enjoy this:
“Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighborhood.” Billy Joel’s iconic song played from the radio as we made our way through the Holland Tunnel on a surprise long weekend, that came courtesy of Veterans Day being declared a federal holiday. My wife, Nina, our 15-year-old son, Max, and I found ourselves “in need of a little give and take, The New York Times, The Daily News.” Our journey began in Hell’s Kitchen, a historic neighborhood bordering the theater and garment districts. This part of the island, also known as Midtown West with its unique zoning restricting buildings to no more than six stories, stands in contrast to the towering skyscrapers just blocks away. Once home to Irish immigrants fleeing the 19th century potato famine, and then later Hispanics looking for their own bite of the big apple, Hell’s Kitchen has evolved. Its streets, still humming with the pulse of new immigrants, offer a mosaic of dining experiences and a variety of spoken languages, accompanied by the music from Bluetooth speakers of delivery riders zipping around on e-bikes.
Navigating the subway with iPhone maps in hand, we set out for Brooklyn and Coney Island, New York’s own Salisbury Beach. This seaside park, once a training ground for the Moghabagab brothers, pioneer restaurant owners in Salisbury, now buzzed with a different energy. Unable to find a pepper steak, we settled for a chopped cheese (New York’s take on the Philly Cheesesteak) and, of course, a classic Nathan’s hotdog. The boardwalk beckoned for a stroll, offering views of the beach.
Our return journey uptown via the E line express subway afforded a view of the Statue of Liberty, a reminder of the city’s welcoming arms to generations of immigrants. A walk through Chinatown followed, where Canal Street greeted us with knock-off Louis Vuitton and fake Rolexes in hidden markets. We then found Strawberry Fields in Central Park, before we visited The Dakota on The Upper West Side for a moment of silence at the haunted apartment building where John Lennon was murdered.
My oldest son, Joe happened to be in Queens for the weekend, and we unexpectedly ran into him and his fiancee, Gyna Santana, at Times Square on Saturday afternoon. Gyna, a vibrant Dominican beauty, has an infectious laugh and a smile as warm and welcoming as her personality. Accompanying them were her sister, Johanna, her mother, Fabia, both beauties in their own rights, and my grandsons, Juan Carlo and Josiah. As we all boarded a train to the Empire State Building, we momentarily lost track of Fabia. We soon found her right back where we had left her, prompting a flurry of jokes about Fabia “lost in New York.” She was not amused.
The evening found us at off-Broadway New World Stages for a show called “Mind Mangler,” a comedy/magic act that was the perfect antidote to the lights of Broadway, delighting us and our teenage son alike. The walk back to our hotel through the colorful streets of Hell’s Kitchen was a journey through the heart of the neighborhood we were beginning to know. I strolled alongside Nina, who is way too good for me, fearing she might one day figure out, I wake up each day determined to keep winning her heart over, or at least keeping her too busy to think about it. As we headed back to our hotel, I couldn’t help but appreciate that moment, no stress, no agenda, no drama, and a beautiful girl on my arm that I managed to somehow con into loving me.
The city’s rawness was most evident in our early morning subway ride to Katz’s Deli. As dawn broke, the streets bore the scars of the night’s revelry — trash strewn, weary party-goers trudging home, and the homeless seeking shelter in the subway’s bowels. From Times Square, we caught the A train downtown, then the F train east. Each stop, an episode of the city’s restless heartbeat. If you want to see the true New York, visit it at that moment where night turns to light. That is the truest, dirtiest part of the day.
Katz’s, a time capsule of New York’s history, welcomed us with its traditional blue ticket system. The ordering process here is an experience in itself, with sandwich makers treating everyone like regulars. This sense of familiarity is Katz’s charm “a place where you’re momentarily part of its ongoing story.” The game of ‘fake it till you make it’ at the counter, where customers dance with servers in a ritual of order and serve, added to the ambiance. I chose the classic pastrami on rye, a sandwich so masterfully crafted it felt like watching a performance. Eating at Katz’s was more than just a meal; it was a participation in a legacy of flavors passed through generations.
New York called for us just like the perfectly written love ballad to the city goes: “It comes down to reality- and it’s fine with me ‘cause I’ve let it slide- I don’t care if it’s Chinatown or on Riverside- I don’t have any reasons- I left them all behind- I’m in a New York state of mind.”
Salisbury resident C.J. Fitzwater is a curious traveler, perpetually on the lookout for fresh frontiers. With each journey, he blends historical threads into his stories. Email him at:cfitzwater@ymail.com.
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