It was the last thing I expected to experience in New York—or, to be exact, in Jersey City.
My friend, Fil-Am journalist Edmund Silvestre, had fetched my daughter Miya and me from my midtown hotel in Manhattan, helping transport us and my three bags (including a largish suitcase) by subway and taxi to Jersey City, where my daughter’s boarding house is located. For lunch, we dropped by Churrasqueira Europa, which had been recommended to him for its excellent paella. From its dark wood bar to the clumps of men chatting by the bar and around the tables, one would expect characters from “The Sopranos” to walk in anytime, although the vibe given off by the place was decidedly more friendly and pleasant.
Anyway, our bellies filled with moist seafood paella and sangria, we stood up to leave and visit the Manila Bakery next door, a fairly large establishment filled with bins of pan de sal, display cases of birthday cakes, and platters of puto and kuchinta.
We were standing just outside the bakery when the bartender at the Churrasqueira came rushing out, his eyes frantically searching the people on the sidewalk. Spotting us, his face brightened as he brandished my computer bag which I had left on the back of my chair. Edmund, Miya and I looked at each other in disbelief and incredulity. While I thanked the bartender profusely, Edmund approached him and offered a $5 tip. I felt almost faint with relief.
Who woulda thought? Who would have expected such an act of courtesy and concern in a city where people are supposedly so callous and cynical that visitors are warned not to meet anybody else’s eyes lest it provoke an argument?
Simple human kindness in the streets of Jersey City—that’s just one of the unexpected perks on a visit to the Big Apple and environs.
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I HAD come to New York to take part in the negotiations and side events of the Commission on the Status of Women of the United Nations, an annual event where representatives of governments around the world gather to assess the progress achieved by women, discuss emerging issues and concerns, and try to agree on a common agenda.
For me, there was also a “private” mission on my schedule: visit with my daughter who was taking graduate studies in New York and check on how she was faring in the mean streets of Manhattan where her school is, and in the commute to and from Jersey City.
But my brief sojourn also entailed catching up with old friends, taking in the sights, and soaking up the atmosphere of a city that not only does not sleep but also has a full menu of offerings and activities for every taste, every preference.
I was lucky, too, in that, while I was in New York, Stephanie Puno, daughter of my good friend Sandra, was also in town after taking part in a reunion with classmates at a culinary school. Following her mother’s directive, Steph treated Miya and me to “Jersey Boys,” the long-running musical about Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons, a charming bit of entertainment that left all of us with a serious case of “last song syndrome” long after we walked out of the theater.
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IT WAS also through Steph that we got in touch with Mary Villanueva, whom I had known many years back in Manila (she is a close friend of another common friend, Emma Coinco), and who had carved out a life and career for herself in New York.
Now retired, Mary looks after her “family”: a sister and a dog who shares her bed and dominates her iPhone’s album.
The four of us first met for lunch at an uptown Chinese establishment that serves one of the best Peking ducks in town. Over lunch, we discussed—what else?—other dining establishments in the city, with Steph enthusing over the paella at Socarat, a restaurant that both she and Mary apparently patronize with eagerness.
So when Mary set another appointment, two days hence, for lunch at the midtown Socarat, walking distance from the UN, it took little effort on our part to accept the invitation with alacrity.
“Socarat,” according to Steph, means the burnt bits at the bottom of a paella pan, the “tutong” to us Filipinos. Maybe it’s for this reason that the pans at Socarat are rather shallow, the better to allow patrons to scrape up the crisp bits at the bottom.
On my last weekend, my niece Immac (Dada) Apigo Bruce and her children, Cooper and Maya, drove all the way from Pennsylvania to take me and Miya to lunch. Guess what? We ended up lunching at the local Max’s, which that Sunday was filled to bursting with family groups. Talk about the taste of home.
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THOUGH my New York visit took place weeks after the dreaded “polar vortex” that blanketed much of the Eastern Seaboard and the Midwest in a frigid white swirl of snow and sleet, winter was still very much in evidence. “It’s March, why isn’t it spring yet? Why is it still snowing?” a cartoon character ranted. My sentiments exactly.
Walking toward the UN Headquarters, one is assailed by fierce winds and mild flurries, the freezing air drying one’s eyes and penetrating parts of one’s anatomy one hadn’t even been aware of.
And in New York, I found out, people walk. Taxis are too expensive, the subway and bus system too confusing, even if, usually at the end of a long day’s negotiations in the wee hours, we gave in to temptation and hailed passing cabs, dead on our feet, our faces numb with cold and fatigue.
I got home nursing a bad cough and assailed by the fog of jet lag. I have never been so grateful to be living in a tropical clime.