Dear Diary:
Now embarked on my second stint in the city, I remember the first hour of my first visit. It was the early '70s, and I was on leave from the Army. Though born in the Midwest, I'd long known that I was really a New Yorker. Finally arrived, I felt at home.
But instead of rushing straight to the TKTS booth that, in my New York savvy, I knew had recently opened, I stretched out the pleasure of anticipation, stopping at a pizza joint on the northwest corner of 42nd and Seventh. With my slice, I settled at a tall table with a tiny top, when an attractive woman asked if she could join me.
Here was the Manhattan of my dreams, one of the city's sophisticates recognizing through my Army field jacket my own sophistication. Now I'd have a scintillating conversation, perhaps a romance with my own Holly Golightly.
“Wanna have a good time?†My welcome committee was an afternoon lady of the evening. I declined politely, finished my slice, and heade d up Broadway.
First lesson: New Yorkers don't cling to fantasies but deal with what the city gives and move on.
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