[as if in dreams] A newsletter from Joseph Zitt #029
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02 April, 2021
This is issue number 29 of the newsletter.
The high point of the week: I caught a show at the dance center. Other than an outdoor show last July, it was my first time back since before the virus hit. Just sitting at a sandwich shop half an hour’s walk away, I could feel myself relax to a degree that I hadn’t in months.
All the sandwiches were on a sort of bread that is kosher for Passover, which is fairly common here. It’s apparently unleavened, with a texture like a dry sponge cake. The shop had handwritten signs announcing that everything was kosher for Passover, with official documents attesting to it. I’ve been surprised to see how many eateries are open with Passover menus. I don’t remember that from two or three years ago. Last year, of course, everything was locked down.
The sandwich shop wasn’t quite where I thought it was. When I wandered further down the street, it didn’t look familiar. After a couple of blocks, I realized that I did know the street, but had thought it was further down. Some of the shops had changed. There was a lot more graffiti there than before, all carefully done.
The closer I got to the dance center, the more at home I felt. The neighborhood it’s in is distinct from what borders it. Loud traffic, skyscrapers, and chain stores suddenly give way to cobblestone streets. Pedestrians in the middle of the road grudgingly make way for the occasional cab and the more frequent scooters. Ritzy restaurants, bars, and art shops line the road.
I stopped at my favorite bookstore, but it was closed. I had gotten several books by Patti Smith there from an eager bookseller. I was eager to tell her, if she hadn’t already heard, that Saint Patti, as the bookseller called her, had just announced a weekly newsletter. I had already signed up.
I got to the dance center over an hour early, as usual. I stood in the courtyard and took several pictures, working out ideas for the cover of my next book. A large group tromped through without masks and posed for a group photo, blocking what I was trying to shoot. There will be other opportunities.
A few doors down a side road, I stopped into a gelato joint. It had advertised its kosher for Passover offerings on Facebook. I got a single scoop of the most intriguing flavor, chocolate with almonds and caramel, and sat back down in the courtyard to eat it. Families and couples wandered past me. Children ran. The smaller their feet were, the louder their steps slapped out and echoed. After a while, I wandered to a well-lit bench and read some more from a book of dance reviews from the 1970s.
About half an hour before the show, I wandered to the entrance. They were already letting people in. I was thirsty, so I got a bottle of water from the cafe, took a few sips, and put it in my shoulder bag. I stood around for a few minutes and noticed a poster for a show that I want to see the next Thursday.
When I was ready to go in, I pulled out my phone and showed them my ticket. I was surprised that they didn’t ask to see my Green Pass. I had clicked a box when ordering the ticket saying that I had one. I guess that was good enough.
I went upstairs and sat in my favorite seat, along the aisle at the edge of the first row, close to the exit and, if needed, a restroom. (That had come in handy a few times.) People gradually came in and sat down in their own assigned seats. I realized that something was wrong. The seat numbers that should have been near me were far away, and vice versa. I looked at my ticket. I had reserved the wrong seat. I like the seat nearer the entrance that I used. I had gotten the seat at the far end, near the other entrance. (I was going to describe them as stage right or stage left but, with my usual problems with direction, I can never recall which is which, or whether “stage right” refers to the performers’ or audience’s point of view.) I got up and moved, apologizing to the four or five people I had to squeeze past.
After the show, I meandered to the bus stop, about a twenty minute walk away. I had plenty of time. The buses weren’t paying attention to the schedule anyway. Back outside the quiet neighborhood, traffic was locked up. Eventually, the right bus got there and took me home.
Other than that, the week has been uneventful. I have had more ideas about the film, but they remain vague. So it goes.
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Onward!
Tuesday, March 27th, 2021
All the parking spots on my street are full. Some cars are parked on the sidewalks. My family guesses that there must be a lot of grandparents in the neighborhood, not just at the House of a Hundred Grandmothers. On my way to the House, I see and hear that most families have started their seders a little early. I listen as I walk. Three families, out of sync, sing the Four Questions. I get to my family’s apartment a little early to set up my phone. We’re connecting three seders via WhatsApp. Usually, the religious members wouldn’t do this, but they’ve checked the rules and found acceptable exceptions. The matriarch is still effectively in lockdown and wouldn’t have a seder at all without it. I clip my phone onto a pocket tripod and set it where the other households can see us and we can see them. The caregiver where we are, as usual, finds a more effective and practical place to put it. At just about 8 PM our time, 1 PM in New Jersey, we connect. Four generations of the family’s women are in the video chat: one in the US, one here at the House, and two in a dining room at an apartment an hour’s drive away. We get everything sorted out. We can all hear each other. Most of us can see each other. The dining room is too wide to get everybody in view. We get organized through conversations in Russian, Hebrew, and English. When we’re ready, we open the books with the liturgy. Everyone seems to have a slightly different one. Silence falls. In the large dining room, the ceremony’s leader raises the first glass of wine. We begin.
Colophon
(Unchanged from last week, except for this line.)
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