8:30 in the morning came way too early. I walked through Bedford-Stuy alone to get our morning Cokes. We got on the train into town and got off to get some Ess-a-Bagel. Unfortunately, the cross streets I had written down for it were incorrect. My Google Maps mashup of Famous Fat Dave’s favorites had addresses in the titles (the only thing I had printed out, and Sydney doesn’t have a printer), when what you really need to navigate in New York is cross streets and a Street Wise map (highly recommended). So after walking six or so blocks to nowhere, Berck got a bialy and cream cheese at a random cafe, and we continued our trek to the Guggenheim to meet up with Todd, who was staying at his nephew’s house. Berck’s knee was hurting, so while we waited outside the museum, I ran over to the nearest Duane Reade and bought him some naproxen sodium. Gianna, who is living in New York now, joined us a little later and got us a couple of free tickets. Berck has an Embry Riddle student ID that got him massive discounts at all the museums. The Guggenheim was great, if not very extensive. We especially liked a hilarious weird video about a bunch of women making dough.

That out of the way, we all met up again at the Whitney, where Gianna got us free tickets for the four of us. The Whitney has a very good collection. One floor was devoted to this guy who does huge pieces. As you get off the elevator, you’re greeted by a room whose walls and ceiling are covered in foil with graffiti scratched into it and the security guard scraping something into a one of the corner walls (interactive art). Another piece was called White Carpet and was white carpet covering an entire wall. It looked like someone had walked across it with sooty shoes.

The Whitney unfortunately was devoting two whole floors to The Summer of Love, which meant a bunch of record art, band posters, and photos of hippies. There were also, mercifully, some rooms showing films of swirling dots with sitar music, which you’re supposed to watch while dropping acid, but were really good places to sit and rest one’s feet for a bit.

The ground floor had a very interesting piece called Profiling that was a room with a projector displaying on one of the walls. In the room were a couple of cameras capturing people who walked into the room. One side of the display showed who was currently in the room along with several loops of the last several minutes, so after a while, there were several girls wearing baseball caps. The other side had a camera attached to a computer running a program the artist had written to capture faces. It would show a mosaic of everyone who had been in the room in the last however many minutes (lots of shots of the security guard pacing back and forth). Then it would hone in on one individual and follow them around the room. It would tack up a title under the person labeling them. It labeled Todd “Lonely” and me “Uneasy.”

The plan was to do the MOMA next, but we were all too tired. So we headed up to Harlem to check out a soul food restaurant I wanted to try called Manna’s. It’s a buffet with all manner of things, from barbecued turkey wings to banana pudding to a tray full of chicken gizzards. Their collard greens have smoked turkey in them because they don’t serve pork. You fill up a styrofoam box and then pay by the pound. Dave raves about their deviled eggs, but they had too much sugar in them for me. All the meats were really good, though, along with the stuffing, and macaroni and cheese. Harlem has apparently come a long way. There was a gigantic glass covered Old Navy across the street from us in a huge mall. Everything looked healthy and prosperous, and we were the only white people I saw. Apparently, you don’t want to wander down dark streets in parts of Spanish Harlem, but the rest of it is really making a turnaround.

We headed back to Central Park to take a quick crosstown bus to the Met. I played Hendrix’s “Crosstown Traffic” (doo doo doodoodoo) in my head. Gianna got us more free tickets (even though the Met is by donation only). Berck headed straight for the modern corner, which they’ve made nearly impossible to get to for whatever reason. Todd and I got distracted by some Hieronymus Bosch, The Death of Socrates, and all the Rembrandt, including Aristotle Contemplating a Bust of Homer. We finally found the Moderns and Berck and a Bird in Space. We were so tired that we started spending a lot of time on benches. The Met didn’t close till 9, but it’s huge and we were beat.

We called Sydney, much to the consternation of the security guards, and told her to meet us at a trendy restaurant on Union Square where Todd’s nephew was playing in a jazz combo. We were seriously under dressed, so we hung out in the shadows by the bar and drank some overpriced drinks while listening to the music. Nate took a break after a while and came over and talked to us. It turned out that he had met the drummer and guitarist when the three of them showed up to start playing that night. But the nature of jazz is that everyone knows all the standards, and it didn’t matter that they had never rehearsed or even played together before. They sounded really good. They had a six hour gig, playing from six to midnight. I guess New York is one of those places where somebody can actually make a living as a musician.

For supper Sydney led us to a Southern Indian place not too far away where we feasted on delicious vegetarian samosas and dosas (Indian crepes) for very reasonable prices. The rest of us were finished and waiting for Sydney to finish her Flying Horse, but she was too busy talking. So when she ran to the bathroom, Berck emptied her beer to a more manageable size.

We headed back to The Living Room to try to meet Anjeanette, a classmate of Berck and Todd’s, but apparently, she had already left. We got some $6 beers and listened to the last couple songs by a chicka from Spanish Harlem with a little guitar. At the end Anjeanette called and said they were turning their taxi around. She and her friend and boyfriend showed up a little later, and we tried to talk in the now packed bar area since all the music had ended at the pathetically early time of midnight. We decided we needed to go to a much a quieter place with tables, chairs, and beer. We walked down the block, ducking in very loud, full bars. Finally, I insisted we go back to Katz’s, “It’s quiet, there’s chairs, tables, and beer.” Berck asked, “There’s beer?” So that’s what we did. Berck got me an egg cream, and it was really good. It was like drinking Hershey’s syrup watered down slightly with soda water. I’d had an egg cream once before, but it tasted like soda water with a hint of chocolate and wasn’t very good. Berck said they poured a lot more than that in there. We had a fun time and finally left around 1.

Sydney and Todd made their way to a party with Sydney’s law school friends and a hookah. I was beat and my feet ached and had been for some time, so Berck took me home. We got down to the subway platform right as our train was pulling out. We waited 20 minutes for the next train. Sydney’s brownstone is a block away from the Franklin station, and she can take the C train from there, or walk up Fulton a couple blocks and take the A Express. This weekend they were doing construction on the C line, so the A was making local stops. Only that night it wasn’t, and when our train finally came, we had to get off at Nostrand and walk back in the dark to the apartment, though that was probably quicker. We collapsed into bed, and I didn’t bother to set an alarm.