New York, Sunday morning.  Back to the clamor of NY noise and smells, the bustle of the Upper West Side, the damp grey air off the river.  I looked out my hotel window this morning and saw that right across the street is Steps on Broadway, the biggest dance studio in New York, classes all day for addicts like me.  Must . . . stay . . . away . . . .

What a different city this is when you have some money.  During my starving student days, I'd come down here from Yale every couple of weeks (research, events, dentist), and it was a splurge even to take a subway.  I couldn't afford street vendors, so I'd bring my little sack lunch with me.  One day, I set my lunch down on the floor of the train from New Haven; when I got to Grand Central, it was filled with roaches.  So I just didn't eat that day.

Fast-forward to now, where I'm in this plush hotel on the Upper West Side and it's probably roach-free.  As I plan my week, I'm deciding to walk to most places just because I want to; and I'm not stressed about going places after dark because I can just take a taxi.  Maybe I'll even buy a hot pretzel from a street cart!  

Also across the street from me (ground floor of the Steps building, in fact) is a huge gourmet grocery, Fairway, to which of course I hastened last night before I'd even unpacked. The place has a huge olive-oil department complete with tasting bar (I thought it was the wine section at first).  I also thoroughly sampled the vast array of olives and discovered that dried marinated Moroccan black olives are as addictive as crack-cocaine.

I couldn't believe that all the dairy here is still ultra-pasteurized.  When I used to live out here, I chafed at having to buy the stuff.  My healthnik research said that it's nutritionally vapid, that its fat molecules are rendered somehow more insidious and damaging.  But obviously it's the Way of the East Coast. Even Organic Valley pre-cooks its whipping cream here.  Whores.

I've morphed, Hulk-like, to my old East Coast persona – iron-shelled but amused underneath, like an actor who studies the audience from the wings.  Yesterday at the market, the young clerk grinding my coffee (grind-your-own not allowed) was sniffing inside a can of Sharffenberger cocoa powder, and I barked, "Smells good," and he hooded his eyes and said guardedly, "What's it for?" and I said flatly, "Baking.  Hot chocolate," and he looked right at me now and said, "How?" and I looked right at him now and said, "Heat a cup of milk, add two tablespoons of it and some sugar.  Delicious," and just like that, we were friends.