My husband, teenage daughter and I just spent a long weekend in New York City. We do this a lot.
People often ask me where we stay, thinking I might have the inside track on an inexpensive bed and breakfast. Well, I do. But, unless they want to spend their visit with my sainted mother, they might want to go elsewhere. (Although her warm croissants are to die for.)
On this trip, however, there was no room at the proverbial inn. But, I happened to find a wonderful guesthouse in Harlem, for a lot less money than a midtown (or anywhere in town for that matter) hotel. It was elegant but a little faded, much like the places we stay in New Orleans. I immediately fell in love with it. My daughter, meanwhile, spent an evening with a friend, then ended up on a couch at my mom's for the rest of our visit.
My trips back to New York always include long long long walks. This is how I reconnect with my hometown: people-watching (beyond compare people-watching), passing by familiar landmarks and, even more often, seeing everything that's changed. Staying in a new neighborhood gave me a chance to explore and to extend my usual walks an extra mile or so north.
The first day, I toured around the Upper Westside (my old 'hood). From our guesthouse to 110th, then South on Columbus to 72nd, then back uptown on Amsterdam. The second day, I set out early and walked all the way down to Times Square to pick up my niece for a day with my daughter (her "sister-cousin"). By the time I dropped the girls off at the Loews 84th multiplex for Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2 in 3D, I felt like I was home again.
Home again, with very very sore feet.
We had a little time to kill after brunch, so my sister and I left my husband in a pub and pursued another important New York pastime: shoe shopping.
Before you picture a scene from Sex and the City, let me explain. This was not about fashion or fetishes. This was about pain relief. Did we go to Christian Louboutin? No. To Jimmy Choo? No. Gucci, Manolo Blahnik or Tory Burch? No, no, no. We hoofed it down to Aerosoles.
I discovered Aerosoles many years ago. Some supermodel said in an interview that when she wasn't working, she wore Aerosoles. I figured if they're good enough for Heidi or Naomi or Christy or Linda (or whoever it was; I don't remember), they're good enough for me.
We went in and in short order, I tried on every pair of flat, black ankle boots they had in my size (10, yes, 10; if they get any bigger I'm going to the drag queen department). There wasn't much of a competition. One pair felt better — way better — than any of the others. I sank into them with an audible sigh of relief and pulled out my wallet.
For one brief shining Carrie Bradshaw moment, I had second thoughts.
"Do these make me look like a lesbian?" I asked my sister, patiently waiting on a nearby bench.
"Uh ..."
"A geriatric?"
"Uh ..."
"A lesbian geriatric?"
While she searched for a politically correct non-answer, I shrugged and bought them anyway.
On my last morning in Manhattan, I walked across Central Park to Fifth Avenue, visited my old high school on Park, and then walked about thirty blocks down Madison. The sidewalks were filled with tiny children in school uniforms. The weather was gorgeous. The window shopping was fabulous. And, my feet were fine.
Within a couple of hours, we collected my daughter (had a couple of those croissants for the road) and headed back to Massachusetts.
"What do you think of my new shoes?" I asked my 16-year-old fashion consultant. I pulled up my pant hems so she could get the full effect.
"Um, cool," she said, without taking her eyes off her iPhone.
Um, maybe that was a good thing.
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A few years ago, my then tween daughter begged to watch Sex and the City with me. At first, like any conscientious mother, I resisted. I mean sex and cosmopolitans and sex and Manolas and sex. (Did I mention sex?) Oh my!
Soon, she grew up a little (and wore me down a little), so I let her watch the basic cable version of the show, which was by then in syndication on E! and Style Network. This was the kinder, gentler Sex and the City. No nudity, less profanity, more euphemisms, more commercial breaks.
We had to laugh at some of the rules for bleeping out foul language. For example, they could say "ass" but not "hole," so if Carrie or one of her BFFs was putting down a particularly jerky guy, they would call him an "ass-BLEEP!" Shouldn't it have been the other way around?
If the adult content was a bit much for my daughter at times, I was right there beside her. Explaining, demystifying, assuring her that some of it was a little far-fetched. Let's not kid ourselves, though. Teens today know more (way more!) than we did about ... well, about pretty much everything. I'd rather have my daughter learn about the details of sex through an entertaining show than through some shaky handheld video on YouTube. I know a lot of moms wouldn't agree — and that is absolutely their prerogative — but this is how I saw it.
At one point, my daughter asked me, "Mom, which are you? Carrie, Samantha, Miranda or Charlotte?" I didn't know what to say. She had already decided for me, apparently, and informed me that I was half-Carrie because I'm a writer and half-Miranda because I'm a workaholic. So, I was spared the slut and the romantic. Okay, I guess I can live with that.
At any rate, we were both fans, and it gave us something to do together. I also hoped it might make my daughter appreciate my hometown a bit more. Sex and the City is as much about the city as the sex.
And so is the new prequel series, The Carrie Diaries.
Set in the mid-80s, the new show follows the adventures of a starry-eyed young Carrie Bradshaw, a small-town high school student who is just beginning her love affair with the big apple. Recovering from her mother's death, Carrie takes an internship at a law firm in Manhattan. She immediately (as in on her very first lunch break) meets some fabulous urban types — editors, artists, fashion designers — and the rest is, as they say, history.
It took a little while to accept that this was the same Carrie even in the hands of a young pro. AnnaSophia Robb is no newcomer, having acted half her life. In fact, a younger daughter and I knew her well as the very first American Girl in the very first American Girl movie. (How I miss those days sometimes!) More starring roles followed, including Bridge to Terabithia, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Because of Winn Dixie. She's very good as Carrie, it's just that it's hard to think of anyone other than Sarah Jessica Parker.
Then there's the issue of the backstory. We have seen all six seasons of Sex and the City (many times, too many times — just ask my husband), and I don't remember ever hearing that Carrie's mother was dead. Or that she had a sister. Or a father. Or any old friends either. Hmmmmm ...
Then again, part of the magic of New York is that it is a place where people reinvent themselves. So can we really blame Ms. Bradshaw for leaving the past behind?
The 80s references in the new show are fun, as is the fashion. (I keep telling my daughter "Yes, we really dressed like that!") The teen angst is familiar from countless other shows my daughter's already addicted to. I let her watch them on her own; I just can't quite get my arms around The Lying Game.
But, I think I'll stick with The Carrie Diaries. For a while anyway. Being "on the groundfloor" of a new show? Nice.
Having a reason to share something with my daughter for an hour every week? Priceless.
