Y2K

Y2K

Do you remember what you were doing December 31, 1999? I do. It was Y2K and I took my family with me to the center of the coming apocalypse: Manhattan, New York. This was a demonstration of faith that deserves some recognition. We not only did not believe that the world would fall apart starting in the year 2000 secondary to computer malfunctions, but we left the comfort and security of our home to experience the change, whatever it was to bring, to the unfamiliar and in many ways threatening environment of New York City. We lived in Olympia, Washington in 1999.

It was an eventful experience even as my watch, credit cards, 401K, job security, and family continued to function as usual, Mayan prophesies notwithstanding.

Darby was fifteen years of age and Amber was in college. Darby’s education had brought us into the orbit of two arty guys—-one was the musical director and one was the artistic director for a youth playhouse in Olympia. In the summer of 1999 we were made an offer from these two: six days in New York City, a hotel within walking distance of Times Square, as well as tickets to five Broadway plays, a lunch at Sardi’s and a number of other tourist destinations. The price is forgotten now, but it was surprisingly inexpensive. We talked it up as a family and made a decision: no Christmas presents under the tree. We would fly to NYC a few days after Christmas and come home on January 3, 2000, assuming the world was still functioning.

Part of the anticipation of the Christmas present was selecting which plays to go to. The selections were marvelous: Rent, Cabaret, Miss Saigon, Amadeus, Fosse, and Chicago to name a few. I had a stirring of anticipation. I like musicals—no, I love musicals. A digression—I was given the Disney long playing record to Sleeping Beauty when I was in first grade. When the movie Sleeping Beauty showed up at the local theatre, my brother was assigned baby sitting duties and we sat at the matinee together. Chip was five years older than me. As I sang, accompanying the sound tract, he hit me multiple times to get me to pipe down. I toned it down, but did not stop. In early High School, my mother, Lethe, asked probing questions regarding whether I liked girls or not. She deserved this insecurity which was not mine to control. Just a few years earlier, Lethe sprung a surprise on me—she wanted my sister and me to go to a Sunday Matinee in San Diego to see The Sound of Music with Julie Andrews. I was so pissed. Going with Lethe to a Sunday matinee meant dressing up in a sports coat. To my surprise, forty-five minutes into the movie, I was on board. “Edelweiss…………" Regarding Lethe’s concern, the root cause for her question was a natural timidity and sense of social isolation. But gay? No. And I still am a sucker for a good musical.

This was going to be a special trip. It did elicit some ambiguities and concerns despite the draw of so many choices. Growing up in California, I had pretty strong feelings about which American cultures were superior and that of New York City was not high on my list. My image of what New York City was like had been formed by Midnight Cowboy, The Panic in Needle Park, and shows like Kojak and Welcome Back, Kotter. My best friend growing up knew that culture and used a vocabulary that was totally foreign to me in those formative years. He talked of Dagos, Portagese, and Kikes. I thought New York City was going to be crowded, rude, loud, dirty, and expensive, not to mention, antiquated.

My girls, on the other hand, were completely gaga. Broadway musicals meant dressing up and their images of New York City were based on Vogue, Vanity Fair, and Barbara Streisand. We joked about Y2K as a practical problem but despite our varied impressions of New York, we all had Faith in the modern technical world and celebrated the deal we had gotten to dive right into a foreign and rich experience.

Landing at Kennedy, the larger group mobilized as transportation with vans was part of the package. I had done my homework. I was going to blend in. I wore black wingtips, wool slacks and had a to-the-knees winter wool coat, Navy Blue. Other than the two art guys, there were five clusters of people. Two were family units of which we were one. We traveled with neighbors, Connie and her daughter Carleigh who is Darby’s age. I was a surrogate dad/husband for the purposes of this trip and looked the part. Connie’s husband did not come nor would he ever consider a trip to New York City. There were clusters of middle school and high school students, not always from the same family but linked to a scattering of shared adult chaperones. The travel by van through Brooklyn and then Manhattan right after Christmas cemented a number of impressions about this strange new land. It was glorious at the same time. We pulled off Broadway in midtown on a street just to the west and parked. There was police tape everywhere. As the luggage was pulled from the van, and the group leaders checked in at the hotel, the larger group stretched and walked up and down the street. A story was heard: there had been a shooting the night before. There was a “gentleman’s club” nearby and Puff Daddy had gotten into it with some toughs Shots were fired. People were wounded. Jennifer Lopez was there! I looked over at my bleary eyed girls and thought: Midnight Cowboy. What are we doing?

The lobby of our hotel was unusual. My memory, twenty odd years later is of a jury built vision of an inexpensive Los Vegas twenty-four hour a day wedding chapel and hotel. I think there were slot machines, but that can’t be right. There were flashing neon lights. There was cigarette haze everywhere. There were pachinko noises and sense that someone somewhere in the lobby was going “Yuki Dori.” Actually, there were not many clients in the lobby. The woman across the lobby desk was Asian and English was not her first language. She made little eye contact and gave me a single key for our room on the third floor. Once everyone had their keys, the art guy-leaders thanked us for our patience, suggested getting settled, and we would meet at 5:00 for those with tickets that night and we could head out. At this point, a very stoned and disheveled man stumbled past us, staring in wonder at the group. We made our way upstairs. Now it was the two art guys who would not make eye contact.

I was a college student in the 1970’s. I lived in apartments in Los Angeles. I was very acquainted with pea soup green shag carpet. If it weren’t for ice-plant, I would think that it might cover the earth someday. In this hotel, it covered not only the corridor floors but up the walls on each side to a level of 2 feet. As we approached our room, I stared in amazement: a lit cigarette butt smoldered in the carpet.

We opened the door to our room. The first impression was a musty smell; it reminded me of opening a book on tropical parasitology (published in 1922) in the library at Berkeley in 1973. The book had last been opened during the depression. The second impression was of a flat roof just outside the one single-paned window of the room with a blinking red neon sign just out of hand’s reach. The flat roof had continuity and likely access the the gentlemen’s club of Puff Daddy fame. There was no blinds or window coverings for the window. The third impression was of a 60 watt bare bulb on the ceiling, also with no cover. There was a closet; it had been painted over so many times, the seam of door and joist had disappeared. I could not open the door to the closet. Happily, I could not open the window to the roof, either. There was a pole for hanging clothes on the wall next to the one queen sized bed. There was a sink in the room and a small bathroom that had a shower stall and toilet. A 60-watt bulb illuminated that room which otherwise had one electrical outlet. There were no electrical outlets in the bedroom itself.

Gathering this all in, Kernie went next door to see Connie’s room. There was not much difference, but Connie’s window did not have access to the roof. At least, there were only two to occupy the bed in her room. Connie, however was already in the hallway; we conferenced. One of my personal qualities in life as an ability to conform and adapt to the environment—I would like to think, any environment. Another is that I was born with a temperament for delaying gratification; one could think I was raised in the depression when considering the way I saved money and garner resources. This conference in the corridor on the third floor of the Hotel Speed Train found me breaking those bonds. No matter what it cost, we were going to find a different hotel. I had no reservations. Not one.

And yet, this was the last week of 1999 and we were celebrating New Year’s Eve in midtown Manhattan. How expensive could this get? I put on my winter coat and took to the streets. Kernie knew of a Comfort Inn on 8th Ave from a previous trip and I walked to it in the cold. It could have been a Holiday Inn; the lobby was a cliche but nice and the service better. Yes, I could book two rooms for $89 a night each but New Years Eve would cost $359. Done. The doorman let me use the mobile rack for moving equipment the four blocks back to our, our, Midnight Cowboy wannabe hotel—the Speed Train Hotel as I came to call it. The two art guys were cool; I was pleasantly surprised to learn that getting our money back from the hotel under these circumstances was not a problem; the hotel paid me in cash—rank, crinkled, greasy bills mind you, but legal tender just the same. I bundled our suitcases onto the rack and the two families marched the streets of Manhattan proudly to our new hotel. The four of us now had two queen sized beds, real closets, and enough electrical outlets for three women to do their hair. This gave me time to explore. I found our locale to be one of a professional and business environment. It was as Manhattan was supposed to be. We were one block from a subway entrance. Things were looking up.

I am still amazed at the relative cost of our nights in Manhattan in midtown that winter. It turns out that I owe a debt of thanks to the web and to threats of violence and terrorism. Y2K generated a lot of rumors of threatened acts; as a consequence, the tourist trade that week was in decline. This in part explains the pleasant surprise of a nice affordable hotel two nights before New Year’s Eve. An additional and unexpected benefit was the ever-present New York City police department. There were days where virtually every corner we passed had a uniformed officer all of whom had done the Macy’s supplemental training that found them engaging, humorous, and helpful. My impressions of New York were softening. There were no beggars, no aggressive postures, or loud language. Despite thousands of people milling past each other, New York is notable for the relative lack of voices as people go about their business. An exception would prove to be that in touristed areas. To my delight, one could hear every language of the world spoken in Time Square or the theatre district.

I acclimated further; I wore work clothes and did not look like a tourist. I got asked directions from passers by. I got help from my stock broker who managed my 401K retirement account. She called my Blackberry on January 30th.

“Randy, I want to talk to you about an unusual stock. You bought Qualcom many years ago at under $10 a share. Today, it hit $200 a share. It is a good company. This is a once in a lifetime stock you have. I think the price will come down next year and recommend you sell some of it.”

I was and remain clueless about such matters.

“OK, what do you think……?”

The resolution is that I sold a quarter of my over valued stock and felt like master and commander in Midtown, the days just before Y2K. Now I was really finding my rhythm, really enjoying myself, invincible, the world my oyster.

We touristed during the days, not always together. We saw plays at night. Kernie and I saw Cabaret at the site of the old Studio 54 with Alan Cummings as the MC. It was fantastic. I sang along! We saw Rent which for Kernie, was the second time and retained almost religious importance. I fell asleep. One of the perks of this trip was a late lunch, after a matinee at Sardi’s. These kids from Olympia mostly did not deserve all this! We all, dressed nicely for the cold and unfolded into a nearly empty restaurant that was from a different era; the walls are lined with caricatures of famous actors and actresses across decades, but mostly from Lethe’s time. Darby was especially star struck; she had long suggested she was being raised in the wrong place and likely, by the wrong family. She had already intimated that New York might be where she really belonged. This trip cemented the deal for her; she would eventually have a ten year career in Manhattan. Our introductions continued: we went the twin towers though I for one, did not make it up to the top; it took way too long. I explored the grounds, the bookstore, and walked the streets nearby. I saw the Trinity Church.

Sheryl, an old friend from High School enriched our experience further; her story was relayed to me by common friends over the years and the details were sketchy. She had successful in the fashion industry. . She currently had a store near Soho on Mulberry street: Shoe. Sheryl was non-plussed to see us; it was as if we were expected. Her store was not what we expected. She sold unusually styles of shoes and a variety of hip clothing accessories. The shoes she sold were made with the hide of cows with the texture and coloration from the animal intact. There were earrings made of ribbons. We visited for an hour and perhaps ten people came in that time, mostly Japanese tourists who did not speak English. Few purchased anything. Sheryl admitted that retail was tough in Manhattan…….

Sheryl offered us a peek of life in Manhattan that was both unexpected and extremely generous. We were invited to visit her apartment on New Year’s Eve, an evening for which there were no plays and for which we had no specific plans. We ambled the streets of Greenwich Village and Soho for hours so as to not arrive early and finally bought small servings of food and wine to take with us from Dean and Deluca, now and forever a name I will remember. We looked at the address and found ourselves in Washington Square park. Banners celebrated the campus buildings of NYU but an apartment building? Just past the arch, on the northeast side, there was a tall apartment building. That was where Sheryl lived. We were in awe: there was a doorman. She lived in a corner penthouse with a view of the park and points south as well as west. There was a fireplace.

We made small talk, and enjoyed the food and wine. Darby stared and the floor-to-ceiling books and pulled out a signed copy of a book by Herb Ritts—and knew who he was—at fifteen years of age. Sheryl recognized a kindred spirit in Darby. We were not invited to stay to midnight and there were family members staying there from Greece. We knew the subways were going to get iffy if we waited too long. The art guys had a link-up for us in the city; we were to have had tickets to the Blue Men earlier but that show we now learned, had been cancelled. We hit the subway and made our way to Union Square. Our larger group was loitering about, also with no specific plans. Union Square was congested with people. The vision I took home from our time there was an electronic sign, high up on a building that displayed the total amount of the national debt, second by second. The group’s aimlessness, the cold, the depressing financial figures all made an impression on me recalled forever when seeing the multitude of movies that have as a subplot, what to do in New York City on New Year’s Eve. We headed to our wonderful, best-ever hotel on 8th avenue. The subway let us off several blocks away and we trudged home. It was below freezing now. Crowds were gathering, and people on the streets were drinking. Despite having layered up, we were freezing cold and charged with determination through the crowds, getting a short look at the crystal in the sky, ready to drop, and finally made it to the hotel with twenty minutes to spare.

The TV was on; my one and only time to watch the countdown, EST. At midnight, the hotel shook. The noise which rose from the street and vibrated through the building reminded me of Rio in 1962 when Pele and Brazil won the worldcup for the third time. The same vibration went through the city from literally millions of voices proclaiming their (drunken) joy.

There was champagne for all four Moellers. We all slept well.

On New Year’s Day, the girls had plans and were gone. It was sunny and traffic was light. I walked the neighborhoods and in the mid-afternoon stumbled upon a Churascaria—a Brazilian steak house. This one was of New York City dimensions as it clearly was set up to serve hundreds of customers at a time. There was a bandstand in the middle of the room. There was a long bar. The waiters, as in Brazil, were formally dressed though the bartenders did not have their coats on. I felt like I had passed through a time warp. The place was empty but for the bar where I sat and ordered a Brahma Chopp—a traditional lager from Brazil. I expected the bartender to raise an eyebrow and speak to me in Portuguese, but he looked right through me. I tried to engage him and he reluctantly let me know he was from Porto Alegre. That gave me my opening, “I lived in Rio in 1961-1963.”

He did not respond. It became clear to me that whatever his history, my childhood romance with Brazil from before he was born was of absolutely no interest to him or anyone else. I finished my beer and walked across the street, back to the hotel.

We packed. We said our good byes to this best-ever Comfort Inn.

We got to Kennedy and rejoined our very Bohemian group, all of whom had stayed in the Hotel Speed Train for the duration. They looked none the worse for wear with the possible exception of the two art guys. The plane took off on time, stayed on schedule, and landed in Seattle also on time. The world kept turning. Work, as always, beckoned me back with the routine. But the routine would be different as a new world had opened up to Darby, Kernie, and me. We would re-visit Manhattan many times after Darby settled down there and the attraction, even without the drama of Y2K would long remain a magnet for us.