Visit
Photo by Max Newell
Last Tuesday, I got to meet some old friends. I don't know just how long I've been corresponding with Bostonians Amy and Max Newell, but it's pushing three years. Nor do I recall how I came upon Amy's Web log, The Biscuit Report, a site focusing on the Bush Administration's sick venture into torture. We've been writing, chatting, and even telephoning ever since, but on Tuesday we finally got to shake hands.
The Newells were paying a visit to an old friend in Park Slope, and when I heard that they were coming, I naturally thought about hopping on a southbound train. It would be much easier to move me from one borough to another than for them to bring their two children - Ari, four, and Aya, seven months - into Manhattan. So I thought. But Ari's parents wanted him to experience the Guggenheim Museum, so we agreed to meet at the Barnes & Noble just above the 86th Street subway station. (Max, who shares my interest in transit, asked if anyone still refers to the once-distinct subway lines as the IRT, the BMT, and the IND, and I had to admit that only fossils like me do so.)
We had a grand summer afternoon. At the Guggenheim, we took the elevator to the top of the ramp and then moseyed on down, urged on by Ari's sweet impatience to see the "pond" at the bottom (which he hadn't noticed when we were standing right next to it upon arrival). Then we walked the few blocks to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where our sole objective was to have lunch in the child-friendly cafeteria. Then we had a walk in Central Park. On two occasions, Amy and I sat on benches, with Aya in her stroller: first, at Conservatory Water, when Ari led his father on an expedition around the perimeter of the boating pond, and, second, just to the west of the Bethesda Fountain, while Ari commanded the sort of big rock that draws little boys like a magnet and that, from time to time, sends them to the hospital. Max was the obliging vizier to Ari's sultan. "You're getting to see a lot of Max," Amy sighed, "from a distance."
Bow Bridge, one of the Park's beauties, was just a few steps from our second perch, but it was ill-advised of me to lead the Newells across it, because what's on the other side is the Ramble. The Ramble is no longer dangerous, at least by daylight, but its paths are evidently not a Central Park Conservancy priority, and navigating its hills and dales with a stroller was not amusing. Nor was walking along one of the drives in blazing sun. Eventually, though, we found ourselves at 85th and Fifth. Soon after that, we found ourselves in my flat, with a nice cup of tea.
Perhaps because we were at My House, it was here that Ari decided that I was not just a transient adult. Could he jump up and down on the sofa? No. Okay; could he slither across it like a worm? Fine, but not if his "slithering" was more like the hopping of a toad. I can't tell you how much I enjoyed these negotiations. For me, there is nothing so exhilarating as engaging with a bright child of Ari's age, because under no other circumstances do I get to see human intelligence openly arranging itself. Amy and I agreed that people who complain about children who "test limits" are missing the point; the child who is capable of a maddening barrage of finely-tailored requests for permission - if I can't do that, can I do this? - is simply ingenious. Ari Newell is very ingenious. He's a good fellow, too; his lovely sister already adores him.
Confucius says (on page one!) "To have friends coming from afar: is this not a delight?"
