Getting the Hell Out of Dodge

It seems forever since I have written. The weeks have flown by. I found myself awake this morning at 4:00. Perhaps it is because within a few short hours approximately 35,000 people will descend upon my neighborhood, streets will be closed to vehicular traffic and I am anxious to get the hell out of town before that happens. Today the 10K Cooper River Bridge Run will take place here in Charleston and the starting line is less than a block away from my house. I will spend the day with my best friend 80 miles away from it all....

Spring Breaks In

Spring break has officially begun; in the first full week of March. Whenever I decide to go away for spring break, whether north or south, the weather craps out; when I stay in Charleston, the weather craps out. It doesn’t seem to matter. Wherever I will be during spring break, that’s where it will be cold and rainy. And wherever I am NOT, the sun will gloriously shine. A few years ago I went to St. Augustine-freaking-FLORIDA for a few days. I was teaching the evil and suffering course that semester and I just needed to get away, by myself. Whenever I teach the evil and suffering course students come to me with their suffering. That particular year there seemed to be an abundance of suffering going on. I booked a room in a pretty little inn in the heart of St. Augustine. I had one sunny afternoon. The rest of the time it was not. I learned however, just how obsessive I can be about Bob Dylan during this trip. For ten hours, (five hours to and five hours back) I listened to TWO cds; that was it. Two. Over and over again I listened to Highway 61 and Blonde on Blonde. 

 

Last year, I stayed in Charleston. It was cold and cloudy, or cold and raining the whole week.

 

This year I am going to New York City. Hoping against hope and considering that the Northeast (with the exception of the past few weeks) has had a relatively mild winter, I visited weather.com to research the weather forecast  for NYC and environs. The day before I land at LaGuardia it will be 45 and sunny. The night before I arrive a cold front moves in. The overnight low is expected to be -1 degree. The high temp on the day I arrive will be 29 degrees; the next day, 39. The day after I leave temperatures return to the mid-40 range. I am the proverbial weather kiss-of-death for spring break. What was I thinking?

 

Well of course, this is what I was thinking; my kids live in New York. Technically, my son and daughter-in-law, but at this point I consider her one of my kids. And this is what else I was thinking: it’s New York City. So, here’s my plan; since the kids cannot take any time off from work and I will be left to fend for myself in the Big Apple (poor little me) I will spend the coldest full day of my trip inside a museum, probably the Guggenheim or MoMa. The following day I will haunt the fabric district on 39th and 40th. I know that a pilgrimage to the garment district of NYC would not be an itinerary priority for most people. I knew that it existed but it was only through a recent search on the internet that I discovered where it is. In this area of Manhattan there are endless fabric shops, ribbon and trim shops, button and lace shops. One can find the most luxurious silks and the most delicate organzas. There are shops that service the highest end of the fashion industry and other shops that sell remnants stocked in cardboard boxes. Many of these fabrics I cannot afford to purchase of course but that is unimportant to the pilgrimage. I just want to touch them. I’ll see buttons made of ivory, Italian laces and beaded ribbons. I think in a past life, I must have spun thread or weaved on a loom. It is a sensual experience for me, to touch the fabric; to pass it between my fingers; to pay attention to the texture and the “hand.” It is a creative experience for me. I imagine what I could sew and the image appears in my mind, a fully formed garment flowing from the body with grace. The other day as I looked through one of my interior design magazines there was an advertisement that featured bolts of fabrics piled one on top of the other. I drew the magazine closer. I knew exactly how each of the fabrics would feel just by looking at them; embossed silks and textured velours; crushed velvets and slippery satins.

 

I have started painting in fabric. I suppose the real artist would call it “mixed media.” I stick a piece of incredible fabric to a canvas and paint on it and then around it. I don’t consider it “serious work.” It’s what I do to play. Fabric allows me to play, whether with paint or sewing machine; whether I am beading or embroidering by hand.

 

So, the fabric district between 39th and 40th will be my playground this spring break.  I cannot wait to get there.

 

On the last full day of my trip, two girlfriends from Charleston will be in New York. I’ll meet them in Manhattan. Look out New York!