Thinking about the Village—Greenwich Village—brings a flood of memories. It's where I was conceived, and where I always felt I belonged. Prowling little shops filled with hand-mades . . . experiencing jazz for the first time and many times after that . . . endless nights at Gerde's Folk City . . . Washington Square, with its haunting spontaneous harmonies, unkempt brilliant old men playing chess . . . hippies playing Go. And the crowning glory of my overdeveloped sense of mischief: the night we crashed an NYU Jewish fraternity toga party.
I do hope there is photographic evidence.
ReplyDeleteI wish!
DeleteOh, I sense the impending arrival of another fabulous tale. I'm going to don a white sheet and pour a glass of Manischewitz and settle in for a good read.
ReplyDeleteL'chaim!
DeleteI love your tales of NY. Your life was so very different from mine!
ReplyDeleteMy life is so dull
ReplyDeleteYou played by the river in cute braids. I didn't do that.
Delete