Back From The Big Apple

It's all I can do to sit at my computer I am so tired.  The New York expedition was pretty much a disaster from start to finish.  The wheelchair attendants associated with the Delta flights going up and coming back were as usual magnificent, always energetic, thoughtful, sensitive, I cannot say enough nice things about them.  Many were immigrants proving yet again how hard working, kind, and intelligent immigrants can be.  (On our return from Rome a few weeks ago, the Alitalia flight was met with one, yes, just one, wheel chair attendant born in Guyana, he alone had to deal with at least six passengers which by a miracle of organization he shepherded through US Customs--what a guy!)  Curiously enough Delta does an email quiz follow up on their wheelchair service ("Would you recommend Delta for its wheelchair service?" Not really, in this monopolized industry, you take what airline you can get going where you want to go.)  I stayed in a charming little Upper West side hotel, the Belnord, nothing fancy but with newly built handicapped bathroom, so it was perfect for me.  I discovered, however, that even with my cane I was at risk of falling constantly.  I just don't have command of my balance anymore.  Luckily I had friends visiting every day and I went out on expeditions with their support.  Once I hired a former student from the Sarasota theater program and we spent two three hour sessions walking through the Met, hand in hand, hand on arm; he was a big strong fellow, a former athlete and I felt totally safe.  I can imagine that there might be lots of young men available for this service, it's sort of like hustlers in days of yore, and I am not sure how to advertise for what I want.  In any case, I more or less said "goodbye" to the New York years.  Just too hard.  My cousin was in town and I hobbled along with her to see Anna Deveare Smith, whom I thoroughly enjoy always.  We also went to the Guggenheim to see the Agnes Martin show, and I found the climb up the ramp too much and fell by the wayside before we made it to the top.  The grid concept of Martin's work does not to my mind lend itself to a ramp, and I was glad to have seen the show last year at Tate Modern.  Maybe tomorrow I will write of the crazy experience of losing my bag with passport, telephone and several hundred dollars and its recovery--it was that kind of week, everything saying over and over "Stay Our Of New York"--.  At least I did not fall down.  But what if I go on living for a long time?