New York Without Luggage, Reservations or Fresh Socks, page 2

Before the Grand was dinner - we decided to walk around and look for a likely place. John has no trouble asking local-looking people where they like to eat and they were happy to help. What's this rumor about bitter New Yorkers? Of course I was introduced as the visitor from L.A. so they had all the more reason to be sure I got something besides sprouts, tofu and sunflower seeds. We stopped in for raw oysters and champagne at a small but packed restaurant. It got to be around 9 and we figured we had a shot at getting into Balthazar without a reservation. Sure enough, we only had to wait about 45 minutes at the bar, pacing ourselves on the drinking by this point, believe you me. Dinner was quite wonderful, though I let myself get talked out of a local fish - cod - and talked into Chilean sea bass, which is unavoidable in L.A. restaurants The waiter had obviously spent his childhood pushing cod around his plate and pretending he'd finished it. John's ravioli was phenomenal and led to him to keep perfecting his pasta and ravioli from scratch.

We rolled to the Grand with no bags to check in - I didn't even have a purse. I don't lug purses around as they are a drag to carry and a magnet for muggers. We stopped at a bodega and bought a toothbrush, toothpaste and contact lens solution for me - $9, not a bargain but who cared? We then hit the hotel and noted the hopping scene at the bar - and walked right past it. We fell into bed and slept blissfully - though by morning's light we discovered the room was tiny. Didn't this used to be an old SRO hotel? They certainly didn't increase the room size when it was converted to a profit center. John pointed out the view from our window and what it was missing - the World Trade Center. Solemn moment.

We got a late check out and debated what to do. Well, eating was going to happen, but first some great walking and a truly wonderful cup of coffee at a place we ducked into. Don't ask me the name. New York is teeming with picturesque side streets with tiny cafes, shops, galleries and what not. We ended up at Veselka around 2 p.m. This is a classic Eastern European restaurant at 10th and 2nd Avenue. I got stuffed cabbage and borscht and even went for dessert. We read the NY Times at our window table and watched the world go by. But the break was over. One of the people we were to meet at last returned a cell call. Okay, I admit it, we turned the phone off for hours so as to be unreachable. I mean, ahem, conserve the battery. We arranged to meet him in midtown and walked all the way (40 blocks or so, but John the native assured me they were the short blocks, not the crosstown blocks). The walk took us across the strange diagonal which Broadway becomes and I started to get a feel for the geography of the city, something that's hard to do in a cab, bus or car. We met my friend for drinks at another "guys' bar" with an after work crowd culled from Wall Street. John had a White Russian that seemed to be made with maple syrup. More of a beer and scotch place I guess.

Then it was time for a hellish run to the Port Authority, both needing to find a bathroom and desperate to catch the bus in time to make it back to Jersey and a long-arranged night with the family at the Scots-American social club. Back in Jersey, Manhattan was a vision across the water again. John's brother-in- law Joey kept the wine and beer going as it was his night to tend bar, but after the night before we kept it light. I persuaded my native hosts to go back to Manhattan the next day, this time to hit the Natural History Museum. We drove over with John's Pop at the wheel of his car, nice enough to drive to a city he hates. He used to have a sidewalk stand in the Village, where John sold his original paintings as well. He reminisced about those days, and the really old days, when he met John's mom at a Catholic dance in 1949 and by age 18 was married.

We tried for close to 25 minutes to find parking near the museum and actually succeeded. Pop and I were on the lookout for a spot while John napped, still catching up on sleep after another night back on the lumpy mattress. He woke up just in time to find a spot for us, claiming we needed his expertise. Okay, but who drove up and down ten square blocks until we found an undiscovered street? Now I was feeling the real New York. Scour the place for parking or pay the astounding rate of $24 for 2 hours. Pleased with our find, we trudged to the museum where a huge line meant we could not possibly get in. What to do?

How about a trip to Hoboken? But first I felt I had to see Ground Zero. It was a crisp December Saturday as we edged through typically hellish traffic down to the tip of Manhattan. Everyone had warned me that it was just a big hole in the ground surrounded by a chain link fence. We couldn't park or get much closer but circled a little. I could see the fence was decorated - and perhaps still is - with tattered mementoes of the dead. Pictures, ribbons, poems, posters. A faded picture of a young woman stays in my mind. She is smiling in a stiff pose; maybe it's some kind of studio shot. I glimpsed hawkers selling shirts, flags and buttons - the post Christmas vacation crowd had a festive feel but I didn't get close enough to feel the other vibe I knew was there. The sad one. And the angry one.

So it was back through the Lincoln Tunnel to Jersey. We toured Hoboken, where both John's parents were born. We drove past Sinatra's birthplace, very well marked and easy to find within the two square miles which is Hoboken. We then prepared to double or maybe even triple park, per tradition, outside Biggie's Clams. It was a 1940's social club/illegal gambling joint that served food so good it had become mostly a restaurant by the '50's. I had raw clams on the half shell and was very content. East coast seafood is cold water seafood, somehow brinier and crisper than the Gulf seafood where I grew up. Maybe there is an argument for cold climates after all.

We were soon back at Pop's, greeted by his cat Duke, standoffish as ever. The guys had managed to find a New York Times for me after three tries at local Kearny newsstands. They watched football and I read the paper. We drank hot tea and ate cake and it was hard to imagine that the high rises of New York were so close to this cozy middle class street. There was more eating that night. Italian food, of course. Huge portions for your average "gavone" - Italian for what I had become on the trip -someone who eats everything in sight. But, New York in the winter is made for eating…when in Rome.

Laura Glendinning is a travel and screenplay writer living in Los Angeles, CA. Contact her at