I recently read EB White’s Here is New York and immediately wished I possessed such powers of prose and wit to render my own spin on the city. Is there anything I can say about New York that has meaning or value? Probably not, but it wouldn’t hurt to practice and to jot down a few observations here and there. Today was an unusually warm day for January, perhaps in the low fifties, and the weather encouraged me to catch a late movie, something I normally wouldn’t do on a Sunday night.

I walked east on 42nd Street to catch the N to 57th Street, where the movie was playing at the Paris Theater. Being located in a posh neighborhood, the Paris Theater is a one-screen venue which usually selects artsy independent films, recent European releases, or documentaries. My previous screenings have included Winged Migration, a French documentary about the migration of birds, and A Very Long Engagement, a French movie about a woman in search of her long-lost fiance after World War I. Tonight’s selection was The White Countess, a Merchant Ivory production about a blind American diplomat who builds his dream bar in Shanghai against the backdrop of political uncertainty. My reasons for watching this movie were very specific: 1) the script was written by Kazuo Ishiguro, one of my favorite novelists, 2) the film was directed by James Ivory, whose work and style I admire very much, and 3) it was playing at the Paris Theater, which, with its soft velvet seats and screen curtains, is a nice change in scenery from the crowded brighty-lit megacineplex. And it happens to be located right next to the Solow Building (Nine West), which always fascinates me and makes me wish more buildings in New York had its elegant yet very functional architectural design.

Backtracking a bit, I walked east on 42nd Street. The walk from 8th Ave. to 7th Ave. is a long and slow one, especially on a day when the weather has people unafraid of the outdoors. It is a carnival compressed to a sidewalk. Street vendors sell Sabrett hot dogs and salted pretzels, and I catch a whiff of slightly burnt beef coming from a steaming row of shish kebabs waiting to be bought by a hungry tourist wanting to taste something “genuinely” New York. The Chinese artists sit and quickly draw charcoal portraits for patient customers, most of them Latino families who would like to see their children skillfully drawn on paper. I wonder how everyone can sit still outside for so long – I’ve probably grown too sensitive to uncontrolled climates. A few Chinese artists don’t seem to be having any luck and stand idly, next to the African-American man who superimposes photographs on popular magazine covers and prints them right away on his photo printer. I’m always wondering how he powers his workstation because it isn’t plugged in to anything – probably some sort of battery that can last him all day. Walking by Madame Tussad’s wax museum, I see for the three hundredth time giddy tourists posing next to the wax figure of Samuel L. Jackson, which seems to have become an almost permanent fixture on the street. People of all races and ethnicities enjoy being next to it, which makes sense since many of those same people probably enjoy watching him in movies.

In the Times Square subway station, I see a lone Korean man readying his traditional drumming equipment to perform at the spot which also hosts, at different times, break dancers, singers, and men who dance with life-size dolls. The Korean drummer cannot start because down the stairs near another exit, two African-American men are already playing on two drum sets which they’ve managed to set up as if it was inside a studio. I take a peek at the Korean drummer’s drum case to see how he’s been making out on the donations. I see a few dollar bills and change.

Waiting for the Uptown N, I notice a rat crawling around on the tracks. As much as I would hate to see a rat in an apartment setting, I always find myself enjoying the sighting of rats in the subway, especially when I am standing on a platform and the rat is a few feet below. This rat seems to be scavenging for food but quickly disappears when it hears the sound of an oncoming train. I step into the familiar orange and yellow seats of the N and try to read a few pages from Murakami’s collection of short stories. The one I happen to read on this short ride is called “The Kangaroo Communique,” a very bizarre piece about a department store clerk who replies to a consumer’s complaint in an amusing manner. When I get off the train, I overhear people speaking in Korean. It’s two young daughters and their mother getting off at the same stop as me. As I quicken my pace towards an exit, I wonder if they are a family visiting from Korea and staying at a very nice hotel, since there are some fine hotels very close to the area. I also wonder if they are coming back from Koreatown after dinner.

The older “prewar” buildings in the 50s and 60s Sts. of Manhattan never cease to amaze me. The intricate patterns and figures carved out of stone adorn the facades of buildings, which proudly wear a look of permanence and stability. The glass-happy buildings of residential and office skyscrapers may be sleek, but I sometimes prefer opaque walls. Tonight, however, I dash my hopes of living in a prewar home anytime soon, especially in an expensive neighborhood so close to Central Park. The walk, however, leaves no trace of despair, and I enjoy imagining how each tenant has decorated his or her interior space.

I meet up with Wook, who has come down from Columbia via the 1 and is carrying with him Louis Menand’s American Studies, which I strongly encouraged him to buy a few months ago when we were browsing books at Strand Bookstore near Union Square. We enter to watch the movie. The theater is mostly empty on this Sunday night. A few couples, all of them white, are scattered throughout the theater. An Asian woman, probably in her late forties, sits by herself in the row in front of us. She is elegantly dressed in clothes of the Neiman Marcus/Saks Fifth Ave. caliber – the camel-colored coat definitely seems cashmere. She is tall and thin, and in watching a movie like this on her own, I find myself crediting her character as a cultured one and wonder if she might be an Ishiguro fan like me. After the movie ends, she walks out and disappears. Wook and I, having enjoyed the film, make our way back towards Columbus Circle to take the subway to our respective locations. I decide to take the A back, which is also where the 1 happens to be.

An African-American man standing at the corner of a street calls out for us and asks for a dollar. When we casually ignore him and walk by, he calls out and tries hard to get our attention but finally gives up. We hear him making the same request to someone else. I wonder what his success rate has been. Wook notices a store that sells very expensive-looking pianos and also spots a man walking two dogs – one of the dogs has a stuffed animal in its mouth. A little bit further, Wook points out to a parked yellow cab inside which three cab drivers are playing cards and smoking. We both let out appreciative laughs, and as condescending as we may be from time to time in this heavily class-stratified city, there’s a warm moment of identification with these drivers and their time of relaxation and bonding.

Walking west on 42nd Street towards my apartment building, I think about things New York has meant to me. The way it’s made me so conscious about race, class, and status. The way I sometimes envision myself becoming a certain kind of New Yorker down to every minute material detail. The way I’ve made my decisions in shaping my own version of New York – the things I’ve seen, the food I’ve eaten, the people I’ve met. It’s nothing too deep and I try not to make it a nostalgic thing, but I do tell myself not to get complacent with the city – not yet. There are still corners to explore with fresh eyes, appetites to fill with varying budgets, and a heart to open to new people. And perhaps a prewar apartment to inhabit before it’s all too late.

Here is New York.