Q: How does a girl who’s 3,000 miles from her family spend Thanksgiving?
A: In a more or less traditional manner. This morning, I read the papers in my bijou hotel room with the 80th Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on the flat-screen TV, while sipping room service coffee and feeling really quite thankful.
Holiday shopping starts early in New York, and when in New York, go shopping. My hairdresser told me of a mythical place called Century Twenty One (no, not the fashion-challenged realtors in those dreadful gold jackets), where designer clothes and other delightfuls are drastically on sale. Think $450 cashmere sweaters for a paltry $60.
I was a little hesitant to go at first, when he told me it was right near Ground Zero. I had no intention of going there. A place like that should not be a tourist site. (In my opinion, they should have the two blue beams of light there forever, and not rebuild on a gravesite. Of course, I also believe that every single flag in the entire US of A should fly at half-mast until every single soldier is home from Iraq, but that’s just me.)
In the end, I could shop without gawking, and after all, shopping is a New York tradition, especially this time of year. I have to say, the city looks so pretty in its holidaywear that I can hardly wait to get home and put up my tree.
Tonight, I’ll head on over to PJ Clarke’s, the delightfully crowded and friendly 120 year old saloon nearby. Johnny Mercer wrote “One for My Baby” there, and Buddy Holly proposed to his wife-to-be there, saying prophetically, “I don’t have time” when she asked to think it over. I’ll have dinner at Frank Sinatra’s table (Number 20), and think of all of you, my family and friends, who I love, and who, more remarkably, love me back.