Up-state mental-state

I was lucky enough on the weekend to travel upstate to Patty’s little house on the proverbial prairie. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her (she DOES like in America…), she’s one of my international mamas – a lot of Mum’s closest friends live overseas. Thus, I have what feels like family all over the world. Maria Teresa in Milan; Beatrice in Paris; Dee used to live in London but has now moved to a vineyard in outer Sydney; and Patty, my Manhattan dwelling mama. She currently shares the title with Sharon, my godmother’s old best friend from when she did her stint in the New York fashion world in the 80s. How I envy her. So she’s my adoptive godmother.

Back to Patty and ‘upstate’. Oh, the elusive ‘upstate’.

“Upstate? Where?”
“I don’t know, just ‘upstate’.”

I had no idea where I was going when I was bundled into her big black people-mover (ironic as she’s one of those sassy never-married New York creative types). As usual, I was running late as I got caught up
a) taking leftover cinnamon raisin bagels to Spiro, my favourite homeless man at Strawberry Fields. I had to go to midtown to meet Patty anyway, and Strawberries is only about a 20 block walk, and I had bagels. And I hadn’t visited him in a fortnight. It seemed logical! But we ended up talking for 2 hours. He’s what the beggars like to call “snowbirds” because they ‘migrate’ to the warmer areas in the Winter. The homeless community on the East coast head to the West coast for winter because it’s too cold to live on a church stoop when it’s negative 15. And then we started talking about karma, and he started to cry. I looked over at him and he had tears rolling down his face and into his toothless crevice. “I’m so lucky I have people like you here for me. I deserve this”. How can you leave after a comment like that?

I’m going to miss Spiro. I hope he’s still around and alive when I come back and live here eventually.

Hmm…

And b) –second reason why I was late if you’ve lost track- When I was speed walking back through Central Park to get to Patty’s apartment, I noticed that the leaves were nearly all turned. This was the last chance that I would get to see Central Park in the height of Fall. And I just so happened to have my SLR with me, so I took a little liberty in living a little and slowed down and photographed my memories of this period of my life. The leaves were glossy and auburn.

I get flustered when I’m late, and as a result, I didn’t even notice that we’d already crossed the water into the Bronx (first foray, and from the looks of the industrial surrounds and numerous baseball stadiums, my last). And even then, I didn’t slow down. My leg jitter is back for a start. I trained myself out of it when I was about 16 because I annoyed myself, but Manhattan life has done it to me again. And I like it – I like seeing that I’m having a physical reaction to the city!

Anyway, suddenly you turn off the overpass, and you’re in the woods. And we’re passing signs that say “Sleepy Hollow” and “Pleasantville”. Patty keeps on apologizing for the state of the leaves, saying ‘You should’ve seen it 2 weeks ago. It was magnificent. It’s just gone to the shit now’.

But I was looking around feeling the exact opposite. I have never seen such beauty in a dying thing. The surrounds are like nothing I have ever visually experienced. It is beyond the dotted traffic-light coloured trees of Central Park; or the huge yellow something that sheds heart-shaped petals on me on my way to work. The entire skyline is a mix of reddened hues.

You know that expression ‘salt and pepper hair’. Well this wasn’t salt and pepper trees – they were spiced. Spiced with cumin and paprika.

Yet a lot of the trees were bare too, leaving these eerie glows of grey amongst the stimulation. It almost acted like some sort of low clouding. Or as if you’d drawn an amazing coloured charcoal landscape, then got a rubber and just scrubbed and smudged portions of it out. Truly eerie.

The house itself turns out to be in the Hudson Valley, and more specifically Stanfordville. The houses in Stanfordville can be up to 800ms apart, and have their own horse tracks. There’s a deli, a post office, somewhere to buy beer, a church and an antique store. And I loved it. Towns around it (like Schlutzville. Yes, it was called Schlutzville) didn’t even have that. It was lovely and secluded and simple and exactly what I needed to escape. To think that this is a little over an hour out of Manhattan?

Over the course of the weekend, I slept 15 hours straight (I don’t think I have EVER done that. But it shows you how much I’m running myself into the ground), read a book and 3 magazines, went for a huge walk, took a bunch of photos, watched Patty cook up the most scrumptious meals (that I didn’t need to myself for once! I enjoyed being lazy…), ate them and watched 3 movies in a row. No mobile, no laptop, no work.

Now THAT’S a weekend.