magic

Everything is better when your best friend is around. Especially in New York City. You walk around with more confidence, knowing someone's by your side. You have someone to turn and talk to, and unlike the stranger on the subway, they actually listen. The blank non-expression of determination you develop when walking around town alone isn't necessary anymore. You're smiling to each other, taking your time, looking up and around rather than down. You have someone to chat with at the end of the day, muse about what was funny and scary, and plan for what's coming up next. And when you have a best friend like mine, a positive and calming presence even amidst crowds of thousands in Times Square, lugging around a brown leather 10 pound bag full of clothing and accessories for nearly 14 hours throughout the day, never complaining, the soles of her shoes nearly falling apart, who does nothing more than smile and say "Where to next?", you know that you're ok, you're home, for a week at least.

When you're in a city as cynical and fast paced as New York it's easy to lose some sense of optimism. Small unimportant moments affect you more than usual. I missed the train by a second. That homeless person is walking too close for comfort behind me. That vendor is judging me for buying and eating three hot dogs. The people in Bloomingdales won't even glance my way because apparently I ooze being poor. That restaurant will be too crowded. I don't want to spend $19 on a cocktail. It's easy to rush to conclusions, and easy to go through the day doing a million different things, and not realizing everything you're experiencing, all the sights, sounds, and faces.

"I just want to see a Broadway musical with you, that's my only thing. We need to experience the magic together," my beautiful best friend told me before I came to New York. She believes in magic. And let me tell you after being alone for nearly three weeks in this city, magic is something I desperately needed.

Music Box Theatre on 45th

So it was quite appropriate that the first Broadway musical I saw (4th overall show) was with her, and it starred a young man looking for his own type of magic, his own corner of the sky. "Pippin" begins with a show-stopper, an unnamed Leading Player wearing a skin tight all black ensemble belts out "Magic to Do", with an ensemble of what can only be described as flexible circus freaks. They rush up towards the audience, taunting and teasing, reaching out beyond the stage, limbs flying every which way. Eager for us to gaze, to be shocked and titillated. Sitting in the front row, literally the very first row, right next to the orchestra, we could see the sweat beads dripping off their faces, the movement of their mouths, the strategically placed costumes. I swear I thought one of them was going to fall into my lap. Later in the show, one almost did.

We rushed the box office earlier in the day at 10 am to get the discounted tickets right after I met my best friend, in typical New York fashion, running towards each other in slow motion from across a crowded street. Okay, we didn't really do that, but it was still pretty dramatic. The crowd parted and we saw each other. I've never been more happy to see someone's smile, we were in New York, together at last. We were only the seventh people in line, either a good sign, or a sign that the show wasn't all it was cracked up to be (it's been open for about a year and a half). Our seats, on paper, were amazing, front row center. The man working at the box office explained it was a partial view of the stage, and I thought to myself, how could you not see everything from front row center? Turns out you can't see a whole lot. While the musical, my best friend and I agreed, was truly memorable, even amazing at certain moments, the two leads absolutely at the top of their game, the stage was a little high for our shorter bodies, so the choreography couldn't be truly appreciated, and you had to constantly look up. Our necks permanently at right angles. Instead of moving your eyes back and forth as you would if you were seated in the mezzanine or even a few aisles back, you moved your entire head, back and forth, up and down. I've never needed a neck massage more in my life. I don't think I saw one pair of feet the entire night (feet are a little important to dancing) and the climax right before intermission was almost completely lost on me because the performers were out of sight, far back in the stage.

A few stragglers after the show. 

I looked over at my best friend as the curtains fell down before intermission, ready to comment on our unfortunate seating, and she was beaming, almost on the verge of tears. None of the petty problems I was preoccupied with, like our skewed vision of the stage, or the fact that my neck was bent up for the past hour and fifteen minutes seemed to phase her. She's five inches shorter than me I thought to myself! I thought about where we were and just how lucky we were to have these tickets, in the front row, at the Music Box Theatre on 45th street, in the heart of Manhattan. Nothing was gonna take away the joy she was feeling, why should it take away mine? Her attitude must have rubbed off on me because I barely noticed any of the issues during the second act which was spell binding. It transformed from a quite funny coming of age story with insane stunts and acrobatics and catchy songs into something quite different. Pippin does indeed find his corner of the sky, but it's not where you had expected, and the final number left the entire audience in the literal dark, questioning what they had just watched, where magic really comes from, and how happiness from within can comes not from the selfishness of your own desires but from the happiness of others. An appropriate lesson learned from my personal experience of the night.

We waited outside the stage door as the cast members flooded out, first the ensemble, then the stars. You could sense their continuing adrenaline. I could never imagine performing to that level even once, let alone eight times a week for who knows how long. Each autograph I asked for, I tried to use the actor's name and say something specific about their performance which I hope they appreciated. Not the standard "I love you!" "You were amazing!" "Sign this!" The Leading Player was performed by a young woman named Ciara Renee with beautiful freckles, just out of college we learned. She was a star already, and she couldn't have been more gracious. They all were. When you watch someone on the stage they seem so big, you so small, sometimes it's hard to believe when they come out and greet you on the sidewalk, smiling with humility, that they're just regular people. Some jumped in cars, off to their midtown apartments, one got on his bicycle shouting "Now back to Brooklyn", others just walked away, disappearing into the crowd, no one knowing who they are or what they do day after day. That's the magic of New York, you could be walking down any street and the person next to you could have just performed in a musical, just wrote a book, just closed a multi-million dollar deal with some corporation. There's magic everywhere. It was nice I had a friend AND a musical to remind me of that.