Washington Square - Wikimedia
I am always ready to learn although I do not always like being taught. Winston
Churchill *
On a Wednesday in late August 1959, I moved from the darkness of the Broadway Central Hotel to a sunny room in Mrs Eller's fifth floor apartment on East Fourth Street. She had a son in 8th grade who would teach me to play chess - trashing me for three months before losing a game. Mrs Eller rented another room to Carl, a struggling NYU law student. Carl would provide me with information about alcoholism that will last a life time.
The day after unpacking I enrolled in a Master's Degree program in the Department of Government at New York University. Returning to my room I stopped in a Second Ave drug store. On the way out the druggist asked me to give his regards to Mrs Eller, "a good woman". How did he know where I was staying? A most clever and intuitive individual I thought. Next stop was a small restaurant a half block away.
"I'd like a fish fry."
"We don't have it. How about gefilte fish?"
"Sure, sounds good." I had never heard of gefilte fish. "I'm new in town."
"I know. You want horseradish with that?"
Seeking a piece of deep fried haddock with fries drenched in ketchup and a side of slaw. I accepted an Ashkenazi appetizer - poached white fish with horseradish and ice tea.
As he slid me the bill "Your Mrs Eller's new tenant - right?"
"How did you know?"
"Small town" he smiled.
By November I was on occasion leading four or five foreign graduate students on tours of midtown Manhattan and the Village - Gerdes Folk City on East Fourth; The Five Spot for jazz; Cesare Borgia's and the Commons coffee houses; or the always popular - a bar with loose but expensive women. I would instruct my charges, "we buy one beer at the bar, meet the ladies, get our knees scratched and on my signal we all leave." Only once had I to gently remind a delighted Ethiopian army officer, "We are departing." Occasionally a Gray Tour bus would roll by windows full of faces. I would feel sorry for those on board - they were missing much.
During my last Master's interview with the Chairman of the Government Department (spring, 1960) I was offered a graduate assistantship. I declined, returned upstate, married and we started a family. In 1964 I returned to NYU and had my first interview with the new Chairman of the renamed Department of Politics. He spent twenty minutes explaining everything I needed to accomplish in the PhD program or he promised to throw me out. For the next seven years of full and part time graduate work my status was technically a graduate student, but in reality I was mostly the enemy. I jumped through all the hoops; courses, French and Russian language exams, comprehensive written exams (3 of 17 passed), a comprehensive oral exam, ("He's too glib.") and finally the dissertation stage. My adviser Ellsworth Raymond, a Soviet specialist (currently experiencing I trust the eternal beatific vision) was always supportive. But another member of my dissertation committee at an advanced stage of my work demanded a three page abstract, "Exactly what are you doing?"
I produced an exquisitely drafted three page statement and sent it off to the three committee members. Two members returned the document and gave me permission to proceed. Four weeks passed. I still had not heard from this nemesis. So I sent him another copy. By return mail I received my abstract. He felt that my project was "junk, meaningless, awful!" I retired to my couch to decide whether hanging or self-immolation should be my next step.
A few days later the second abstract arrived in the mail. "This looks OK" he wrote. It's improved. Proceed on." It was of course an exact copy of the first. I received my PhD in 1972. My formal education concluded - no sense of accomplishment but remarkable relief. The dissertation remains on the bottom shelf of a bookcase. To this day I cannot touch it without feeling a slight wave of revulsion.
On a warm evening in the mid 1980s, Ray and I were strolling in the vicinity of McDougal and Sullivan streets. Ray is a friend of many decades. At the time we were both divorced and courting. Joyce and Patti were walking and chatting in front of us. Ray was attracted by Patti's fine mind and I guess her lush great looks - think Claudia Cardinale or Penelope Cruz. On her shoulders rested a fur wrap. As we moved through the streets it occurred to me that wearing an animal skin in Greenwich Village could be problematic. So I planned - if there was a confrontation with an enraged animal lover Ray could defend her while I took Joyce and went for help.
Joyce had a regal quality. She wore stylishly classic fashion - hair long the color of sunlight (her hair dresser was at the Plaza Hotel). She was stunning but so was her model, actress daughter. Joyce also had a son who was Hollywood, leading man handsome. To be brutally frank when I was with the three of them I felt ugly.
Ray had not made a dinner reservation while I was confident we could find something. The street in front of us became clogged with people and nearly impassable. "Where will we eat?" I did not notice the restaurant "Angelo's" that was attracting a mob. But I did see Joyce and Patti talking with a nattily dressed man. "Lotharios and mashers everywhere!" I lamented, "Everywhere!" As Ray and I pushed to catch up, the ladies began following this individual - he led them through Angelo's front door and they disappeared. "What about us?" We were also nicely dressed. No one stopped us as we entered passing a fit praetorian type whose name had to be Vinnie. We joined the ladies at a brightly illuminated table with surprising space around us. There we enjoyed a pleasant if average dinner that was followed by an unforgettable bill. The lesson - always have a destination. A few weeks later it was reported that President Reagan dined there.
* Brainy Quotes - online.
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