He lived his last chapter in apartment 1G, 43-30 46th Street, in Sunnyside, in the borough of Queens, New York City.
Before going to 46th Street, I stopped by the Sunnyside branch of the Queens Public Library. Having worked as a public librarian for twelve years, and having been married to a librarian for many more years, libraries have a special place in my heart. Some years ago Laura and I went to San Francisco for a family wedding, with plans to stay in Sonoma for a few days after. As is wont to happen, in the last-minute rush to get to LaGuardia Airport for our flight out, we forgot our travel books. Problem? No; we went to the San Francisco Public Library. As libraries go, and we have visited numerous over the years, the main branch of SFPL is a gem. Back then it was cleverly arranged: Dewey categories in different floors. We found travel books, looked at a couple, and took notes we used when we got to the Sonoma Valley (more our style than the fancier, more expensive Napa). A few days later we traveled up to Seattle for a few days, and — of course —visited the Seattle Public Library
Oases in urban — and rural — landscapes, libraries have been changing greatly over the last few decades, yet retain immutable traits: ebooks and Internet computers have displaced (many) printed books and card catalogs, and libraries now offer free wifi; too, they are (mostly) quiet resting places that have bathrooms and places to sit and take a load off for a bit.
Outside, it is an attractive building; it stands on the corner of 43rd Street and Greenpoint Avenue (yes, it is a straight arrow to the Greenpoint in Brooklyn, but that's another story for another future day).
Inside, it was actually roomier than I had first thought; and quite familiar: an information desk and a reference desk, sitting nooks, a Children's Room, and a YA space. I was impressed.
After visiting the library, I went searching for Bix; then I went for lunch.
Not far from 46th Street I found Adda, a restaurant I had seen reviewed in the NY Times back on 20 November 2018. Now, I am not enamored of culinary trends (I do not think of smoke as food, and like meals which actually sate my hunger, no matter how pretty, thank you very much; and I have had it with star chefs and eloquent reviewers intent on displaying their wide-ranging vocabularies and far-reaching experience — I vote for experience to be sent to linguistic Elba, may it never escape), but I do love good food, and I was hungry.
I crossed from the south to the north side of Queens Boulevard, and back again, seeking the little sun I could find; it was a cold day. Ethnicities abounded, of course: this is Queens, the most diverse place on the planet, where Turks, Filipinos, Colombians, Chinese, Japanese and Indians walk and work cheek by jowl and everyone is in search of lunch.
Adda pleased me. I ordered a vegetable samosa and finally settled on the Mumbai lamb curry my waiter assured me would tickle my palate; not very spicy, he assured me, and he was sort of right, in that it wasn't that spicy, but it was more than a tickle. The basmati rice I was served was aromatic and delicious, and a nice-sized serving.
The only detail I didn't like was the musical cacophony; something I can only describe as Indian hip hop was playing very loud. I could hardly hear myself think, as the saying has it, and could not comprehend why a man across the narrow aisle between tables from me sat, a finger in one ear, a cellphone to the other; why not just go outside and talk? I could not fathom what the person on the other side of that conversation was hearing.Otherwise, I was quite happy. I shall have to go back to Adda some day.
