A NEW SEASON

The days creep by. The holidays approach. This year, the overall feeling in the city streets doesn't seem to match the season. The air outside is far too warm, crawling into the 60's most days, and it nudges us to spend our afternoons with ice cream in the playground rather than ice-skating in the park. Our heavy winter coats sit in the back of the closet, waiting patiently for their day in the sun. We continue to frolic lightheartdedly about the city as if the golden days of early autumn had never ended. It feels eerily similar to my childhood winters in California.

When Biet and I walk home from school, we like to play a game of counting how many vintage cars we can find. One day, after walking the long way home, across Tenth street and up First avenue, where a few of the old cars are regularly parked, she asks me what I want for Christmas. We walk two more blocks. She points out a seafoam green Ford Falcon parked across the street and I smile. I finally answer.

This year, I tell her, I want no wrapped gifts, no clothes nor books nor records nor jewelry. This year, I say, I want an adventure for Christmas, or at least to plant the seeds of adventure and hope to make one happen in the new year. I want to make a promise to one another to go experience someplace foreign, to dream big and to think in new ways about seeing the world. My heart has been bursting with wanderlust over the past few month and I'm ready to invest in experience and to embark with my family of five on an adventure like no other.  It could be a vacation, or a road trip, or a wild camping jaunt through the forest or countryside, I don't know. But my soul is seeking adventure, and I can think of nothing I would love more for Christmas than to sit down and plan it out. Biet watches me and I can see the excitement rubbing off on her. Then she nods her head and tells me nonchalantly that she'll take me to Paris, where we'll eat chocolate together and watch ballet. I begin to laugh off the thought but then the image of she and I wandering the streets of Paris hits me and I have to catch my breath. She's older, early teens, and a radiant wild-haired woman with a fiery confidence and a quick wit. To imagine your children grown is at once terrifying and thrilling, and I let myself get lost for a minute in the idea of being a mother of three grown adults. Then I blink and we are walking up First Avenue, and she is four, and we're looking for old Cadillacs, and Christmas is only days away.

Early that evening we walk over to Union Square to the Holiday Market, where vendors from all over city set up booths to sell their wares. There are tables overflowing with spices and teas, handmade candles burning, carved wooden ornaments piled high, rows of hand-blown glass, and dainty charms swinging from golden chains. The tepid December air carries spicy clouds of hot apple cider through the outdoor market corridors. Eleven-week-old Levon rides in the bassinet and sleeps nearly the entire time. He is such a peaceful baby with a happy bright demeanor. He also exudes a distinct spiritual energy that you simply must experience to fully understand. I watch a sense of peace befall those who hold him, and everyone seems to say the same thing- there's something mesmerizing about his eyes. Deep blue and piercing, they catch you off guard and hold your gaze with a vengeance. Even Santa Claus couldn't look away (we skipped the long lines at the big department stores this year and took the kids instead to an intimate little event my friend Brianne put together with Little Me at Lord & Taylor) when we took Levon to sit on Santa's lap for the first time. The only child of mine to not cry upon being handed to Santa, Levon smiled and yawned and stared deep into the eyes of the bearded man... no fear, no anxiety, just a perfectly comfortable baby burrowing into the fabric of a fluffy red and white Santa suit. Quite simply, baby Levon is one of the most brilliant people I've ever met.

In the back of the market we find what we've been looking for- a miniature table surrounded by miniature chairs inside a miniature room fashioned of wood and plexiglass. Baskets of paint and glitter are strewn about the tabletop and colorful paper ornaments hang from a clothesline against the back wall. My children see the little art shack and run towards it. Lou, my little mover and shaker, has ALL of the art supplies in his corner of the table within seconds, and is happily gluing yellow feathers to a blue snowman. He has a way about him that makes you believe that he can make anything, a boundless energy and enthusiasm for building things that becomes infectious. In no time we are all sitting around the little CMA kids table making christmas ornaments, inside the holiday market, in the middle of the park, as the sun sets over Manhattan. It's all very picturesque.

The sun has set and the children's bedtime is approaching. With our freshly-glittered ornaments layed to dry under the stroller and a couple slices of pizza in our bellies, we detour down 5th avenue to catch a glimpse of the Washington Square Park Christmas Tree before heading back home to our apartment. The wind blows hard up fifth avenue, swirling my hair above my head and turning my coat into a cape flapping behind me. Lou delightedly informs me that I look like Batman, and for a couple of blocks we run wildly against the wind gusts playing Batman and Robin. As I'm running with him I think about how this is something my Dad would have done with me, and the thought warms my heart and makes me miss my family terribly.

Finally we are standing under the majestic tree, strung with lights in all her glory and swaying precariously in the wind. Surprisingly, the park is quiet and nearly empty save for a few stragglers and people rushing home from work. I've never seen Washington Square so empty, and the rareness of the situation is not lost on me. Here I stand with the tree before me, the Empire State beaming in the distance, and my three healthy children by my side, and I am so grateful.  And I know Christmas is coming, but, once again, the city feels calm, warm, tranquil, and lacking the usual frantic energy which descends upon everything like a blanket this time of year.

In that moment I feel so at home, and I suddenly notice the unexpected beauty in having a quiet Christmas.  I decide to stop waiting for this year to feel like every other year and accept that ease and calm can replace the excitement of the NYC streets once in awhile, and that's ok. Here we are celebrating Levon's first Christmas, and the weather is warm, and life is simple, and that's ok. Standing under the tree I get this overwhelming feeling that our family is done waiting. We've finally arrived at some unnamed destination and are ready to begin something. What that thing is I cannot say, but I do know that we five have each other, and we have the city, and we are exactly where we need to be. As the winter solstice approaches, a new season is turning over in our lives. I am so eager to see what it holds.

I stay up at night after the kids are asleep and try to read. I've been trying to re-read a few of my favorite novels, Proust, Tom Robbins, Kerouac, Fran Lebowitz. The whole apartment is still and dark except for the dim yellow glow from the 1950's bedside lamp. I rescued the funny little lamp from the trash room of our building not long after moving in to our apartment- it's gaudy curved marble base and intricate floral velum shade had resonated with me when I spotted it, and so I gave it a respectable permanent home on my side of the bed.  Gaby can't stand the lamp, but it reminds me of all of the generations who lived in the building before me, and of all of the adventures that must have been had before my time. It reinforces the connection I've always felt to the past, and, like a handful of antiques I've collected over the years, sparks my imagination.

I usually get through about three pages at the end of the night before switching off the lamp and falling asleep. And then, for only a few hours out of the entire day, the whole apartment is quiet as we lose ourselves to our dreams.  I dream of Paris, and Christmas is another day closer.

HALLOWEEN

I rolled a sheet of paper into a tiny cone and slipped it inside of her miniature pointy hat to prop it up straight, being careful not to tear the ruffle we had just sewn on.  Then placing it upon her head, I secured it to her wild curls with a few of my bobby pins, making sure to throw a few more bobby pins into my pocket for later, when we would inevitably lose these ones. Her wild locks have a way of making pins disappear.

We buttoned our capes, picked up our pumpkins, and barreled out of the front door of our apartment, singing "Cabaret" at the top of our lungs and letting our joyous words bounce off of the hallway's marble walls. Then out of the building we marched, with great gusto and excitement, as if ascending a stage. Outside, in full costume, Gaby and Lou waited for us to join them to complete the "circus". For this was not just another day, and we were not just another family.  Today was Halloween, and we were the Savransky Traveling Family Circus.

The neighbors from the laundromat and the coffee shop were gathered outside already, chatting with Gaby and Lou about all things that neighbors chat about, as happens each day on our gloriously neighborly block.  And upon seeing Biet dance out of the door in her fluffy layered concoction of fabric and pattern, as a true-to-form old fashioned circus clown, the eyes of the group collectively lit up. Then Gaby hugged her, and kissed me, and off we went, a clown and a strong man and a trapeze artist and a ringleader, into the wild and wonderful world of the village on Halloween.

However, before we could even take a step, Gaby leaned over my shoulder and said "Hi Yoko!".  I didn't really register what he had said until I turned around and found myself face to face with Yoko Ono, who just happened to be walking with a friend down our quiet block.  And so right outside of our apartment building, she stopped and said hello. We showed her our costumes before she graciously and authoritatively continued on her way. It was utterly surreal, and a perfect start to an utterly surreal evening.

Onward we went, traveling east to west, through the East Village to Noho to Greenwich Village to the West Village.  Lucien learned to say "trick or treat!" in about two seconds (positive reinforcement, people!!), and would yell it at the top of his lungs over and over as we paraded through the streets. During the daylight hours on Halloween, before all of the grit and strangeness of the underworld takes over the streets, before the ridiculously beautiful and otherworldly-costumed weirdos emerge, before the sun sets, children rule the streets. And suddenly, the whole city is their friend. The deli's and restaurants and shops all welcome them in with open arms.  People move aside on the sidewalks and let the kids wildly dash along. Candy flows like water. Everyone smiles and snaps pictures and oohs and ahhs. And each child walks with a certain mix of pride and excitement and sugar-rush, as they, for one day, have each become whatever or whoever they imagined they could be.

We hit up mostly businesses on the walk west, and private stoops on the walk back east, stopping for a few minutes in the middle in Washington Square Park to let the kids run around in the fountain, which had been turned off for the season and had transformed into a giant concrete stage in which the children were showing off their costumes and counting how many Elsa's they could find. The sun had now set and the air had cooled, and we were all hungry, so we ducked into one of our favorite old diners for burgers and shakes before heading home.

And when we finally did approach home, when the shops had closed and the bars had opened, when the darker and more elaborately-costumed partygoers began to emerge, when there were few children left on the streets and the ones that did remain looked supremely happy and thoroughly exhausted in their strollers, waiting to get home to their beds, we passed the gorgeous old St. Marks Theatre.  Lou was snug in his stroller, but Biet asked to go in, so I decided it would be our last stop.  We wandered into the dark absinthe bar at the front.  The place was almost empty, lit only by candles.  "Trick or Treat!," she called out, and from the other side of the room the bartender emerged. "No more candy." she bluntly told us, so we turned to leave. We had tried.  But on our way out, a man with a thick french accent stepped out of a doorway in front of us and began speaking.

He was from France, and he loved our homemade costumes.  They reminded him of old theater in his home country when he was a child. Now he ran the little crepe window on the side of this theater. And no, there was no more candy. But yes, there was something special he could give us.  And then leading us back into the bar, through two heavy doors, and down a bright hallway, we came to the prop closet, from which he brought out a little basket of rings, and instructed Biet to choose one. And with eyes so bright and enthralled you'd think he'd just given her a castle, she chose a tiny delicate white one.  It just so happened that she had been asking for a ring for weeks, yet we'd had no luck finding one small enough. And it just so happened that this one fit her perfectly. The whole encounter was eerily perfect.

And just as we'd emerged from our apartment hours earlier, pristinely made-up and full of enthusiasm for the bright and magical Halloween adventure which awaited us, we now emerged from the dusty dim theater into the wild and dark village streets, our legs tired and makeup half smeared off, looking more like vagabonds than a traveling circus.  We were tired. We were happy. We began to leave, but the man, who had returned to his crepe stand, yelled to us from the little open window, "Wait, I'll make you a crepe too!", and proceeded to whip up a butter and sugar crepe, roll it up neatly, and hand it to Biet through the window.  Then he informed her, "I'm from Brittany, France- where we know how to make real crepes."  We thanked the kind man profusely, and with full hearts and bellies, turned the corner and walked back home.

Later that night, when the kids were scrubbed and brushed and tucked away in bed, and the apartment was calm and quiet save for the occasional sounds of festivities drifting in from the streets outside, I threw a coat over my pajamas and took Nico for a walk.  The city had transformed into a gothic carnivalesque paradise. Just like every Halloween, there was a distinct wild feeling in the air, like anything could happen at any moment.  On First Avenue I passed two amazing drag versions of Marie Antoinette- one all in white and one all in black, and paused for a second to marvel at their beautiful costumes. And the all-white Marie, with her lace and glitter and seven-foot hairdo, called out to me, with a little humor yet a little scorn, "Girl, where's your costume? Where's your Halloween spirit?!"

And I looked back and smiled.

HALLOWEEN IN THE VILLAGE

While Lucien took his morning nap, Biet and I got to work finishing up our costumes.  We sat at the dining table with a spread of paper, glue, and ribbon before us. She made two little piles of rhinestones, or as she calls them, "jewels!".  The red and yellow were for Lucien, she proclaimed, and the blue and green for her.  She handed the jewels to me, one by one, and I glued them to the crowns. While we waited for the crowns to dry we did our hair and makeup and put on our gowns.  An old ruffled shirt of mine became Lucien's costume; an old pink dress of my mothers, found in the attic of my aunt's house when we visited her this summer in Portland, became mine.  Then I tied on my servant apron, and King Lucien and Queen Biet put on their crowns, and on we went, to Greenwich Village.

Gaby eagerly called our names as we came out of the West 4th street station.  He had been waiting for us, alone and in costume on the busy 6th Avenue corner.  Ever since I have known Gaby, he has utterly despised dressing up on Halloween.  Partly from being raised in another country and culture, and partly just because of personal preference, he simply does not like to dress up.  After marrying someone insanely passionate about costumes, you would think he would have lightened up, but no.  After having a kid, you would think he might start to see the fun it it, but that didn't happen either.  It wasn't until he became a father of two, the patriarch of a brood, that his tastes suddenly changed.  This year, to my surprise and elation, he began requesting that we start putting our costumes together months in advance!  It was a Halloween miracle.  We brainstormed ideas and settled upon the most fitting and whimsical idea we could think of: the little ones would be the royal King and Queen, and the parents would be the royal servants.

Biet held her pumpkin and proudly marched on like the Queen that she was, leading us through Washington Square park and into the Greenwich Village Children's Parade and festival.  Excitement mounted in the drizzly air as we made our way through the sea of children and flashbulbs and costumed parade-goers.  Photographers swarmed the park, and we were asked a couple of dozen times to pose for a picture.  Biet was amazing and would hold my hand and excitedly yell "picture!" every time someone stopped us.  We made our way through the park and then broke away to trick-or-treat through the village.

Since downtown NYC is made up of buildings with storefronts instead of houses with porches, city kids go trick-or-treating from business to business in the neighborhood, instead of to private homes.  I remember how quirky and amazing it seemed to me when I first moved here; I was working in a cafe and the boss sent me out to buy a bunch of candy on Halloween morning, "for the kids."  I thought he meant for the kids who came in to dine with their parents, until the afternoon rolled around and the stream of trick or treaters took over the city sidewalks and began pouring into the restaurant.  I remember thinking to myself, "man, I wish I could have been a kid at Halloween in NYC!".  This year I finally experienced it with my kids, and it was a blast.

Biet's face, when she fully grasped the power of the words, "trick or treat," and when she realized that all of the candy was for her, was priceless.  I'd call it an equal mix of joy, pride, and astonishment.  We walked through the winding streets of the West Village, stopping in to every shop, bar, restaurant, and deli for treats.  Biet kept eating her candy as we walked, stopping every block or so to assess her collection and choose her next piece.  We balanced out the sugar with a good old fashioned slice of pizza, and continued on our way until the sun began to set.  As it got darker and darker, the crowds began to surge and the police began to swarm and a sort of frenzy took over the streets as the barricades went up for the big Halloween Parade.  For a split second, we contemplated lifting the kids on our shoulders and staying for the parade, but then I imagined being penned it with thousands of partygoers and two exhausted kids, and thought better of it.  Biet & Lucien had had more than enough excitement for one day, and Biet had walked a trick-or-treating marathon for the record books, so we headed home.  Maybe they'll be up for it next year.

One of my favorite moments of the day (aside from seeing Batman randomly drive by in the real Batmobile from the old show!) happened as we were trick-or-treating around Bleecker street.  We wandered into an old Irish bar and Biet proudly yelled "trick or treat!".  There was only one table in the place, and a few old men at the wooden bar.  The bartender grinned and brought Biet a whole handful of candy from a bucket behind the bar, saying in a thick Irish accent, "well 'ere you go sweetie!".  We said thank you and turned to leave when an old man sitting at the bar slammed down his whiskey and called over at us, "now wait a minute! Those are the best costumes I've seen all day!" He was very old, but he slowly got off his stool and came over to Biet and put a dollar in her pumpkin.  "That's for your mom to go buy you candy.  Not the Halloween stuff- the good stuff from the store.  You tell her to buy you whatever you want."

Biet was so proud of her money. I asked her what she wanted to buy with it.  Looking through her pumpkin full of candy, she replied "ummm, more lollipops."

BRICK WALLS + BLUEBERRIES: A SIMPLE FOURTH

The car rumbled over the cobblestones uneasily as we passed the warehouses and abandoned junk yards making our way towards the water.  The sun beamed down the oddly deserted streets blinding us as we drove slowly in the direction of the old pier.  We knew we were close.  We had assumed that we would simply follow the crowds of other New Yorkers flocking to Red Hook to watch the fireworks, but alas, there were hardly any to be found.  The parking spots were open, the streets were quiet, and the air was still.  As we neared the old shipping yard I began to wonder if perhaps we had made a mistake in venturing to a brand new spot on the fourth of July; a spot that, before today, I had never heard of.  But then we turned the last corner and I gasped.  I knew in that moment that we had found something special.

Sunlight poured over the old wooden pier, soaking the grassy knoll behind it and bouncing off of the old industrial buildings.  A few wooden picnic tables had been brought out in front of the adjacent warehouse, where a bustling key lime pie stand was in business.  Two dogs guarded the front of the stand, and a few others lounged on the grass with their families.  A few dozen people laid on blankets, picnicking and sunbathing.  A cool breeze blew in from the calm river, and lady liberty herself looked down upon us from her throne in the distance.

We laid out a blanket by the water and began to eat.  Biet stole all of the blueberries for herself, and thought it was just the funniest thing to adorn her little blueberry container with handfuls of grass.  Lucien rested his head upon his sling on the grass at stared up at the orange-streaked sky as the sun descended.  Gaby and I took turns chasing Biet to the pier and back and watching sailboats float by.   As we waited for the sun to set and the firework to begin, Biet and I explored the neighborhood a bit.  We climbed old brick walls and wandered down dirty alleys.  Biet collected stones along the way, showing me each one excitedly before putting it in her pocket.  We stopped in for a mini key lime pie on our way back to Papa and Lucien, and the owner gave Biet the cutest little key lime to add to her stone collection.

As the buildings' shadows grew long and darkness blanketed us, little eyes began to grow tired and little legs began to grow weary.  We made our way to the end of the pier, Lucien nursing in his sling and Biet in the arms of her Papa.  The pier slowly filled will people, and the first booms of the fireworks echoed across the water.  By the time we realized that our perfect little spot had a not-so-perfect view, we looked down and realized that our babies, having had a full and adventuresome day, were ready to sleep.  Biet wouldn't even lift her head from her Papa's shoulder to see the tiny fireworks in the distance.  So humming to our children over the excitement of the crowd, we ventured off the pier, through the grass, away from the water, and back to the car.  We hardly saw any of the show, but it was kind of a perfect ending to a beautiful day.

This little space of the city that we had discovered, so new to us at the same time so old, felt like it had been waiting for us all along.  Our afternoon there had been so magical, and so free. And what better day to experience an overwhelming sense of gratitude and freedom, than on Independence Day.  After all, isn't that what this day is all about?

And at the first stop sign we came upon not two blocks away, a rambunctious group of teenagers suddenly bombarded the street and set off the brightest, biggest, scariest firework show right in front of us.  Alternately terrified and thrilled, we drove through and away from the booms and whistles and explosions in the sky, sparks flying all around.  Leave it to kids of Brooklyn to put on the best Fourth of July show in the city.

HALLOWEEN!

Its a strange Halloween this year, that's for sure.  As our city struggles to recover from this unimaginable storm, our hearts and thoughts are with all of our friends who are suffering.  The loss sustained is unimaginable.  We are so grateful to have made it through with electricity, housing, food, and our health. We truly feel lucky.

One of New York City's great strengths, I believe, is how it comes together in times of crisis. I experienced it firsthand during the blackout of 2003, when communities banded together to make sure that everyone was taken care of, and it is happening again now.  So with all of the chaos and despair of this hurricane aftermath, Halloween will still go on.  NYC kids wouldn't have it any other way.  It may be the eeriest Halloween ever with all of downtown Manhattan blacked-out, but I know New Yorkers will make the best of it.  We will be staying here in Brooklyn, maybe going trick-or-treating, maybe not. Most definitely cooking up a big fall stew, and cherishing all that we have.

Happy Halloween everyone! I hope yours is magical. 

(This polaroid was taken by LaTonya's sweet husband at her Halloween party, where we dressed as a family of cats. Latonya's daughter River and Biet were so cute together!)