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.

DAY OF LOVE

A few weeks ago, while running errands down on the west side, we stopped to sit for a minute in Christopher Park and enjoy the fleeting early winter sunshine.  It was an unseasonably tepid day, and it seemed that with the shedding of layers everyone in the city also shed a bit of their hardcore New York attitude.  Everyone just seemed a little happier, a little lighter than usual. We sat on the benches and people-watched; we watched the couples walking hand in hand, the dancers with a boom box vogueing in the corner of the park, the business men and women buzzing by with their heels clicking against the pavement, the intermittent floods of people bubbling up out of the subway exit every few minutes, the dogs walking their owners and taxis screeching to a halt to pick up their passengers.. there was so much to see.  Everyone seemed oddly positive, smiling a bit more than usual and walking with a spring in their step. It was one of those rare golden days  that fall precariously just in between the seasons.  If only we'd all known what a brutally cold winter lay just around the corner.. :)

Biet was utterly enthralled with the life-size statues in the park, the gorgeous sculpture duo Gay Liberation by George Segal.  She kept looking up quizzically at their faces trying to decide if they were real people or not.  At one point, she pulled herself up onto the bench and sat next to the ashy statue couple, shyly brushing her hand against the stone.  I think it was in that moment that she realized they were pieces of art, not performance artists with painted bodies sitting deathly still (we see a few of those around town too).  I love seeing her interact with the public art pieces that pepper our city's public spaces.  It's one thing to go to a museum to see art, and another to simply live with it all around, on the streets, on the walls, and in the parks.  I'm so happy to be able to raise my babies in a place that celebrates the normalcy and livability of art and emphasizes the importance of creativity for all.

As she was reaching up to gently touch the hand of the standing sculpted man, I realized what an amazing world she was coming up in.  I thought, when she's old enough to experience that other kind of love- that kind of love so decidedly different from the bubble of love that she grows in as part of our family... that kind of love where you fall head over heels for another human being- she will be doing it in a world that wholeheartedly celebrates the diversity of love. Gay Liberation was installed in Christopher Park outside of The Stonewall Inn in 1992, but it was first approved a decade earlier in 1982, and was stalled to do public opposition. I can't imagine that kind of public opposition over such a piece these days. Now, over 30 years after its initial inception, I'm able to raise my kids in a world that celebrates loving anyone you want, regardless of color, gender, religion, or social differences. It's pretty incredible how far we've come. My kids will grow in a place where they can witness endless examples of what a loving relationship means, and will have the freedom to fearlessly explore it for themselves when the time comes.  It's really an amazingly beautiful thing.

So Happy Valentine's Day! Here's to loving the one you love, and doing it proudly. xoxo

A WEST VILLAGE PICNIC | A FILM

Nearly 9 months ago, just a few weeks after Lucien was born, the ladies of Small Fry teamed up with Jenner Brown of Lumineux Films to shoot a few NYC families, and we were chosen to participate! I've been looking forward to seeing this for months, and am so excited to finally be able to share it with you!

I can't get over how teeny tiny Baby Lou is (I think he was about 4 weeks old?!), and how chubby and wobbly little Biet was! For the film, we stopped by all of our favorite places in the village picking up supplies for a picnic, and ended the day at Washington Square Park. Gaby even wrote the soundtrack especially for the film, a fitting song called "Todo Por Ti."

 Here is the introductory piece I wrote for Small Fry:

“Gaby and I met 11 years ago in the Lower East Side. I had just moved to NYC from the West coast and had gotten a job in a little French cafe on Ludlow Street. The cafe had these huge windows that looked out onto the street, and when business was slow I would sit and drink hot chocolate and watch the city going by. Ludlow Street was really neighborhood-y then, and everyone knew and took care of everyone else, and by watching the people go by I began to learn all of the characters and people and families of the block. One of those characters was Gaby.

Gaby worked across the street at at a venue that had live music and poetry and comedy every night. He was an Argentinean who had moved to NYC a decade earlier from Israel (our family is a crazy mix of cultures!) and made his career in music. He and his coworkers used to come into the cafe for sandwiches before work, and me and my coworkers used to go listen to music at the venue after work, so, over time, we all became good friends.  (Gaby still tells the story about the first night we met: He was working with his friend Paul, and I walked in with my coworker after we had closed up the cafe and we walked right up to them and introduced ourselves. We hung out all night listening to music and after my friend and I left, he turned to Paul and said “I’m gonna marry that girl one day.” Five years later, Paul married us.)

The longer I lived in the city, the more I experienced how everyone in the neighborhood, from the butcher to the deli guy to the waitress at the cafe (me) to the newspaper delivery guy, was a family of sorts. There are so many people in NYC with no roots or family close by, and over time they all band together and form an extended “family”, taking care of one another and growing together over the years, like you would expect of a small town. Its a really beautiful thing to experience and be a part of, and that’s what we wanted to convey with this film. You think of NYC as this big majestic metropolis, but it’s really a collection of small neighborhoods, like little villages.

Over time, Gaby and my friendship evolved from friends to best friends to boyfriend and girlfriend to, eventually, husband and wife. We were married in a park in the village, and all of our friends and people from the neighborhood came. Then we were blessed with a daughter, Biet, and a little less than two years later, a son, Lucien. Our community evolved and grew to include the West Village (where we shot the film) and now Brooklyn. It’s really important for us to teach our children the importance of growing your community, fostering relationships with friends and neighbors, supporting local businesses, and appreciating the history of the city. They don’t have any aunts, uncles, or grandparents here, but they have a loving family that we’ve built over time with friends and neighbors who love them dearly.”

Thank you so much Jenner & Small Fry! We really love it!
(pssst.. Daniel Day Lewis made a cameo in the film too! Can you spot him?!) :)

DOWNTOWN'S ROCKEFELLER

Merry Christmas!!  A couple of days ago, while Gaby was at work, I took the kids to see the BIG tree in the city.  No, not the Rockefeller tree, but the simply-lit, arch-framed beauty that goes up each year in the village.  While the tree at Rockefeller Center is undeniably majestic, going to see it usually entails intense crowds, police barricades, and an uncomfortable amount of pushing and shoving and picture-taking.  I've done it in the past, and will happily do it again in the years to come, but, this year,  I was simply not feeling it.  So instead, we wandered over to Biet's little home away from home, Washington Square Park.

We arrived a bit before dusk so that we could catch that day's tree lighting.  The park was buzzing with holiday energy, the weather was unseasonably tepid, and a light scent of hot cider lingered in the air.  Street musicians played with gusto, crooning upbeat big-band swing on the east side of the park, old-timey quartet Christmas carols on the north, and moody accordion tunes on the south.  Biet led the way as we made the rounds from show to show, dancing to all of the joyful music and, in the Christmas spirit, throwing a dollar into the hat of each performer.  Biet jumped and spun and swayed her arms over her head to the music.  Often times, she would be the only one dancing, and would proudly twirl into the center of the crowd to put on a show of her own, bowing for the audience as the song ended.  Her freedom around people blows me away sometimes.  Just as the sun was setting and we were arriving back at the tree after making our way through the entire park, we heard a collective gasp and looked up to see the tree lights all beam on!

We stood for a minute and gazed up in wonder.  Free of ornaments and decoration, the Washington Square tree is a simple beauty, standing tall against the city skyline with a million little white lights.  Its simplicity is what makes it so special, to me, anyway.  While many parts of the city are engulfed in shopping mayhem, shop windows are filled with wrapping paper, sparking lights, and fake snow, store aisles are overflowing with red and green and gold and silver everything, and the street corners are inhabited by hundreds of Santa's ringing bells and hustling, the tree at Washington Square stands as a beacon of the true simplicity and joy of the holiday season.  It's so easy to get caught up in the frenzy of Christmas, especially in a big city where a certain frenzy exists out on the streets year-round anyway.  I try to stay focused on the love, tradition, and simple pleasures of the holidays, and I hope to instill those values in my children as well.  So it was so wonderful to find this little corner of the city- this peaceful and creative park with a quietly majestic Christmas tree- that seemed to mirror my idea of what Christmas can be.

As the skies darkened and the tree shone brighter and brighter, my two babies, both tuckered out from their park shenanigans, fell asleep in their stroller (goodness, how I've needed a double stroller! We finally took the plunge and it is amazing!), so I continued to wander through the village.  When it began to rain, I ducked into a little pastry shop with my slumbering kiddos and enjoyed a chocolate mousse all alone.  Sitting there by myself, while my babies slept next to me, the city swarmed just outside the window, the rain pounded down, and the holidays crept closer, the whole world suddenly felt right.  I think that was the moment that I finally caught the holiday spirit, which for some reason had been eluding me this year, and started really getting excited for Christmas and for the approaching new year.
It was a truly beautiful day.

BALLET MORNINGS

Monday mornings are exciting mornings. We wake a bit earlier than usual and go about our morning routines, eating our oatmeal and drinking our coffee and brushing the tangles from our hair.  As the minutes tick on, the excitement grows.  We pack our bags and dress in the carefully selected outfits that we laid out the night before, squeezing into our tights and pulling on our boots.  Then we pile on our coats and hats and mittens, and we're off.  Off to ballet.

On monday mornings, Biet authoritatively tells her Papa, "Papa, we're going dancing.  Papa and Baby Lou stay home! Mama and Biet go to ballet.  We're going on the train and we can't be late!" Then she kisses him over and over, and squeezes her brother a little too hard, and calls out, as we're walking towards the door, "Byeeee! I love you toooo much!".  We walk to the station, sans stroller, deep in conversation all the while, and hop on the train to the west village.  It's all very ceremonial.

Often times, Biet takes off her coat on the train and just sits on the hard plastic subway seat in her tights and leotard. She points her little legs straight outwards towards the subway bar and and whispers to herself, while practicing diligently, "point, flex, point... flex."  She tells me that today she's going to listen to the teacher and she's going to try. I tell her that trying is the most important part, and I tell her how proud I am of her when she tries.  Giddy with anticipation, we step off the train.  We ride the elevator up to the street, and hurriedly walk to the ballet school.

Biet's first few ballet classes were traumatically disastrous.  Her heartbreaking tears and tantrums and self-inflicted time-outs in the corner had me this close to giving up on the whole thing.  If it weren't for another Mom in our class confiding in me that her daughter, a little girl a bit older than Biet who seemed to thrive in the class, was the exact same way when she first began, I likely wouldn't have continued.  But we tried again, and again, and one week, everything clicked.  Suddenly, instead of feeling embarrassed or scared, Biet took my hand, and began dancing, and laughing, and making friends.  I was overjoyed.  She began to take pride in trying and in listening to her teacher.  She began to really love it.  When she started proudly showing off her ballet outside of school to our friends and family, and "teaching" baby Lou her moves, I knew that she was really coming into her own.

Now Monday mornings are one of the most exciting mornings of the week.  When we get to class we sit on a little wooden bench outside of our room and Biet takes off her boots and puts on her tiny ballet shoes.  The piano drifts through the halls of the old school and actual professional ballerinas rush about from room to room.  Sometimes we peek our heads in to the big studios, lined with statuesque pillars and giant windows, and watch the dancers rehearse.  As we watch them gracefully leaping and moving, I can sense that Biet feels the camaraderie, like she's really a part of something.  To her, those professional ballerinas rehearsing The Nutcracker for the winter performance are no different than her learning first position in her toddler class.

We've both grown to cherish our ballet mornings together.  I feel so privileged to be able to watch my baby grow into such an amazing little girl.  She makes me such a proud Mama.