Farewell, Sweet Nicholas

I’m not ashamed to admit it. Nicholas was a Toyota. And I loved him.
My dad first bought Nicholas in 1987, the winter I was in sixth grade, when he finally sold his orange VW bug (dad wasn’t one to change cars lightly). In high school, I learned to drive standard on him. When I went away to college, dad and Nicholas came to get me every time I wanted to come home, and then brought me back at the end of the visit, 800 miles round trip. My dad would drive to Long Island to get me on Saturday morning, we’d eat lunch and then get right back in the car and drive back to Rhode Island, and then do the same at the end of the trip. And when I moved to New York for good in 1998, my parents gave him to me. Since then, he’s been my most loyal companion, and more importantly, a symbol of a lot of good things in my life—independence, freedom, my means to see my family whenever I wanted to. We took him to the mechanic this weekend while I was in Rhode Island, only to be informed that one of the wheels wasn’t actually attached anymore, and was only being held on by the weight of the car. If I had hit a big enough pothole, it could have fallen off. (Which, needless to say, has made me seriously question the three mechanics who saw him in the past 6 months and didn’t catch that. Thanks.) He had 226,000 miles, and was just six weeks short of his 20th birthday, so I really can’t complain. But there were still a lot of tears this weekend. I’m working on convincing myself that a car is a self-indulgent luxury in New York (which it is) and that I’m enough of a New Yorker that I’ll be fine without one (which is debatable). We’ll see how I do. My guess is that I’ll make it to spring and then cave when beach season comes around. The thought of having to take public transportation after a day at the beach makes me die a little inside. (Me? Melodramatic? Nah…)
In other news, the Christmas season in midtown, as beautiful as it is when you’re just walking through it, takes on a whole new feel when you work here. I love Christmas, love, love, love it. But even I have my limits. (Something that could be debated, I concede, by anyone who’s ever seen my apartment decorated for the holidays). Cartier has this giant display with a jewelry box that opens and closes and plays Christmas music VERY loudly. Pretty to look at. Not so much fun for my friend Jen whose window is directly above the box. And the tree lighting is tonight here in Rock Center, which means that everyone and their grandmother is swarming through today. I’ve taken refuge in my office, and didn’t even go to the concourse for Starbucks. My window overlooks Sixth Ave, but the offices on the Plaza side of my building were actually vibrating a little during the rehearsal this morning, it was so loud. My office, for now, is still a safe haven. But all that will change once the holiday street performers start. Their 6-song repertoire is great the first time, but starts to wear after an hour or 6. And I can’t lie, Celine Dion’s The Heart Will Go On, played on the pan flute, brings out the ugly in me. Two Christmases ago, my friend Aimee and I made a cop check their permit to make sure they really had a right to be there. They did. Bastards.