I try to make it back to New York at least once a year, usually for events, this time my epic High School reunion. I often travel solo but this time my companion was my nine-year-old. There was so much I wanted to share with him and narrowing down our plans was painful…and true to how I roll, the best things happened serendipitously.

We walked by the West 4th Street Courts just a block from my mom’s apartment, a famous spot where Lew Alcindor played before becoming the great Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, an iconic public court where legions of other basketball greats have shot hoops over the years. Tucked in the the back are handball courts — I had forgotten about the New York obsession with the game. A tiny pinky ball, perhaps a glove and a wall, that’s all that’s needed. The sport, now called “American Handball”, is a big draw for beach goers, but as I traveled the city I was surprised to see so many courts in every borough. My son was fascinated and wanted to play. A player at W. 4 Street let him on the court to give it a try and he was smitten. The guy even gave him a ball — I LOVE NY.

He promptly lost it and I promised to buy him a ball and play with him, as I have fond memories of playing at Jones Beach, Florida and around town as a kid. In fact, we used to just play against the wall next to my mom’s apartment, which is now a a deluxe condo.

We didn’t seem to pass any sporting goods stores and the Woolworths and Lamstons of my youth have been taken over by Duane Reade drugstores and Chase Bank buildings. So the next day, as we came up from the subway, I decided, on a whim, to see if the local newsstand next to the courts might, per chance, sell them. I’m not sure what inspired me to think that was possible, but for two-dollars, the kid got a handball and thus the highlight of his trip began. We checked out a few courts and he carried his ball with him each day.

A visit to Coney Island with the cousins and a glorious walk on the boardwalk found this handball hotspot in Brighton Beach, perfect with the pink flowers framing the gritty urban court. I reveled in the moment remembering all those years ago, a time when NYC was hurting, crime was out of control and yet people congregated on stoops, listened to music together on boom boxes and the hardcore handball fanatics were part of the pulse of the city.

We stopped at Tatiana’s, a Russian cafe in Brighton Beach. The Nathans of my youth was still recovering from Hurricane Sandy, but after losing everything in the storm, Tatiana’s was up and running again. It felt like we were on the Black Sea or somewhere in Europe, not much English spoken and many families out for a Sunday stroll. We parked ourselves in the cafe and ordered strudel and tea and studied the crowd. We were clearly outsiders, despite my part Russian heritage, but once the piping hot tea and scrumptious cherry strudel arrived I was in heaven. The less than stellar Soviet style service was part of the experience. A walk down the High Street of Surf Avenue unveiled more treasures, a terrific little shop where I bought Armenian sour cherry jam, Hungarian salami and the Russian bread I love. On the street, a vendor sold what looked like Russian pirozhki, but when I tried to confirm the name I was met with much sourness. We bought cabbage, pork, spinach and cherry; it’s great how the sweet and savory co-mingle. They were a tad greasy, but for $1.50 each was a meal.

We climbed onto the elevated subway track laden with our purchases as the stunning spring light made the grimiest steel sparkle. The ride back was quick and edifying. I was captivated by the multi-ethnic faces and so many languages filling the car. It made me want to move back to New York.

I have so many summer memories of family boardwalk strolls, noshing on knishes in Brighton Beach, soft serve, sand between the toes and sweat mixed with sunscreen dripping in my eyes.

The boardwalks of my childhood were the bar, the town square, and the place where young and old, beach bunnies and schmata wearing grannies, could congregate. There were rides, games, sweet and savory treats and no sense of time. AND yes, I always got splinters, because I never wore my flip-flops (as my parents suggested) and sadly, more often than not, I returned home with a sunburn that I regret today.

It is that intangible sense of freedom, community and unvarnished leisure time that the boardwalk connotes that will be resurrected, despite rising seas and superstorms!

I’m no music expert, most of my response to music is visceral and associative, but I do know that if the Beastie Boys had been a fad, they wouldn’t have lasted as long as they have.

As I blasted their latest album with car windows open,  to pay homage to the fallen Beastie (Adam MCA Yauch) who passed away from cancer earlier this month, my kids cringed as Mom reminisced semi-publicly. I tend to hate when I pass another car with thumping music blaring, always muttering, “Yeah, I like that music so much” to myself. OK, so forgive me…

I was thinking about the concert they played at Madison Square Garden with Run DMC, the kids clothing store on 10th street, in my hood, owned by Beastie Boy Adam Horowitz’s mom Doris, cheekily named “Gee The Kids Need Clothes,” and dancing till rivers of sweat poured down my back to Brass Monkey, No Sleep Till Brooklyn and others at loft parties, clubs and friend’s homes.

Greenwich Village (and NYC in general) is no stranger to walking tours. I remember parting the crowds to get a cupcake from Magnolia Bakery, a shop featured on Sex in the City, or even wedging through the clumps of tourists snapping photos of my everyday haunts, places where the famous and infamous had worked, lived, partied or died. Once, while soaking in the Communal Russian Baths, in the East Village, a woman pulled out a camera because John Belushi had come there frequently to cleanse himself after his binges.

There is now a suggested self-guided Beastie Boys walking tour, including many of the places important to their life and career. It includes a loft where much of the magic took place in the early years of Beastie Boys rise from punk kids to Rap icons. The corner of Irvington and Ludlow on the Lower East Side is on the itinerary, where the cover for their second album, Paul’s Boutique, was shot. Today there is a restaurant called Paul’s Boutique in honor of the album.

A memorial is currently drawing mourners at 69 Avenue A where Yauch and the Boys recorded the album Polly Wog Stew.

RIP Adam Yauch 1964-2012

“Now there are more overweight people in America than average-weight people. So overweight people are now average…which means, you have met your New Year’s resolution.”

As Americans waistlines expand, there are so many ripple effects. From healthcare to clothing, design considerations to travel safety, more personal bulk means changing laws, rules and preconceived notions. I have heard sad tales of folks unable to squeeze into rides at Amusement Parks, being banned from bungee jumping, even forced to purchase two plane tickets because of size. That doesn’t even take into account self limitations because of shame or inability to maneuver. But, what about weight limits for boats, buses and other vehicles? More and more, places and companies are upping the average weight limit per person.

In the mid-twentieth century, 160 pounds was allotted per person, taking into account the portly and stocky, and on the flip side, children and the svelte. Fast forward to 2012 and the average American weighs 185 pounds. This has huge repercussions for everything from city buses and ferries, to small private fishing boat operators. According to a story in the New York Times today, the fleet of Washington state ferries are reducing the number of passengers allowed on each boat. Private vessel operators are also looking at reduced revenue because of Coast Guard rules that are popping up around the country. Even the Circle Line in NYC has been affected, although they prefer smaller loads to offer more comfort and ease of movement.

Many newly-designed public space seats are “banquettes” without arm rests to accommodate the larger backsides. Certainly the tiny divets, for bottoms are being rethought on many mass transit upgrades. This is not isolated to the U.S., as countries around the globe struggle with fat stigma and the consequences of the global obesity epidemic.

No one is actually suggesting weighing passengers, but it’s certainly food for thought as we all take stock of what we ate over the holidays and consider our New Year’s resolutions to slim down.

Civilized cafes have sprouted up and scary bathrooms are well lit and clean, even the carousel seems perkier. Just a few years ago I took my kids on it, and an ex-con type was running the controls. The merry-go-round went so fast I feared my toddler son would fly off.

The most amusing sights were the hordes of European travelers delighted by the squirrels. Those cute/disease-ridden vermin are everywhere and groups of Italians and French were giddy as they attempted to photograph the creatures as they scampered up the trees. The true New Yorker in me came out as I approached a German mom who was letting her 10-year-old feed one. I told her they carried diseases and not to get too close. As I walked away I chuckled at myself…you can take the girl outta New York but you can’t take New York outta the girl.

April in New York City can be dicey weather-wise. Stupidly, I packed sandals and had to borrow boots. Somehow I forgot how much walking one does in the Big Apple and how much I enjoy it. Two long treks through Central Park were magical. Struck by the abundance of flowers, my mom explained that a wealthy Dutch person had donated millions of bulbs to the city post 9/11. It is an amazing sight and has inspired many New Yorkers to plant their own bulbs.  Here is more about the project from the New Yorkers for Parks site:

For nearly a decade, the Daffodil Project, a living memorial to the events of September 11th, 2001, has been a citywide effort to beautify every neighborhood by planting daffodils. Led by New Yorkers for Parks, and in cooperation with the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation, this annual volunteer project serves as a living memorial to the victims of 9/11, a symbol of remembrance and an act of rebirth that engages New Yorkers in the revitalization of their communities.

The project began when Dutch bulb supplier Hans van Waardenburg of B&K Flowerbulbs pledged to donate 500,000 daffodil bulbs to New York City as a sign of support following the attacks on 9/11. B&K Flowerbulbs continued to donate hundreds of thousands of bulbs for the first 8 years of the project. New Yorkers for Parks is committed to continuing the vision of the Daffodil Project by raising funds to purchase and distribute the bulbs.

Each fall, New Yorkers for Parks distributes hundreds of thousands of daffodil bulbs to New Yorkers in all five boroughs. The bulbs are free to anyone who commits to planting them in a park or public space. The Daffodil Project is one of the largest volunteer efforts in the history of New York City. To date, over 20,000 New Yorkers have participated in this living memorial.
Since the project’s inception, 4 million daffodils have been planted throughout New York City. Due to the tremendous support and interest in this project, Mayor Bloomberg named the daffodil the official flower of New York City in 2007.

Part treasure hunt, part spy novel, a New Yorker who went for a cross-country ski in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park after the recent snowfall is trying to find the owners of a roll of film he found lying in the snow. Developed, the black and white film shows young men evidently on vacation in New York taking arty photographs, not just snapshots, of Central Park, street scenes, Coney Island, the Brooklyn Bridge.

Todd Bieber, the man who found the film, tells a story in his YouTube video of a woman who pushed $26 into his hand that she’d found on the street, saying she felt awkward keeping it and insisted he do something nice for himself with it. He said he’d do something good rather than spend it on himself, and now it’s gone to the film processing and his online efforts to find the owners.

Who knows, as he says on YouTube, maybe they’ll see his video and they’ll become friends. Or not. But the story is going viral and it’s only a matter of time before the men who lost the pictures see themselves caught in black and white in frozen New York in their own film on Todd Bieber’s video. And then maybe the mystery will be solved.

But for locals and people in the know, the way hipper attraction is far out in the bowels of Brooklyn. Dyker Heights draws more than 100,000 visitors each holiday season to ogle the over-the-top home decorations.

The beyond extravagant tradition began in the ’80s on 84th street. It seems one neighbor annoyed others with her lawn displays so they tried to top her. Giant Santas, more reindeer than you can imagine, enough toy soldiers for an army and just as many candy canes and snowmen join the legions of blow up characters and mind boggling lights. It’s Vegas style glitz but still relatively homespun, at least in origin.

The cost for the homeowners must break the bank in electricity alone. To get a chance to take it all in, make your way to Dyker Heights in Brooklyn from 83rd to 86th streets between 11th and 13th avenues. There are even tours that will set you back nearly $60, but for that you can rent a car, hail a taxi or bundle the kids in their pjs, take a thermos of hot chocolate and take a drive. You won’t be disappointed. The decorations stay up until early January.

I fondly remember visiting the vastness of Metropolitan Museum of Art, marveling at the classics, journeying to Papua New Guinea and Egypt, giggling at the Greek sculptures and noshing at the, then, very fancy café with all the Upper East Side lady lunchers. Most of all I cherished the multicolored little button you get with admission, which I used to save in a jar.

Every time I return to Manhattan I make a pilgrimage to the Met, no matter what is showing. I bring my own kids and rush through, plying them with candy and promises of a ride on the carousel, much as my parents did.

Recently, on one of the hottest days of the year I had a few hours to make my manic tour of the museum.  After a whirlwind visit to the American Woman fashion exhibit—that rocked as much as the original song and the Lenny Kravitz cover—we had about a half hour to kill. I was with a colleague who insisted we head up to the roof garden, a somewhat hidden and unknown asset to the majestic museum.

It was nearing 100 degrees and I was enjoying the comfort of the cool marble and air conditioning inside, but was up for an adventure. In heels, we hiked up, what seemed like a secret staircase, and made our way to this idyllic, verdant roof garden with a bar and an immense bamboo structure. The Doug and Mike Starn on the Roof: Big Bambú installation is closing this Halloween Sunday. The constantly evolving sculpture was mesmerizing and those who could stay hydrated and withstand the heat were enjoying the whimsy.

There are many great bars in New York, many hip venues,  but to be outdoors, high above Central  Park, with a stunning view of the skyline,  while sipping a cocktail is truly a  special New York experience and a respite from the hurly-burly of Fifth Avenue. Ask a museum guard, in whispers, to guide you to the secret stairwell and make the trek to the top. Hurry, the roof garden is generally open in season through the late fall, weather permitting…although the idea of bundling up and sipping hot toddies and cocoa, looking out over a white blanketed park in winter sounds sublime.

The architecture was majestic, the history epic, but to see the area fixed up and yet still tattered on the edges was uplifting and depressing at the same time. I really got to absorb the information as I was doing some translations into French…stories of freed slaves, rent parties, jazz, the crack years and now the resurrection of the famed quarter.

Our guide was an animated actress/French expat who, despite her arrogant attitude, gave a great tour. We made a pit stop at the Schomburg Library, a public library that is a research center for Black Culture. My dad had done research there in the ’70s and ’80s and I had vague memories of visiting as a child. Then we headed to a church to witness and participate in a gospel-music-infused service.

I have always been intrigued by these tours, but as a native New Yorker I felt odd about it. It seemed voyeuristic, and quite frankly I felt it was a bit tacky. The French and Italians ate it up though, and the church was making a good living, so it seemed harmless, even a potentially good way to share black culture with  tourists. The service itself may have been staged for the visitors, but the players were mostly recovering addicts who had been saved.

There was something spiritually uplifting about their voices and stories. I was reluctant, but got into it and enjoyed the whole experience immensely. It was hot, and with sweat pouring down my back I decided to join in with the show, singing, swaying, clapping and amen-ing, giving the clients the best of American culture…after all, they seemed to love jazz/gospel and black history passionately and I wanted to support that.

After the sweat dried a bit, a fried-food fest followed at a nearby eatery. We stopped in front of the famous Apollo Theater for photo ops and got to ogle the Clinton Foundation headquarters. I took a small group shopping on 125th street for bargains. I still have mixed feeling about the whole thing but I’m glad the folks are making a decent living. It was, despite my misgivings, a truly American experience for foreigners and well worth the price of the ticket.

Now, as a mom I have become somewhat of a cupcake connoisseur, both as a baker and a consumer. My older son was such a cupcake fan I would make them for each birthday. We have a picture of him just about to bite one at his party for practically each year of his life. They are displayed in frames on our fridge to this day.

Every time I go home to visit my mom in NYC, I have to hit Magnolia Bakery on Bleecker Street in the West Village. I often claim the kids really would LOVE to go, but in truth, I look forward to the pilgrimage and I am not alone. Usually there is a line around the block. Since it opened in 1996, Magnolia has been featured in Sex in the City, The Devil Wears Prada and Saturday Night Live mock rap which is hilarious, among other shows and films shot in the Village.In summer, we often go, get our cupcakes and then sit in the park across the street, savoring the sumptuous, velvety treats. We then watch my kids run like mad in the sprinklers on a complete sugar, frosting, sprinkle induced high.

My long love affair with cupcakes was re-ignited recently when I read a small article in the New York Times Dining section earlier this month about the Cupcake-Stop. Apparently, now there is a mobile cupcake truck (not connected to Magnolia). The sugared-up van prowls the Union Square area Tuesday through Sunday from 10 a.m. to 5p.m. You can follow them on twitter and the “red velvet” comes highly recommended. My mouth is watering just thinking about it! Do you have any cupcake hotspots to recommend?