Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

The lobby of the Public Theatre is bright and clean. I’d been there to see ‘Here Lies Love’ a few years ago, and we had had dinner at the Library. Tonight that place is closed for a private event, but it’s not food I’m after. In the electric anticipation of seeing one of my lifelong idols take the stage just a few feet from my seat, I mill excitedly about. I feel the same eager joy I experienced right before seeing ‘Sunset Boulevard’ during Betty Buckley’s triumphant run. Twenty-plus years and eighteen albums later the elation hasn’t diminished. If anything, it’s more stirring, because in all that time Ms. Buckley’s work has informed key portions of my life. One entire fall of my college life was framed by her haunting rendition of ‘When October Goes’, followed by ‘My Love and I’ in a forlorn winter. As she’s evolved, many of us have faithfully followed, from ‘Sunset’ to ‘Triumph of Love’ to ‘Gypsy’ and ‘Grey Gardens’. Her next venture is the national tour of ‘Hello, Dolly!’ but before she starts spreading that happiness, the final night of her series of performances at Joe’s Pub to celebrate the release of the ‘Hope’ album was at hand.

We decided to buy the new CD in the moments leading up to the show, and by the time we take our seats near the stage we have each shared our stories of seeing Ms. Buckley over the years and everyone feels a little closer and, yes, a little more hopeful. I won’t get into the wonder of the performance (you can read all about it here). It will have to do with being nothing less than a dream come true.

After the show, she was gracious enough to sign some CDs, and Andy finally convinced me to tell her that I had a written a couple of blog posts about her.

“Oh, you’re that Alan!” she exclaimed, and opened her arms to hug me.

It was one of the nicest things an idol could have done. I didn’t want to hold the line up, so I thanked her quickly for all the music she’s made over the years, and she was even more gracious in posing for a picture. It was the perfect ending to a perfect night of music, and as we rode home in the New Yok night, Andy and I were both elated.

It would be difficult to leave the next morning, as it always is after an exceptionally good time…

Believe it or not, Andy and I don’t go on that many traditional date nights. We cook for ourselves, get take-out, and often join friends and family for dinner, but a sit-down restaurant for just the two of us is rarer than it should be. On this evening, I made reservations at that 80’s chestnut Indochine, since it was right across the street from Joe’s Pub, where our show was playing later that night. We sat down at a cozy table (once a very inebriated and cranky woman allowed us to slide past her seat) and took our time with our meal, beginning with some cocktails and a delicious dish of grilled eggplant that simply melted in the mouth. With its accents of fresh tomatoes and coriander, it was a treat.

The meal itself was lovely as well – this pungent seafood bouillabaisse was flavored with coconut and curry then given an added jolt of fresh herbs on top. (Most people don’t realize how potent a few leaves of coriander or mint can be – it can make all the difference.)

The best part of date night is getting to try two desserts instead of one. Andy ordered this chocolate mousse, while I opted for a lemon tart. We shared so we could try a bit of each. As Winnie-the-Pooh once remarked with startling wisdom, “It’s so much friendlier with two.”

Our desserts done, it was time for the main show, and the true purpose of our weekend in New York: an evening with Betty Buckley.

There may be no greater pleasure in life than getting to watch your husband find joy and delight in an unexpected surprise. Even eighteen years into our relationship, it still tickles me. This one came in the midst of an otherwise uneventful walk back to Midtown. We were escaping the increasing heat by ducking into the shops along Fifth Avenue (ok, maybe I was multi-tasking by shopping as well) after passing through an Indian Festival on the edge of Union Square. Suddenly, a colorful sea of saris swarmed in front of us, and the entire avenue was filled with a parade that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Brilliance and sparkle and exuberance surrounded us, and three enormous chariots raised their fabric towers and set into motion.

This was the Chariot Festival, making its way down Fifth Avenue, a thousand times more gorgeous and exciting than all the goods in Zara and Club Monaco. I watched as Andy got out his phone and smiled as he took a video of the spectacle (check it out on his Instagram feed). I imagined him as a kid, thrilling at their dog’s antics, or the hatching of a chick he helped to raise, or some car of which he knew the make and model and entire history. His happiness made me happy.

Soon, the parade passed us by, and we walked until we collapsed in our hotel. A well-earned siesta would pass the time until dinner and the show. Part of me couldn’t wait until our brush with Betty Buckley later that evening, part of me didn’t want the day to end…

Art is everywhere in New York, and not only in the abundance of museums and traditional show places. It’s in the way these parks reclaim nature’s power, slowly subsuming the very boundaries put in place to keep things out, and in. We stopped to examine the way this tree was slowly eating up the iron fence beside it. It was difficult to discern which came first. Perhaps they were both put in at the same time, and were just now coming to blows. Or maybe this is a melding of two entities long hoping to touch and intertwine. For now, it’s an interesting stand-off.

We reached the Village just as the sun reached its zenith. I knew Andy was struggling, and he said we had to sit down for a bit. It was a good time for both of us to sit in a park, right beside a statue of Mayor LaGuardia. Birds flitted about us as a nice breeze added comfort to the dappled shade. A little pool of calm in the midst of the chaos that is Manhattan. Somehow, its chaos is contained, like these little collections of street art – contained within the specific limitations of their physicality. Bound by the borders of a wall of a mail box, hindered by the gradual wear of winter winds and summer storms, the art here is fleeting, ever-changing.

It is as rough as it is rich. Layered in complexity and meaning beyond what a quick drive-by or pedestrian brush could fully reveal. It awaits revelation as much as it defies discovery, covert and overt at once.

These are the little surprises that call to everyone differently. Some don’t hear anything at all. Some hear the grandest symphony, the most lush flourishes from the universal chorus of the cosmos, come to sing their very own theme song.

There was one more surprise in store for us before we made it back to the hotel…

We slept in on Saturday morning, as we had no plans or any need rush to be anywhere until the concert much later that night. The day was sunny and bright – the perfect almost-summer day in New York that looked like it might border on being too hot, but shade and a slow pace, along with frequent shop stops, would easily combat any discomfort.

We began in simple and casual fashion, the way I prefer most breakfasts in New York. A typical little Greek diner was more than enough to satisfy what we needed, then we took our time walking downtown while our meal settled. We had no destination in mind, no plan plotted out – it was just Andy and me, walking on a beautiful day, pausing as we felt like it and taking our time.

At such moments, secret places tend to open up and invite one in if you let them. Most of us are too hurried or focused on something else to realize the little nooks that New York can provide. Most of the time I’m the same way, but on this day we had the luxury of walking for the sake of walking, and taking in every possibility that floated our way. Such as these little parks. They are all over, and most are open to the public during the day. They are also mostly empty, because too many people just don’t notice or care or have the benefit of time. I knew we were the lucky ones on this day.

Roses and hydrangeas and a world of green invited us through wrought-iron gates, and respites of cool shade and tranquil quiet, buffered by leaves and tree trunks, gave us beautiful pause on our walk.

These were magical places, where flowers floated in the sky and fish swam in the stone…

Andy could not manage an additional show and it was clear he was hurting, so we kept our evening plans to a casual dinner at Keen’s. Suzie took me there a couple of times, whenever we were seeing a Madonna concert at Madison Square Garden. It was classic New York, and we loved the burgers. Plus, there were all those pipes hanging from the ceiling. Kids like me could get hooked into counting them so as not to disrupt the adult diners. We made the short walk from our hotel to the restaurant and arrived early enough to get in without a wait. (The pub area is always more fun than the main dining room, let’s face it.)

I ordered a martini and Andy got his Hemingway daiquiri. He may single-handedly be bringing back this classic cocktail from almost-obscurity, and I applaud him for that. We will work on our home version this summer. For now, our cocktail glasses clinked beside one another on the table, our burgers arrived, and soon it was time for a shared dessert.

Summer whispered her impending arrival; when we exited the dim restaurant it was still light out, and we walked in that happy confusion the longest days of the year provide. It also meant that there was an hour or two of retail therapy available, so we stopped along the way and Andy helped me pick out a new Tallia jacket that was 75% off. It pays to follow your instincts, and on that night I just knew we should stop for shopping.

I felt the same way when we woke the next day…

If it feels like we’ve been in New York a lot recently, it’s because we have. There was our visit to ‘Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, Parts 1 and 2’ back in April, and our recent Mother’s Day pilgrimage in May (‘The Boys in the Band’, ‘Once on This Island’ and ‘Dear Evan Hansen’). The month of June brought something even more special, at least for me: a Betty Buckley show. Ever since her iconic star turn in ‘Sunset Boulevard’ I’ve been a die-hard Betty Buckley fan, and my adoration and adulation of her has only grown over the ensuing years. She’s one of those rare artists who changes and evolves, yet somehow always manages to produce meaningful and beautiful music, even when venturing into uncharted territory. Her 18^thalbum, ‘Hope’, was the reason for her celebratory series of shows at Joe’s Pub at the Public Theatre, and after missing out for too many years, I finally booked us tickets.

We arrived at the Albany-Rensselaer station to a sign that explained all trains were going to Grand Central terminal, instead of Penn, which foiled my original plan for our hotel to be within short walking distance of the station. On a good day, Andy doesn’t well with a lot of walking, but things were even more distressing because he’d just had a rough bout with a recent blood test. Somehow, he managed to trudge through the change in plans, and was a trooper for the entire weekend.

Grand Central is so much nicer than Penn anyway, and a quick Uber ride would get us to our accommodations without incident. The ride was more than worth it as our suite at the Hotel Eventi was an elegant treat. One of our favored Kimpton properties, the Eventi extended our appreciation for the company and its customer service. (We even whispered the little promotional phrase and were gifted with a cute little summer basket of beach accessories.)

After settling in, I went for a quick walk while Andy took a much-needed siesta. We were in the city again, and the evening was open…