My Dinner with Arthur, part 1
In one of David Lodge's novels, a bunch of English teachers sit around and play a game called “Humiliation.” The object of the game is to admit to a famous book you've never read.
The travel writer equivalent of that game is to admit to a major city you've never been to. Up until April of this year, I always won, because I had never been to New York City. Hadn't been, didn't want to go.
But then Canada invited me to their annual Media Marketplace, a useful schmoozing event; and since I was on my way to Ireland right then, I figured having someone else pay for my plane ticket halfway would be nice.
I was nervous about going to New York. I don't like cities, I'm claustrophobic, and quite frankly, the idea of ten million people or so on an island barely big enough to make a decent park filled me with horror. My dear friend Marie, who lives across the river in New Jersey, kindly sent me very, very careful directions of how to get from the airport to my hotel, detail right down to “when you get off the bus, your nose will be pointing at . . . “
I got to the hotel at 7 PM. At 7:30, Arthur Frommer himself walked into the lobby, and we went out to dinner together.
Plain and simple, Arthur Frommer invented modern travel. When he was in the army in Europe, he put together a little pamphlet to show other GIs how to make the most of their leave days. This expanded into his “Europe on $5 a Day,” which expanded into a publishing empire.
What Arthur did that had escaped all other writers on travel was emphasize the local experience. Instead of traveling to pretend you're part of the upper class, Arthur showed how, by going cheap and going local, you get the most honest taste of the places you visit.
I first met him a couple years ago, at another schmooze event. He had just gotten off a plane from China, yet was somehow awake, witty, and very, very charming. A gentleman in the classic sense of the word.
In New York City, we walked from my hotel to the Oyster Bar, inside Grand Central Station, Arthur stopping to show me the constellations on the roof of the grand terminal. Simply lovely. The man doesn't miss a thing, and even though I'm quite a bit taller than him, I had a hard time keeping up with his walking pace. I'm not much more than half his age, but he's got twice my energy.
Over dinner, I listened. Arthur has stories. He's been everywhere, done everything, and he knows how to talk. It was one of those perfect dinners, where each moment was fascinating, and even though it would be hard to tell you what we talked about-everything from places in the world to the days when he was defending the novel Lady Chatterly's Lover against obscenity charges-there was never a moment when the conversation lagged, when I was less than fascinated.
And then we went out into New York City, his home, the place he loves.
My first time ever to the place, and I'm getting a walking tour from Arthur Frommer. Does it get any better?
The travel writer equivalent of that game is to admit to a major city you've never been to. Up until April of this year, I always won, because I had never been to New York City. Hadn't been, didn't want to go.
But then Canada invited me to their annual Media Marketplace, a useful schmoozing event; and since I was on my way to Ireland right then, I figured having someone else pay for my plane ticket halfway would be nice.
I was nervous about going to New York. I don't like cities, I'm claustrophobic, and quite frankly, the idea of ten million people or so on an island barely big enough to make a decent park filled me with horror. My dear friend Marie, who lives across the river in New Jersey, kindly sent me very, very careful directions of how to get from the airport to my hotel, detail right down to “when you get off the bus, your nose will be pointing at . . . “
I got to the hotel at 7 PM. At 7:30, Arthur Frommer himself walked into the lobby, and we went out to dinner together.
Plain and simple, Arthur Frommer invented modern travel. When he was in the army in Europe, he put together a little pamphlet to show other GIs how to make the most of their leave days. This expanded into his “Europe on $5 a Day,” which expanded into a publishing empire.
What Arthur did that had escaped all other writers on travel was emphasize the local experience. Instead of traveling to pretend you're part of the upper class, Arthur showed how, by going cheap and going local, you get the most honest taste of the places you visit.
I first met him a couple years ago, at another schmooze event. He had just gotten off a plane from China, yet was somehow awake, witty, and very, very charming. A gentleman in the classic sense of the word.
In New York City, we walked from my hotel to the Oyster Bar, inside Grand Central Station, Arthur stopping to show me the constellations on the roof of the grand terminal. Simply lovely. The man doesn't miss a thing, and even though I'm quite a bit taller than him, I had a hard time keeping up with his walking pace. I'm not much more than half his age, but he's got twice my energy.
Over dinner, I listened. Arthur has stories. He's been everywhere, done everything, and he knows how to talk. It was one of those perfect dinners, where each moment was fascinating, and even though it would be hard to tell you what we talked about-everything from places in the world to the days when he was defending the novel Lady Chatterly's Lover against obscenity charges-there was never a moment when the conversation lagged, when I was less than fascinated.
And then we went out into New York City, his home, the place he loves.
My first time ever to the place, and I'm getting a walking tour from Arthur Frommer. Does it get any better?
posted by e. Readicker-Henderson at 4:39 PM
2 Comments:
I found New York surprisingly easy to get around. There is all these people on this little island and yet there seems to be plenty of room for everyone. Frommer is just simply fascinating. Can't wait to hear more.
Probably Mr. Frommer mentioned this, but the constellations on the ceiling of Grand Central are a before and after story--make that before and after and after again, because for many years the original ceiling was covered by "modernizations" done in the '40s or '50s I think (a friend called this "Eisenhowering" the ceiling). I saw the bland ceiling in the early '80s and then again a few years ago, after restoration. The difference was astonishing. Who would think to cover it over? The mind boggles.
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