When Superman came to Macy's

Getting out at Penn Station to collect my, as it turned out, useless Amtrak Rail North East pass, proved serendipitous; the subway led straight up to 43^rd & 7^th, and to Macy's!

My love for department stores is one I know I share, at least with a nameless someone who boasts of spending an entire 9 hour day in David Jones in Sydney, a store which also lists among my favourites. When I lived in Knightsbridge with Harrods as my tube stop, my overdraft ballooned exponentially. In the end a move to Camden and its street markets was the only way to re-align my debt. Anyway, having expeditiously stumbled upon Macy's it seemed like a sign from above. So I headed straight inside. Sadly, although the goods and clothes were well worth a visit, there was something slightly scuffed and shabby about the ambiance. It lacked that high sheen one has learned, as an afficionado, to expect. When a scrawny Superman in ill-fitting costume yelled obscenities from Ladies Apparel, a costume which couldn't conceal his less than heroic proportions, I took stock. Macy's was verging on the tacky. Nevertheless I did buy a rather good tartan Jackie O number which I think will be valuable in the blizzard-like conditions of the Ref Desk. Department stores need to cater better to their devotees. They have home entertainment centres. There are rest-rooms, restaurants and bars. Why not sublet the bedding department for the overnight addict (what do you think Mary?).

I'm staying in an introvert's paradise, where talking is not allowed. In the lift there's a sign to gladden this librarian's heart. It says SILENCE PLEASE. Mobile phones are banned. I'm at St Hilda's House, a beautiful old building on West 113^th, run by a contemplative order of nuns, The community of the Holy Spirit.

The night I arrived, a Sunday, was one of the nights when the Sisters could speak. I joined them along with a number of other guests for supper, a delicious home-cooked sweet potato soup, with flat bread and a green salad, followed by butter-scotch pudding. Yum. We talked about books (Herman Melville, Nathaniel Hawthorn, Henry James) and we discussed Boston. This line of conversation may have had something to do with my, perhaps intrusive, presence at the table. In general however a glorious silence reigns over the whole building. There's no awful 'music' (I use the word loosely) thumping through the floor-boards. Meeting others on the stairs or in the lift requires no more than a monosyllable. The over-heard unwanted details of another's life are not a constant interruption. I've been considering a new role for the Sisters. They should franchise out, silence a few rail carriages and bus routes, transform the occasional air service with roneoed signs from the Lift, and buy up an apartment block for fully-qualified 'i' residents. Once they hire some extraverts to run the whole thing, the deed will be done. Of course I don't actually want to live in i-World, that could get boring. It would just be nice to know it existed when required. The observant will have noted a remarkable similarity to the name of my old school. Yes, they're both in honour of the very same St Hilda, Abbess of Whitby, and I did select my NY digs partly on that basis. But I also chose on the suggestion of my sister and it's been a really good one (thank you J).

I came across this poster late today. This was nothing to the sentiments expressed at Sunday night's refectory table. The commonly held view was that the U.S. administration now operated in an insane parallel universe. There was great lamentation over the destruction of long-held American values. Someone actually said "We are the terrorists now." I demanded the right of all Australians to vote in the next Presidential election, on the basis that we now agree with all proposals coming from the U.S. as if bound by law! Why not make it so.

It's night, and there's an excellent impromptu concert from the Court yard (the extraverts have arrived). A wonderful saxophonist and equally fantastic drummer are letting it rip. And here is the diner around my corner. It looks rather familiar. Brava New York!