New York, A Love Story

Who the heck goes to the dentist at the Helmsley Building? A New Yorker does, that’s who.

I went with my aunt to her dentist appointment on a gorgeous day in New York—one of those rare but beautiful summer days: 80 degrees, sunny, dry, breezy. My aunt is 87 and doesn’t get around so easily anymore, so I go with her to appointments and help with errands. It seemed like the whole world was out and I couldn’t help thinking how I often run around this city mindlessly trying to get from one place to the next, barely stopping to catch my breath while elbowing people out of my way. But then there are days like this when I slow down and take it all in (that, plus my aunt can’t walk so fast).

And then it hits me: I LIVE IN NEW YORK CITY. New Yorkers have appointments with their dentists in the Helmsley Building. Actually, my dentist is on Central Park South, where I drool overlooking the treetops while my teeth are flossed and polished. I walk past The Plaza Hotel and the Essex House on my way there and breathe in the smell of horse shit from the carriages that cart tourists around the park. Sometimes I’ll treat myself afterwards to a quiche at Bouchon Bakery in the Time Warner Center down the street. And then I’ll meander through the park or just hop on the subway home. Technically, I suppose I am bridge and tunnel now that I live in Long Island City, but I’ve been in and around this city long enough to have earned my NYC badge.

View of Central Park from Dr. Farrington's office

View of Central Park from Dr. Farrington’s office

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