Writing is such a divorcement from life. Such was the sentiment of Jay Presson Allen, according to her obituary in the “The New York Times” last May. The writer lives a solitary life. Even our miraculous computers offer only a limited connection to others of our species. What are the options for the writer whose hard wiring is that of a true pack animal, utterly social and continually desirous of companionship? For this writer, the answer is Madison Avenue.
Regardless of the season or temperature, or even time of day, the sidewalks of Madison are always mobbed. Sales people and moguls, messengers, royals and even mere mortals like me can all be found hurrying in one direction or meandering in another. Whether one’s goal is window shopping or power spending, business, recreation, or in my case, an inspiration or social intercourse, Madison Avenue offers everything for everyone. Listening to the languages of the crowds is like having a direct link to the General Assembly. Perhaps it’s the time in which we live, but the dress codes of other eras no longer apply, and that’s not altogether a bad idea. Who would have imagined, years ago, walking into “Bemelmens Bar” at the Carlyle Hotel, in blue jeans? For those of us who live in such attire, it is really a blessing!
It would be impossible for one to go hungry or thirsty on Madison Avenue. The street abounds with tea salons, watering holes of every sort, and restaurants for every taste bud in every mouth. The baskets of breads served at “Pain Quotidien” and “St. Ambroeus” are ethereal. Dr. Atkins would not have approved, but for me, those citadels of carbohydrates, offering imported butter, pots of hand made jams and bowls of cappuccino are as high on my list as a tin of beluga and a mother of pearl spoon. When eggs over with a side of bacon and hash browns are more suitable to your diet, innumerable coffee shops line the Avenue. There is a decidedly international feel to all the cafés, whose tables spill out onto the street when the weather permits. French bistros serve sushi. Italian ristorante offer exquisite steaks and they all supply, for our continual enjoyment, every conceivable type of libation ever fancied by the human throat.
There are those who claim there is no such thing as “writer’s block.” Everything is copy, they say. I find myself, over the years, agreeing. Then again, I live only a few blocks from Madison. When I’m stuck, or befuddled or bored or sick of sitting at my computer, I walk over.
My love affair with this glorious boulevard began when I was a very little girl of four, perhaps five. My mother and I had just exited B. Altman on the Madison Avenue side. My mother threw her arm in the air, and there, stopping directly in front of us was a taxi. And, not just any taxi, mind you. This cab was a Checker! I was truly amazed as my mother unfolded the little seat in front of her, I took my place, and we wended our way uptown. Surely, I had arrived.
Way back when, I never could have imagined the variety of things available for purchase along Madison Avenue. In those days, B. Altman that old dowager was as incredible an emporium as anything I could imagine. Today, it appears there is nothing that is not for sale on that crazy street, legal and perhaps otherwise. Naturally, clothing shops abound, along with stores which sell every form of accessory, luggage, enough diamonds to refill Solomon’s mines, furs, even a place where you can buy espresso machines and the “pods” with which one makes the coffee.
Some time ago, in, dare I say, the late seventies, with all the talent and attitude a twenty-something could muster, along with a huge plaster cast on my leg, I landed a job at a small boutique advertising agency. I was a receptionist, soon to be copywriter at a real, live, advertising agency on Madison Avenue! I’ve been taking inspiration from that fine, old, north bound thoroughfare ever since.
One evening last fall, after working late, I phoned a friend and asked her to meet me for dinner. We met at “Island” on upper Mad in the nineties. Considering the hour, the staid neighborhood and the fact that it was the middle of the week, I assumed we’d have no problem procuring a table, even there. It was a lovely, warm autumn evening and, as we approached, we noticed the tables on the side walk were all filled. I walked in the restaurant and asked for a table for two. At this point, it was nine forty-five, perhaps a bit later. I was told there would be at least a thirty minute wait to be seated. Fortunately, there were several more places within just a few blocks. If my memory serves me, we were seated somewhere by ten thirty. This is my Madison Avenue, regardless of the season or temperature or even time of day.