After the bagel, after the coffee, and after more of Elena Ferrante’s brilliant and raw, Troubling Love, about the death of her mother, the dog and I returned to Washington Square Park, one block away, for what has become a customary stroll through its long familiar loops, first experienced by me when I was about ten and then regularly over the years.
From Ferrante: “I knew that I was losing my mother definitively and that it was exactly what I wanted.”
Not exactly Oprah.
Meeting T at Bar Primi to discuss plans was very productive, and I’m glad I returned to the restaurant. Only a couple of weeks before a series of missteps over lunch by wait staff and perhaps confusion in the kitchen led to a delicious lunch spoiled by bad timing and odd portion sizes. This time the service was in order and the pastas as good as before. The vibe here is more pleasant than many places with food just as good.
The time between the park and after lunch was spent in the apartment writing. I’m up to page 98 in my new book about family, which apparently is fiction, and this third section (of six) is more difficult than ones preceding because the material is sad and scary, but I want it to be understood with humor from perspective. I achieved that yesterday with four pages, but it took all day.
Cocktails at Lafayette and then dinner at Il Buco Alimentari. Great room at the former, and both great room and great food at the latter, which has become my regular Italian in town.