THE CITY WHICH IS SERIOUS ABOUT FUN
Christmas in Manhattan: Cosima von Billow on the place which can supply everything for this time of the year; even peace and goodwill
THERE ARE people who think of Christ- mas as a time to get together with their family, exchange a few presents under the tree, sit down to a large home-cooked meal, and pass out on the sofa in the mid- dle of a Frank Capra video. There are those who will get a bit wild, have one too many eggnogs, start belting out the chorus of 'Auld Lang Syne' and try to get every- one to play a round of charades. There are all these people, and then, there is the New Yorker. The New Yorker sees things a little bit differently at this time of year. A breed apart from the rest of Americans, come the beginning of December, the average New Yorker will become nothing less than a professional Christmas animal. Lighting the lights and decking the halls, the preparation for this holiday is an unstoppable train of activity which, regard- less of race or religion, is undertaken with tremendous seriousness and no small amount of pride. For, as anyone who has ever been there will know, when it comes to celebrating the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ, no one can throw a better party.
New York either works hard or it plays hard. Sometimes the two happen simulta- neously, but there is never anything in between. There is a sense of duty about having fun in New York; it's a job like any other, and Christmas is approached with almost military discipline. Nothing is ever done on a small scale, and subtlety, what little was left of it on our twinkling neon Manhattan isle, is banished not long after Thanksgiving. The miniature Christmas trees that do so well elsewhere in the world are not even for sale in this city. For regardless of how small and cramped a home may already be, no self-respecting New Yorker would be caught dead with anything less than a symmetrically perfect, seven-foot, pine-scented evergreen with extra branches to stick in the gaps. Some people probably settle for a fake and spray the room with 'forest fragrance' bathroom freshener, but this practice is severely frowned upon and seldom admitted to in public.
So once that giant star has dropped above 57th Street and the Rockefeller Center lights have been switched on, the family-photo Christmas cards sent out and the party invitations received, the office cocktails, charity balls and the debutante dances get into their stride. To that singu- lar clang of the Salvation Army bells, rung by a smiling Korean Santa Claus on every corner, New York goes about the frenetic, commercial and heartwarming task of Yuletide celebration. The Nutcracker goes on stage ,at Lincoln Center and Macauly Culkin stars in Hollywood's latest crowd- pleaser. Roasted chestnuts replace the stale pretzels at the street vendors', and the smell of cinnamon and gingerbread seeps out from the corner bakery. Red- and-white candy canes are passed out to children, and Bobby Short croons nightly at the Carlyle. Even nature lends a hand, with the odd inspirational snow flurry interrupting an otherwise perfect blue sky. For a few short weeks of every year, Cen- tral Park is a winter wonderland and the streets of Manhattan are paved with crushed diamonds.
From the traditional mood of Saks Fifth Avenue to the modern chic of Barney's, the big department stores draw in the crowds with their spectacular annual window dis- plays. A month-long queue forms at FAO Schwartz, Cartier puts on a big ruby bow, and the Empire State Building, all red, white and green, looks just like the Italian flag. Even the smallest greengrocer gets in on the act, stringing up some ghastly blink- ing orange lights and smothering the fruit display with yards of silver tinsel. She may not look sophisticated with all the bows, balls and bells, and may not be particularly tasteful, but if New York at Christmas dresses up like a hooker, then she is a hooker with a heart of gold. For under- neath all the tinsel and behind all those bows, there is a genuine feeling here of peace and goodwill. Like old Mr Scrooge after his third late night out, New York City, the curmudgeon capital of street- smart cynicism, wakes up at Christmas and puts on a smile.
The perpetual cacophony of the honking yellow cabs, like an orchestra warming up before the curtain, becomes steadily more insistent as the big day draws near. Teenagers are out of school; sneaking into the intoxicating nights, they break their parent's curfews and break each other's hearts. Exhausted shoppers race from store to store, picking up last-minute stocking- fillers, looking, as always, for the ultimate bargain. The turkeys are plucked, the bars are stocked, and the brie must come out of the fridge. The silver gets a polish, the vel- vet jackets have a steam, and someone lights a fire in the hall. And when every last detail is checked to perfection and the mistletoe hangs just so, the telephones will start ringing and the entry bells buzzing and Madam New York will throw open her doors.
For it's a lonely time for many people. A period of forced reflection and the rush of unsolicited memory. A time when every- thing is supposed to be right and all too often isn't. At Christmas, even the closest family can begin to feel the strain and ten- sion of extended togetherness: the claustro- phobia of love and pain sitting down at the same table and not knowing what to say. So, while the New York social whirl may seem a bit extreme, when friends and fami- ly get a little too close, this town seeks the comfort and kindness of strangers. To the sound of clinking champagne flutes and `Oh Come, All Ye Faithful', the clans unite and the tribes gather round for the Christ- mas cocktail ritual. With presents and toasts and finger sandwiches and even bagels with cream cheese, with glasses raised to Christmas cheer, New York says (for one musn't be denominational), `Happy Holidays!'
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