I woke to find the city covered in white. The view out my hotel room window was never going to be beautiful, as it faced a brick wall and a fire escape, but with the narrow alley covered in snow, it was finally picturesque. This was the Gotham of literature and classic films, of Edith Wharton and William Wyler. I shivered, though the room was warm, anxious to start anew on a clean, white slate.

It was 1982 and I was 21. The previous day, the coldest so far, was spent in my fifth-floor room, looking at the want ads and rejecting nine out of every ten jobs for location, and every room for price. With a week of rent paid for my room at the midtown hotel, I was down to fifty dollars in cash, and no other lodging options. Turns out you even needed a reservation for the YWCA. When my friend David got off work at 4, we’d checked on three nearby restaurants, all of which said the position of waitress or hostess was already filled.

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But that was yesterday, and today the Currier and Ives scene down below was enough to make a California girl eager to get outside. My long camelhair coat, though not as warm as it looked, would suffice, now that the air had warmed up enough for it to snow. My preppy tassel loafers would have to do—I couldn’t afford boots. Watching city workers clearing the streets and salting the sidewalks, I prepared to brave the elements.

I rushed through two cups of terrible coffee and a stale bran muffin at the lobby coffee shop, excited to be going out on my own finally. David was the only person I knew in the city. We’d become fast friends working at a Park Avenue flower shop, a job that ended when the owner of the shop was revealed to be a crook, and the SEC froze all the store’s accounts, making our paychecks worthless. Thanks to David’s camaraderie, I’d survived all that, but time was running out on my New York experiment. Bottom line: I needed a job, regardless of commute or wages, so I circled a few of the want ads I’d ignored the day before.

It was 1982 and I was 21. The previous day, the coldest so far, was spent in my fifth-floor room, looking at the want ads and rejecting nine out of every ten jobs for location, and every room for price. With a week of rent paid for my room at the midtown hotel, I was down to fifty dollars in cash, and no other lodging options. Turns out you even needed a reservation for the YWCA. When my friend David got off work at 4, we’d checked on three nearby restaurants, all of which said the position of waitress or hostess was already filled.

Hostess needed for a dance club—what was a dance club? I’d have to ask David, but it was way across town, so not today. A waitress for a Beer’n’Brew, a counter person at McDonalds, a coat check girl at La Cote Basque restaurant, and six or seven “waiter/waitress needed” with no names, just addresses, which I found out meant they were diners. All said, “No phone calls, apply in person between 10 and 2.” Buttoning my coat I stepped carefully from the dirty vestibule carpet onto the slushy, salted snow.

After a few hours of making my way through the crowded streets and onto steamy, heated subway cars, then waiting in line to fill out forms, I was as wilted as it was possible to be in such weather. The snow had fallen again, as I sat in a diner up on the West Side, nursing a coffee and waiting my turn for an interview at a place I wouldn’t eat toast. The thick fluffy flakes came down in clumps that melted instantly, and I was mesmerized watching people scurry by. This was my last stop for the day, then I was meeting David to head down to the East Village for Indian food, which he’d promised me was cheap and good.

I wasn’t surprised when the diner manager said no to me in seconds, since I’d already given up hope. The first thing I asked David when I saw him an hour later, not letting him say anything beyond hello, was why they had ads for jobs but no jobs to give.

“Most of those places want men, especially for the night shift, so they can keep the animals from getting out of line,” he explained, adding that Equal Opportunity laws made it illegal for employers to state that. They had to at least seem to be open to hiring women.

“Our tax dollars at work, right?” I answered tiredly.

“Yeah, right,” he said. “But I’ve got some good news.”

Turned out he had a place for me to stay for free for one week, starting on Christmas Eve. I interrupted with a dozen questions and he started at the beginning and answered them all in turn.

A friend of his was flying home to Kentucky and was willing to let me housesit, though he only had a few plants to water. It was in the West Village, near the Elephant and Castle restaurant (RIP)—just a studio, but with a sleeping loft, and a phone, and a bath. I couldn’t move in until Christmas Eve, but he’d told his friend about me and it was fine with him—we could go by the place he worked later if I wanted. And then, after New Year’s Day, all of David’s cousins would go back to Puerto Rico and I could stay with him and his mom in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, for as long as I wanted.

Throwing my arms wide, I said, “I knew the snow was a good sign! This is just what I was hoping for.” Pushing away the thoughts of what exactly I would do and eat until Christmas Eve, I hugged David fiercely. “Thank you,” I said. “You are the best guy to know.”

A friend of David’s was flying home to Kentucky and was willing to let me housesit. It was in the West Village, near the Elephant and Castle restaurant—just a studio, but with a sleeping loft, and a phone, and a bath. I couldn’t move in until Christmas Eve, but he’d told his friend about me and it was fine with him. And then, after New Year’s Day, all of David’s cousins would go back to Puerto Rico and I could stay with him and his mom in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, for as long as I wanted.

David went on to say that my week-long apartment was in a cool neighborhood, with lots of little cafes and bars. “We’ll find you something. I can loan you money—you’ll pay me back when you find a job.”

I whooped with joy.

David took my arm as we crossed Sixth Avenue, or “Avenue of the Americas” as the new— mostly ignored—signs declared it. David said that we should walk to Lexington Avenue to catch the subway, rather than taking a train from right there and transferring at Times Square, to go downtown. When I asked why he said there was something he wanted to show me that wasn’t too far. We could walk over to Fifth Avenue and then stroll a little way and people-watch.

“You know what a crowded social schedule I have,” I sighed. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

Fifth Avenue was thronged with people in groups of two and three, carrying packages and glitzy shopping bags, walking purposefully and talking animatedly. Cars, busses and taxis whizzed by, honking pointlessly as they swerved and jostled for position. Far above us the sky was still light, with tiny patches of blue beginning to break through the gray clouds. The tops of the tall buildings on either side shaded the avenue so the valley between was in twilight.

As we walked uptown, slowly wending our way through the crowds and talking, I heard the faint sound of music. Christmas carols being played over a store’s muzak system, probably, but it was nice—a classical version of “Winter Wonderland.” When I still heard it a block later, I looked around, expecting to see speakers on the lampposts, gently proclaiming the season. There were no speakers I could see, but the carol was playing louder.

Seeing me look around, David grinned. I searched the windows and street to no avail.

“Okay, I give up,” I said. “Where’s the music coming from?”

David kept walking, his step jaunty. I hurried to catch up, then stopped in my tracks.

The music was even louder now, as if I were in a symphony hall, bathed in sound. After a brief pause, the orchestra swelled into the opening strains of “Silent Night.” The clear sounds of a piano, along with strings and woodwinds, could be heard.

As we walked uptown, slowly wending our way through the crowds and talking, I heard the faint sound of music. Christmas carols being played over a store’s muzak system, probably, but it was nice—a classical version of “Winter Wonderland.” When I still heard it a block later, I looked around, expecting to see speakers on the lampposts, gently proclaiming the season. There were no speakers I could see, but the carol was playing louder.

The tide of pedestrians ebbed and flowed around me as I stood like a statue, wondering at their indifference. Seeing my questioning look David glanced up. I followed his gaze, maybe four or five stories up, to the side of a mirrored glass building. There, on a terrace carved into the side of that shiny mountain, sat a chamber orchestra, decked out in black dresses and tuxedos, playing as if they were in a drawing room.

I stepped off the curb, wedging myself between two parked cars for a better view, staring gape-mouthed as the music fell as soft as snowflakes. People mostly hurried by, but some caught my eye and smiled, sharing the instrumental bliss, and a couple glanced up at the floating musicians. After a short pause, a tuxedoed man stood up with a clarinet and nodded to the pianist. When the first notes of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” began, I took David’s hand and stared up as if I could glimpse the promised yuletide, no longer feeling the cold.

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I woke to find the city covered in white. The view out my hotel room window was never going to be beautiful, as it faced a brick wall and a fire escape, but with the narrow alley covered in snow, it was finally picturesque. This was the Gotham of literature and classic films, of Edith Wharton and William Wyler. I shivered, though the room was warm, anxious to start anew on a clean, white slate.

It was 1982 and I was 21. The previous day, the coldest so far, was spent in my fifth-floor room, looking at the want ads and rejecting nine out of every ten jobs for location, and every room for price. With a week of rent paid for my room at the midtown hotel, I was down to fifty dollars in cash, and no other lodging options. Turns out you even needed a reservation for the YWCA. When my friend David got off work at 4, we’d checked on three nearby restaurants, all of which said the position of waitress or hostess was already filled.

Get 20% off forever

But that was yesterday, and today the Currier and Ives scene down below was enough to make a California girl eager to get outside. My long camelhair coat, though not as warm as it looked, would suffice, now that the air had warmed up enough for it to snow. My preppy tassel loafers would have to do—I couldn’t afford boots. Watching city workers clearing the streets and salting the sidewalks, I prepared to brave the elements.

I rushed through two cups of terrible coffee and a stale bran muffin at the lobby coffee shop, excited to be going out on my own finally. David was the only person I knew in the city. We’d become fast friends working at a Park Avenue flower shop, a job that ended when the owner of the shop was revealed to be a crook, and the SEC froze all the store’s accounts, making our paychecks worthless. Thanks to David’s camaraderie, I’d survived all that, but time was running out on my New York experiment. Bottom line: I needed a job, regardless of commute or wages, so I circled a few of the want ads I’d ignored the day before.

It was 1982 and I was 21. The previous day, the coldest so far, was spent in my fifth-floor room, looking at the want ads and rejecting nine out of every ten jobs for location, and every room for price. With a week of rent paid for my room at the midtown hotel, I was down to fifty dollars in cash, and no other lodging options. Turns out you even needed a reservation for the YWCA. When my friend David got off work at 4, we’d checked on three nearby restaurants, all of which said the position of waitress or hostess was already filled.

Hostess needed for a dance club—what was a dance club? I’d have to ask David, but it was way across town, so not today. A waitress for a Beer’n’Brew, a counter person at McDonalds, a coat check girl at La Cote Basque restaurant, and six or seven “waiter/waitress needed” with no names, just addresses, which I found out meant they were diners. All said, “No phone calls, apply in person between 10 and 2.” Buttoning my coat I stepped carefully from the dirty vestibule carpet onto the slushy, salted snow.

After a few hours of making my way through the crowded streets and onto steamy, heated subway cars, then waiting in line to fill out forms, I was as wilted as it was possible to be in such weather. The snow had fallen again, as I sat in a diner up on the West Side, nursing a coffee and waiting my turn for an interview at a place I wouldn’t eat toast. The thick fluffy flakes came down in clumps that melted instantly, and I was mesmerized watching people scurry by. This was my last stop for the day, then I was meeting David to head down to the East Village for Indian food, which he’d promised me was cheap and good.

I wasn’t surprised when the diner manager said no to me in seconds, since I’d already given up hope. The first thing I asked David when I saw him an hour later, not letting him say anything beyond hello, was why they had ads for jobs but no jobs to give.

“Most of those places want men, especially for the night shift, so they can keep the animals from getting out of line,” he explained, adding that Equal Opportunity laws made it illegal for employers to state that. They had to at least seem to be open to hiring women.

“Our tax dollars at work, right?” I answered tiredly.

“Yeah, right,” he said. “But I’ve got some good news.”

Turned out he had a place for me to stay for free for one week, starting on Christmas Eve. I interrupted with a dozen questions and he started at the beginning and answered them all in turn.

A friend of his was flying home to Kentucky and was willing to let me housesit, though he only had a few plants to water. It was in the West Village, near the Elephant and Castle restaurant (RIP)—just a studio, but with a sleeping loft, and a phone, and a bath. I couldn’t move in until Christmas Eve, but he’d told his friend about me and it was fine with him—we could go by the place he worked later if I wanted. And then, after New Year’s Day, all of David’s cousins would go back to Puerto Rico and I could stay with him and his mom in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, for as long as I wanted.

Throwing my arms wide, I said, “I knew the snow was a good sign! This is just what I was hoping for.” Pushing away the thoughts of what exactly I would do and eat until Christmas Eve, I hugged David fiercely. “Thank you,” I said. “You are the best guy to know.”

A friend of David’s was flying home to Kentucky and was willing to let me housesit. It was in the West Village, near the Elephant and Castle restaurant—just a studio, but with a sleeping loft, and a phone, and a bath. I couldn’t move in until Christmas Eve, but he’d told his friend about me and it was fine with him. And then, after New Year’s Day, all of David’s cousins would go back to Puerto Rico and I could stay with him and his mom in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, for as long as I wanted.

David went on to say that my week-long apartment was in a cool neighborhood, with lots of little cafes and bars. “We’ll find you something. I can loan you money—you’ll pay me back when you find a job.”

I whooped with joy.

David took my arm as we crossed Sixth Avenue, or “Avenue of the Americas” as the new— mostly ignored—signs declared it. David said that we should walk to Lexington Avenue to catch the subway, rather than taking a train from right there and transferring at Times Square, to go downtown. When I asked why he said there was something he wanted to show me that wasn’t too far. We could walk over to Fifth Avenue and then stroll a little way and people-watch.

“You know what a crowded social schedule I have,” I sighed. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

Fifth Avenue was thronged with people in groups of two and three, carrying packages and glitzy shopping bags, walking purposefully and talking animatedly. Cars, busses and taxis whizzed by, honking pointlessly as they swerved and jostled for position. Far above us the sky was still light, with tiny patches of blue beginning to break through the gray clouds. The tops of the tall buildings on either side shaded the avenue so the valley between was in twilight.

As we walked uptown, slowly wending our way through the crowds and talking, I heard the faint sound of music. Christmas carols being played over a store’s muzak system, probably, but it was nice—a classical version of “Winter Wonderland.” When I still heard it a block later, I looked around, expecting to see speakers on the lampposts, gently proclaiming the season. There were no speakers I could see, but the carol was playing louder.

Seeing me look around, David grinned. I searched the windows and street to no avail.

“Okay, I give up,” I said. “Where’s the music coming from?”

David kept walking, his step jaunty. I hurried to catch up, then stopped in my tracks.

The music was even louder now, as if I were in a symphony hall, bathed in sound. After a brief pause, the orchestra swelled into the opening strains of “Silent Night.” The clear sounds of a piano, along with strings and woodwinds, could be heard.

As we walked uptown, slowly wending our way through the crowds and talking, I heard the faint sound of music. Christmas carols being played over a store’s muzak system, probably, but it was nice—a classical version of “Winter Wonderland.” When I still heard it a block later, I looked around, expecting to see speakers on the lampposts, gently proclaiming the season. There were no speakers I could see, but the carol was playing louder.

The tide of pedestrians ebbed and flowed around me as I stood like a statue, wondering at their indifference. Seeing my questioning look David glanced up. I followed his gaze, maybe four or five stories up, to the side of a mirrored glass building. There, on a terrace carved into the side of that shiny mountain, sat a chamber orchestra, decked out in black dresses and tuxedos, playing as if they were in a drawing room.

I stepped off the curb, wedging myself between two parked cars for a better view, staring gape-mouthed as the music fell as soft as snowflakes. People mostly hurried by, but some caught my eye and smiled, sharing the instrumental bliss, and a couple glanced up at the floating musicians. After a short pause, a tuxedoed man stood up with a clarinet and nodded to the pianist. When the first notes of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” began, I took David’s hand and stared up as if I could glimpse the promised yuletide, no longer feeling the cold.

Get 20% off forever