New York with Dad

Mom didn't love the New York apartment like Dad and I did. I was after all a true native New Yorker having been born there while Dad did his first Broadway show.

When it was just the two of us we would go to East End Kitchen for breakfast, Dad loved their Huevos Rancheros and I couldn't get enough of their steel cut oatmeal. They had excellent chocolate chip cookies which I was always allowed for dessert, yes for breakfast.

In the warmer months we would walk to the Catbird Playground where we would climb together over all of the brightly colored equipment and make up more stories, this time about the artwork animals surrounding the park.

So many other parents sat under trees on benches, ignoring their kids as they played but Dad would never join them. He'd challenge me to climb higher and swing from grip to grip reaching not for the next swinging handle but the one beyond it. "Stretch, Tonks, you'll make it!"

He was beneath me, the only safety net I would ever need.

If it was especially hot we'd pack a bag with towels and run through the water park, drying off a little then hailing a cab for a ride home.

Often during these excursions I would have to wait while Nannies and mothers stopped Dad for autographs and pictures.

The picture taking was omnipresent. No where was safe from the cell phone cameras of fans or the long lenses of the paparazzi.

We learned to live with it, it was easier than taking on endless battles.

We turned up in a magazine's "Star's Are Just Like Us" section. My father and I both soaked and smiling, splashing each other in a kiddie pool at that same park. The caption read, "They take their kids to the park."

I saw it and asked him, "what did they think we did?" It seemed so stupid, of course we were just like everyone else. Did they think we lived on some secret planet where children didn't play?

Now I understand how different we really were, how blessed, and how strange our lives were compared to that of the girl who served my oatmeal, but then it seemed an absurd statement.

When Dad had days off in New York, which he normally did, most of his work being night time things, we would explore neighborhoods together.

The looks we got on the subway were priceless. Lots of whispers behind newspapers trailed us. We practiced our accents then, partially to throw them off but mostly to amuse ourselves.

We played characters and built conversations around the accent we chose. Russian was my favorite. We would pretend to be spies, on the run and in terrible danger were we to be caught.

Sometimes I would be royalty, he my bodyguard, fretting what the King would do if he found out my desire to ride public transport with the masses had been indulged. I would promise to protect my servant should The King decide to cut off his head, or have him drawn and quartered.

On the weekends I wanted to go to Williamsburg, we could check out Artists and Fleas, a collection of street vendors selling one of a kind t shirts and jewelry as well as a million other little treasures.

I loved getting hand printed shirts with slogans I didn't really understand. Everyone in LA wore the exact same clothes from the exact same stores and called it style but I never wanted to be anything close to "on trend".

Mast Brothers Chocolate was also only open on weekends. I would stock up on the stuff every chance I got.

Every neighborhood held it's own special little pockets of excitement. The best part of it all though was simply walking with my father, his guitar calloused hand holding my own. He was always happy to stop and chat with anyone we came across. Sometimes it was fans, sometimes a shopkeeper, whoever it was Dad never struggled to hold a conversation. He was genuinely interested in people, liked to hear their stories. Even if they started as overly excited fans they would soon feel like old friends.

He always introduced me, bragged about whatever little accomplishment I'd recently made. He'd beam when he looked at me.

I loved going in the winter. When it snowed the city looked pure and sparkling like something from one of Uncle Chris's books. Snowmen were made, often in imitation of those made by Calvin and Hobbes in my favorite cartoon books, and snowball fights were had. It was slightly easier to hide in plain sight in winter, Dad and I bundled in coats, hats and scarves, so we had more privacy as everyone shuffled quickly past, hurrying to get somewhere warm. He'd have a beard in winter and when it was snowing little icicles would form in it as we walked home. Once we were inside he'd rub his beard on my face to let them melt down my neck making me shriek and giggle.

We tried ice skating at a few of the city's rinks but it wasn't for me. Dad could glide like he was born on blades but my ankles turned in and I'd bruise my tailbone every time.

At night we would sometimes order in but more often we'd cook something ourselves from what we'd collected on our daily outing.

We would see any show , on or off Broadway hit the museums or go to concerts. On the nights Dad had to work I would either go with him and bring my kindle or go to Aunt Mia's .

I loved playing dress up at her house. She had closets of vintage clothes and more jewelry than anyone I knew. She would do my hair and make up like a rock star and teach me the songs she was writing.

Later we would curl up in her huge fluffy bed and watch avant guard movies I'd never heard of. I didn't always understand them but the scenes were shot in such a fascinating way I loved them anyway.

Our last night in New York we would always do something special. One time we did a helicopter tour of the city at night. It was spectacular. I loved knowing that each window with a light added to the magic of the city while hiding behind it a full story I would never know.

No matter what we did though, whether it was helicopter rides or sunrise walks the best thing about New York was always the time spent with my Dad.