I go to New York to see the spectacles, and only one of them is on Broadway:

A man playing a small parlor piano in Washington Square, and allowing a little girl to step in and play a sonata.

A used book store, with racks of books outside.

The vast bulk of the Cooper Union school building.

Colorful tiles in the elevator and in the gloomy closed restaurant where the hotel guests get their Continental breakfast.

The garish stage sets of Moulin Rouge, which are the true stars of the show. 

The neon signs in the backs of the bicycle cabs.

The seals in the Central Park Zoo, barking at the audience on command.

The waiter in the Bryant Park Grill, treating a single non-drinking customer, who is not buying an appetizer or a dessert, as if she were the Queen, and he her obsequious vizier.

The bus driver informing me grandly that I am his last passenger, and that he will let me off wherever I want.

The fact that despite the ominous political news, I hear mostly foreign languages from the New York City tourists and from the people serving in stores.

The enormous wicker globes in Bryant Park, lit by sparkling lights.

The cat sitter’s iPhone portraits of my lumpy and opinionated cat, catching him in adorable poses, reassuring me that he is being taken care of but that he has also miraculously become vividly beautiful in my absence.

The hotel room door suddenly trying to open at 6:00 am, but caught by the safety latch, with no sound of footsteps or apology outside.