Faites comme chez vous, chérie.

“It is no good anticipating regrets. Every tomorrow ought not to resemble every yesterday.”― Beryl Markham, West with the Night 

I am sitting at a little table in a comfortable studio apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It’s a second-floor walkup on East 82nd Street and has everything one might need to live in New York City. Framed by tied-back light brown curtains, a gray morning light filters through the windows, and I hear the cooing of pigeons on the ledge. I have just finished an excellent croissant provided by Miss Madeleine’s Bakery, located precisely 187 feet from my front door. I had smothered it lavishly with Bonne Maman Raspberry Preserves, and I am now sipping a freshly brewed cup of Eight O’clock coffee. Yesterday, I enjoyed dinner at a fine Parisian-style bistro, Quatorze, known for its ambiance and classic French food and a mere five-minute walk away. There is a bodega on almost every corner and anything you might want in the way of daily necessities and ready-prepared food is available at your fingertips at any time.

I have this entire studio apartment for my thoughts and yet, despite this beautifully orchestrated morning, my fears are pushing every good feeling aside. I am neither happy nor miserable, only surprisingly indifferent to it all. I am one of those souls that Dante would consign to the vestibule of Hell. It’s a dreary place for people who did nothing to earn a place in either Heaven or Hell — theirs is this very same sin of “indifference.” Their punishment, which they lament loudly, is to be completely forgotten on earth.

So, I lament, not aloud but on a computer keyboard, but clearly enough; “What am I doing here?” I was drawn here, but I am not sure why. I do not wish to be alone. I do not want to be forgotten. But I dare say that being forgotten is the decisive fate that awaits us all. There are people I have loved, some I still love, and some who have loved me back. But, given enough years, no one will remember. It’s a world without hope but also without despair. We all share a common fate. That is why, perhaps, not despairing, I struggle writing these plaintive stories, if that’s what they are called. It’s times like these I realize how far I still must go – and given my age, it’s likely I may not arrive. No one ever warned me that life would be long.

As it turns out, these feelings have a name: Weltschmerz. It’s a German word, literally “world pain”. It’s the existential weight of how our ideals and expectations of how the world ought to be don’t line up with the reality of our lived experience. In John MacDonald’s novel, Free Fall in Crimson, the fictional character, Travis McGee, describes Weltschmerz as "homesickness for a place you have never seen".

I “ought to be” wholesomely pleased with this morning arrayed in front of me and yet, for some reason, I am not. In Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, which I finished reading a night ago, there is a character named Moldorf who keeps in his pocket scraps of paper containing prescriptions for Weltschmerz. Regrettably, Mr. Miller never lets on as to the nature of these prescriptions, so I must fend for myself.

My primary remedy is to nourish myself with ideas and distractions so as not to let this world-weariness steer me to rue this day or my life. I have been stuffing my pocket with my own scraps of paper, (ride a bike, visit museum, take a walk, call Mike, text Courtney, get a bagel, listen to podcast, meditate, etc.), notes carefully scribed in blue ink using a .03 mm pen that I purchased yesterday at the Kinokuniya bookstore. I believe the tools of creation are as important as the creation itself. Poor pens, poor brushes, and poor grammar make for disposable art.

My yearning is that this current state of Weltschmerz will drive me towards change, which is precisely why I am sitting here in New York rather than my lovely home in New Jersey. Obviously, this Weltschmerz had been heating on the back burner for some time and only lately have I noticed it boiling over.

After more than two hours of pecking at my keyboard, I am weary of trying to understand and capture my feelings. I am also tired of berating myself for not having sufficient gratitude and, no doubt, anyone reading this might think me a privileged fool who has no reason to complain. For one, I don’t care. For two, I am not complaining, I am lamenting. It’s an archaic skill many people fail to develop. Finally, you can rest assured, the fact that I feel this way makes me all the more irritated.

Discouraged, I get up and open the window. Chasing the cooing pigeons off the ledge, I push my fears out, letting them fall to the street below, hoping not to burden some poor soul walking by. I listen for the sound of them hitting the ground but hear nothing. They seem to have simply floated away. How odd, they seemed so heavy when I picked them up.

It’s a refreshing Autumn Day, and I am determined not to stay inside a moment longer. I am poignantly aware that I am dealing with ‘me’ here, replete with character defects I haven’t yet managed to get rid of and which I accommodate as best I can. Although on edge, I am determined not to lose my basic cheerful nature. Down a flight of stairs, through two doors, and I am outside. As I walk to the 86th street Subway Station to catch the Q train downtown, I am resolved to look for signs of awe-inspiring beauty, even if it is not with a capital “B”. I am, without the deerstalker hat, Sherlock Holmes looking for wonder and everyday moments of life-affirmation.

I hop on the train and sitting across from me is a young pregnant woman with a small child in a stroller at her feet. The woman looks drained. She stares into her phone. The child utters a small cry and reaches up, wanting out of the stroller. Her mother picks her up, sets her down on the seat, and returns to her phone, while the young child looks at me. I smile at her. She smiles back. I make a funny face. She makes one back. I wink, she tries to wink back. She puts her finger to her nose, and I do the same. I worry that the mother is going to see this interplay and get upset. The exchange ends at the next stop as the subway car fills up, and people block our visual connection. Life-affirmation moment number one.

The following morning, at a brunch and lecture at Temple Emanuel just off Fifth Avenue, I am sitting at a table with three elderly couples. I had expected a lecture type of seating arrangement, not tables covered with white tablecloths and fine China service. I feel a bit like an imposter as I am sure I am the only Gentile in the room. A lovely couple, Joan and David, are sitting on my left. Joan engages me in a pleasant conversation as does her husband. Ruth, sitting to my right with her husband, joins in. The exchange is cheery and uplifting. They are genuinely interested in me and what I am doing in Manhattan; I feel very welcomed. At the end of the lecture, as I am leaving, David hurries up to me, shakes my hand, hands me his card and repeats his wife’s offer to visit them at their home on 86th Street. “Please do pay us a visit,” he says. Life-affirmation moment number two.

The next day, I am at the nearby laundromat. You need $4.00 in quarters to use the washer. It is hard to believe in this day of smartphones and credit cards that coins are required. I ask the woman attendant for change, and she patiently counts sixteen coins out on the counter. There are eight open slots in the coin tray but only four marked for quarters. I put in four quarters and pushed the coin tray in. It doesn’t work. I try again. And a third time. The woman comes over and tells me to put in all eight quarters. It works. She smiles at me and as she turns to walk away, she gently lays her hand on my back, like a doting mother, and says “Good.” Life-affirmation number three.

A child’s smile, a kindly invitation, and a gentle touch on the back are sufficient antidotes to Weltschmerz? Surely, you’re joking, Mr. Timm. Not one of these remedies had been scribbled on the scraps of paper stuffed in my pocket.

What I was looking for was apparently looking for me.

A museum will lay a rope around an artwork and say, “Look, this is to be enjoyed.” It’s so easy to acquiesce and see only what we are told to see as valuable. But a child-like faith in the universe has yet to disappoint me. So often, the small ‘b” beauties of everyday life are sufficient to effect a cure for any ailment that assails me.

I am healed, or at least well on my way to healing. I am still unclear what this “little experiment” of living in Manhattan is all about, but I remain open to wonder. I finish the day with a burger from 7th Ave Burgers and yogurt from 16 Handles on 2nd Avenue for dessert.

A notice pops up in the corner of my computer screen, the flagship Strand Book Store on Broadway is looking for a full-time bookseller for the upcoming Holiday Season. Interesting.