Page 20 of Nutcracker with Benefits
My feelings are complicated, okay?
“You could stay here. I’m ninety-nine percent certain you haven’t written an article on the best places to watch the fireworks in New York.”
She grins at me. “First of all, my article would have to be the best public places to watch the fireworks, and Uncle D and Dad’s apartment doesn’t count.”
Well, I had been thinking about my apartment, preferably naked in bed with a bottle of champagne, but okay.
“Secondly, you know my motto…” she trails off, expecting me to fill in the blank.
I obey. “Everywhere is worth going.”
“Yeah.” She sighs. I remember when she came up with the name for her blog. She was in college, planning a trip to Europe for the first time, and she was dumbstruck by people asking if a place was worth going to. “Every place is worth going to. Even if the trip is horrible, you go somewhere, meet new people, explore new places. You learn what not to do. Even a bad trip is a trip worth having,” she’d said.
Perhaps she had been naive at the time, but her attitude held out. Clara’s so positive and optimistic. She makes the best of anything.
And the name of her blog, Worth Going, suits her perfectly.
“Here you go,” Freddy says as he enters the room carrying two paper cups of coffee. The name of his shop, Bean Water, is printed on the sleeve. We thank Freddy for his time and step out onto the street. Clara holds out her cup and snaps a photo of it, the café facade blurred out behind it.
“Nice business,” she comments, and I expect that Bean Water will get some positive publicity in a few days. She pockets her phone and turns back to me. “Where to next?”
“Brooklyn.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “What’s there?”
“You’ll see,” I say.
We take the subway again. I check my phone and send a quick message to Bea. Liberica is her favorite.
When we exit the station, the streets are much busier. I take Clara’s hand, and we weave through the crowd of people and into a building a few blocks later.
Clara takes a deep inhale. “It smells amazing again! But not coffee?”
The hallway opens into a vast, multi-leveled room, and Clara discovers the answer to her own question. “A spice market!”
Piles of spices in all shades of brown, beige, tan, or even brighter colors like orange, red, yellow, and green line the walkways. It’s an eclectic mix of Middle Eastern cultures, with flags proudly displayed representing many different countries.
“Some of these vendors make their own proprietary spice blend,” I say. “I figured that the smallest pouch or two might fit into your luggage. And you could buy something for your family. Maybe a gift for your dad?”
One thing about Clara is how good she is at traveling and meeting people. All our lives, she’s been this gregarious person, the kind who’s never met someone they couldn’t befriend. We met up in Tokyo once when I was there for work, and while dining at a sidewalk bar, Clara struck up a conversation with the businessmen next to us. Next thing I know, we’re at a karaoke bar downing Asahi beer with these men, and Clara and I are belting out Hard Day’s Night.
Now I watch her talking with the people who work at the spice stalls, asking them questions and getting permission to take pictures. Sometimes, they try to engage me, but my Arabic is rusty and clunky on my tongue now, a bitterness I’d rather not taste.
After an hour, we depart with five small satchels of spices. I have no idea what they are, but Clara tucks them into her bag, and we walk away, the scent of spices lingering on our clothes.
Our next stop is back in Manhattan.
Clara lets me lead her as we cut through Central Park. We’re right on time, and I see a crowd has gathered for the performance.
In the center is a slim white man with graying hair and a goatee. He’s dressed in a loose top, striped, belted pants, and soft black leather boots. I’ve seen him perform before, so I’m familiar with the setup: a slightly raised floor, speakers, and his clapboard that reads: I danced for Russia, Russia hunted me, with a pride flag painted next to it. There’s a bucket with a slotted lid and the logo of an organization that provides legal aid to LGBTQIA+ Russians.
The dancer, Ioann, claps his hands together, the final touches on his stage done. Ioann has done all sorts of ballet performances, from Swan Lake to his own choreography of Taylor Swift. I used to see him pretty regularly when I lived with Uncle D and walked to our office, but he hadn’t achieved his TikTok notoriety yet.
With a press of a button, “A Mad Russian’s Christmas” is off to an energetic start. Ioann spreads his arms, tilts his head back, and launches himself into the air.
I spend half the time watching Ioann, half watching Clara. The performance is energetic, and Clara gasps with each acrobatic feat. At the crescendo, Ioann leaps, hanging in the air, his body fully rotating around one stationary leg before he lands. Then he does it again and again and again.
“That’s called a barrel turn,” I say. Yeah, I’m showing off my knowledge.
