Nights in the City

Collage by Yinne Smith

My dad keeps a leather case in his car. Thick as a Bible, and just as sacred to us, it holds all of the mix-CDs he’s made over the course of his life. Decades of music housed between the plastic sleeves. There’s a CD for every mood, every road trip, every drive to the corner store. 

Growing up, my father imbued in me a very specialized music education. We were never a top one hundred or IHeartRadio kind of family. Instead, we listened to the CDs my dad meticulously curated. He’d spend hours sitting at his desktop computer, burning songs he loved, and wanted to share with us onto his CDs (this was long before Spotify was on his phone). They were eclectic mixes of new wave, big band music, lounge, jazz, and old school jingles. Anything my dad found amusing made its way onto a CD; once, at my request, he included the original Scooby Doo theme song to a mix, and indulged my requests to play it over and over in the car. 

My favorite excursions were our weekend trips into the city. Every Sunday my brother and I would wake up to the smell of fresh baked cinnamon rolls or pancakes. We’d get dressed and clamber into the car. Before we hit the road, my dad would carefully select a CD from its case and place it into the player for the ride. As we crossed the 59th Street Bridge, Bobby Darin’s “Beyond the Sea” would start playing. My dad would point out the sleek, silver Chrysler building amongst the glistening skyline, our landmark for our entrance into the city. The CD would transition into the Rat Pack then to Elvis as we drove down 1st Avenue. Parking was always the most difficult part of the trip, even then, and we’d drive around for a few minutes looking for a spot close to our destination. My dad calls our mom his good luck charm because nine times out of ten, it was her who pointed out a spot for us to park the car. Once we found a spot alongside the restaurants and boutiques, we’d park for the day, grateful to not have to pay the meters on Sundays. Then off we went. 

We’d start on one end of the street fair and walk all the way to the other end. Tented booths lined either side of the avenue, and blue dividers sectioned off the street fair from cars. Booths were filled with the best of Manhattan, the artisans, the bakers, and the businesses selling their wares. It was a bazaar and a cultural festival all in one. We’d check each booth to see what was for sale. Once you visit enough street fairs, you begin to recognize the sellers. Like how my dad knew the man who sold comic books and superhero memorabilia; he always let us take three comics for $5. Or the man who would play the didgeridoo next to his booth selling crystals and shark teeth. When we’d find a booth with records we’d stop, my dad sifting through the dozens of boxes in the hopes of finding one good album. 

Booth to booth we’d go. The streets were filled with the chatter of pedestrians, the far off music of restaurants with tables set up outside. Just a street over where all the cars that carried passengers to their destinations. But our street had cool lemonade, bright yellow and pink in plastic cups, lined up like soldiers. I genuinely think I developed my refined pallet from attending those street fairs. We’d stop for chicken satay from a Vietnamese truck that seemed to be at every street fair we went to. For three dollars we’d get tiny skewers of chicken in a peanut sauce, shared between the four of us. The perfect appetizer for lunch at our favorite restaurant, Le Nam. I can still taste the spicy, sweet flavor of the pork chops on my tongue when I think about it. Full and now toting our weekend buys, we’d walk back to the car and pop in another CD for the ride home. 

We haven’t gone to a street fair like that in the city in years. My dad started tutoring on weekends. My brother and I were burdened with homework. Le Nam closed. Life took over.

I first started curating my Nights in the City playlist during my freshman year of college, after I moved into my dorm in Kips Bay. Exploring my new neighborhood, I’d find myself humming the songs my dad used to play on our car rides. Slowly I began recognizing and remembering places around the city from our weekend drives. As I walk around the West Village I can hear Simon and Garfunkel's “April Come She Will.” Frank Sinatra’s “Swinging on a Star” is for the Empire State Building, which I’d pass every Tuesday and Thursday on my way to my internship. Sitting in Veselka, I hum June Christy’s “Give Me the Simple Life” into my pierogies. 

The last time I remember sitting in a cafe in the city, COVID-19 a distant worry that hadn’t touched us yet, I took a moment to look over my playlist. It was already 9 pm and I was nestled in a corner booth sipping on warm coffee, munching on a lemon bar, and procrastinating my homework. I looked at my playlist and looked out the window at the city that I grew up in, the city I love. Walking back to the dorm that night, I once again filled my ears with the songs of my childhood.

Every time I remember a song from one of our CDs I add it to the playlist, and it reminds me of the city. One day I’ll return to the city and play it through the speakers of my car for my girlfriend, our bellies filled with cinnamon rolls, on our way to a street fair.