This February, Marcela, my mother, came to visit Ann and me in New York City. We all had a glorious time eating, shopping, shopping, eating, going to the Gypsy Kings concert at Radio City, eating, shopping, walking, going to the Museum of Modern Art, eating, supporting-the-economy, going to a flamenco rendering of Carmen, going to the ballet at Lincoln Center, getting seriously buzzed on Pisco sours, and, finally, walking through the sublime grounds at The Cloisters museum on her last day in the city. At the entrance to The Cloisters, the petite cashier, looking rather stunned at the amount that Marcela was willing to pay to enter, beamed at Marcela as she entered having paid the maximum amount, which is really a standard price for going the a museum in Manhattan.
