She was sick of the city; I was bored with the ’burbs. So my friend Wednesday Martin and I figured we’d swap for a weekend.
For starters, it was free, and free is cheaper than any hotel or B&B. Her doorman building on West 77th is near Central Park, Lincoln Center . . . the world!
My house in Demarest, NJ, has a backyard. And a swing set. And the neighbors, when we see them, are friendly.
All that aside, I longed to stay in the city that never sleeps (as opposed to the suburb that always naps). My husband, Bruce, was game, too. And Wednesday? She dreamed of lazy days with her husband, Joel, watching their two boys play in the yard and toast marshmallows at night.
“You might not like the mob outside Shake Shack,” she warned, while we wondered if she, the author of a nonfiction book titled “Stepmonster,” could be trusted minding Max, our dog. We handed over the keys to our Honda, and here’s what happened.
FRIDAY
Martin in the ’burbs: Traffic! Joel and I crawl up the Henry Hudson as Lyle, age 2, yells his head off and 8-year-old Eliot sings, “A boat, a car, a plane up in the sky” about 500 times. At last, we pull up to the house and realize there’s no doorman to haul our stuff inside.
Lyle tries to give his pacifier to Max the dog.
Everything smells so clean here. You just open the door and find yourself outside, not in your lobby. Leaves blow in; Lyle tries to eat them. We put the boys to bed, but Max wants to play. He hurls himself against the boys’ bedroom door. All night long.
Hoffman in the city: “I’m not standing in line,” Bruce announces. It’s 7 p.m. and Shake Shack is packed, so we head for Broadway. Before we know it, we’re in Filene’s Basement buying . . . socks. Do we know how to live, or what?
It’s after 10 when the Shake Shack line finally dwindles. We suck down caramel shakes beside a couple who don’t say a single word for 20 minutes.
“Ah,” Bruce sighs. “Life in the fast lane.”
SATURDAY
Martin in the ’burbs: Lyle stands in the kitchen, smacking the door. “Park! Take me to the park!” We finally realize he means “backyard.” He’s never seen one before. He and Eliot play in the yard and are soon covered in dirt. A minute later, Lyle’s on top of the swing set. The suburbs are full of danger!
We need groceries. After driving around in circles, we find a ShopRite two towns away, in Emerson. It’s immense — so big, it can double as an airport hangar. When we ask the cashier for directions back to Demarest, he has no idea. Off we go again.
“Don’t even think about moving here,” Joel says, darkly.
We get home, and I need a nap. Wait, what’s that noise? Leaf blowers! Everyone here seems to have one. When they stop, it is absolutely, unnervingly quiet.
Hoffman in the city: We greet the elevator operator, smile at the doorman. Finally, we’re outside, in Central Park, where we take pictures of people taking pictures of Strawberry Fields. Next we hit Chelsea, noshing our way through the marketplace and window-shopping at boutiques you don’t see in Jersey. It’s exhilarating. It’s exhausting. Bruce wants a nap.
We return to Wednesday’s place, only to wake to shouts from a car five stories below. “I’m going to f – – – you up!” a man screams, repeatedly. “Maybe I should go down there, see if he needs help,” Bruce says. “No way,” I say.
Martin in the ’burbs: We drive back to ShopRite, this time for Benadryl. It’s midafternoon, and finding a parking spot is like fighting someone for the last size 4 Prada dress at the Barneys Warehouse sale.
You may have noticed we’ve done nothing except go to ShopRite. Twice.
Later, we take the children to the Italian restaurant down the hill, and the wait staff is helpful and friendly. I’m used to being treated badly, so the attention makes me slightly paranoid. Eliot invites the boy next door to make s’mores; the boy’s family invites Eliot to a soccer game the next day. We go to bed at 10 p.m. Heaven!
Hoffman in the city: Wednesday was right. Her kitchen’s so narrow, we go in one at a time. Good thing we’re just reheating takeout. And then we walk — walk! — to the opera, a 15-minute stroll down Columbus, past more great boutiques. So little time, so little money!
“The Barber of Seville” is lovely, but long. How long? Shake Shack is closed. So much for the city that never sleeps!
SUNDAY
Martin in the ’burbs: We’re up at 6:30 a.m. It’s a beautiful day, and we take the kids to the playground past the woods. It takes forever because Lyle has never seen piles of leaves before. He walks through them carefully, kicking, like a scientist with a bizarre specimen. He tries to give his pacifier to a leaf.
Eliot goes off to a soccer game. All the houses look empty. Where is everyone?
Hoffman in the city: My family’s coming for brunch, and we run out to H&H and Zabar’s for provisions. “Why is everyone so skinny?” Bruce pants, midway. Because they don’t have cars, I tell him.
A farmers market opens down the street. Everything in it seems to have come from New Jersey. After brunch, we head out to see a play, but the subway has other plans. We barely make the 3 p.m. curtain.
By 5:30 — overstimulated, overwhelmed — we return to 77th Street. Wednesday, back and looking (suspiciously) happy and relieved, returns our car keys.
And then we’re home! Max seems happy to see us. Our house looks so big!
SURVIVAL TIPS FOR A TRADE
Trading places can go swimmingly, if you’re prepared. Here are some suggestions for a happy house swap:
* Get the grand tour. It helps to know where everything is — the cutting board, the fish that need feeding, the vodka — before you move in.
* Throw in the car. Why should one couple rent wheels while the other pays for parking? Make sure your insurance policy covers a different driver (many do).
* Park the dog. Unless your pooch knows your swappee family well, he may be shocked to find them there. (Ask Max.) You might want to make other plans for him.
* Be honest. If you don’t want anyone eating on the sofa, using the good china or throwing a party, say so — before you swap.