Urban astronomy

We always seem to see celebrities whenever we go to The Big Apple.

One year I saw Yoko Ono in SoHo. The next, I bumped into Meryl Streep near The Met. Another time we saw that guy from Law and Order (never forget Ol’ What’s-His-Name) somewhere on the Lower East Side. 

My husband had breakfast (in the same restaurant) with Kate Winslet. Later that same day, Ethan Hawke laughed at my husband’s humorous t-shirt when their paths crossed in Chelsea.

But never has a trip to the city been as star-studded as this year.

At this one address in the theater district, Celebrities. Were. Everywhere. 

I couldn’t quite see who was straddling the trapeze three floors up. 

But we had paid $29.95, plus all applicable taxes and fees, to find out.

“She looks and sounds like Pink,” my daughter said with conviction as she thrust out her phone, which was belting out “Fire,” and for the briefest of moments, I had to consider the chances I was experiencing some form of synesthesia.

“The wax figure? Up there? It’s the singer, Pink. I recognize her tattoo.”

I squinted up at the figure twirling above and could only see a minimal splotch of ink next to a maximal exposure of gluteus.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

We stepped into the elevator and headed to the ninth floor. During the ride, our elevator operator coached us on the guidelines for interacting with the stars we would encounter: “Please be careful with hands and faces as they are the most delicate parts. Otherwise, have fun and take lots of pictures!”

“Really? People touch them?”

“And they do a lot more than that! Thousands a day,” our elevator operator said with a wink. 

I could tell that wink was code for: “You will find hand sanitizer stations near all emergency exits. I suggest you gargle with it at least once during your visit.”

“This wasn’t my idea,” I wanted to tell her. “I abstained from the vote!” I had visions of lunch and a Broadway show. The extra hour of free time, I thought, could be spent at Bryant Park sightseeing and window shopping.

But the children saw golden phalanges dangling the letters that spelled out “Madame Tussaud’s” over her West 42nd Street wax museum, and that hand might as well have swooped our entire party into the lobby as if dusting the sidewalk of breadcrumbs. 

It was awkward at first, taking a selfie with Jennifer Anniston. Inspecting the shoes of Patrick Stewart. Wondering why Salma Hayek looked like no one we recognized in particular.

We weaved through the hall of world leaders and marveled at the incredible likenesses of England’s Royal Family and the Pope in Rome. Even our dislike of the waxwork POTUS held true.

By the time we got to the movie sets, we had lost every bit of self-control. We were making funny faces with Ghost Busters and piling on E.T.’s bike, not caring who witnessed our spectacle.

Only one of us had any composure by the time we came to the last exhibit.

In fact, my son had so much composure; it occurred to me that he hadn’t moved in quite a long time.

It turns out he had aspirations of his own for fame.

“I figure if I stand here long enough, and stay perfectly still, someone will take a selfie with me.”