Chilly, yes, but warm and friendly too

THERE is a kind of madness to this city of cities that infects strangers who wander into town, even when there is no transit strike. All of a sudden the timid are daring, the dieters are stuffing themselves and the fiscally conservative are blowing their wads on $100 show tickets all over town.

To paraphrase that Las Vegas motto, the money you bring to New York stays in New York.

Our modest accommodations in Hotel Hell did not for a moment dampen our rush to experience it all, even when the daytime temperature dropped into the 30s and I had to stand in line for two hours to see one of the hottest Broadway productions in town; and even when a dinner tab could have fed a family of four for a week at Wendy’s but not at the Cafe des Artistes.

On the plus side, New York City is cleaner, safer and friendlier than the last time we were here. So friendly, in fact, that I was invited to join an impromptu drinking choir at the bar in Cafe Cite, bellowing chorus after chorus of whatever it was we were singing to celebrate the holiday that used to be called Christmas. There was no fireplace to gather ‘round, but gathering ‘round martinis warmed our hearts. We parted with hugs and tears and promises to meet next year.

With the possible exception of the bagel Nazi, everyone we encountered was similarly congenial, including, finally, a busy, tubby little man with Napoleonic dreams at the Gershwin Theatre. Crowds had gathered to try for tickets at a sold-out performance of “Wicked,” a show that critics have dismissed but that everyone wanted to see anyhow.

There was a lottery to determine who among the hopeful hordes would be the ones privileged to purchase overpriced seats. We stood in line outside, entered the theater lobby one at a time to sign up and then were ordered to leave the lobby immediately.

A separate line formed inside to await possible ticket availability due to cancellations by those who finally got around to reading the reviews or who decided to remain in their modest homes in Akron, Ohio, where the dollar goes further and diced carrots aren’t charged as an $18 side dish.

In control of all of this was the aforementioned busy, tubby person who assumed an emperor’s role, ordering those who entered to sign up to leave the lobby at once and stand outside in the icy evening behind a green line to await the drawing. Those inside hoping for cancellations were to remain inside and not mingle with the outsiders.

I stood in the cancellation line and Cinelli waited behind the green lottery marker for about two hours, while Tubby patrolled with the intensity of a guard dog. A terrorist might infiltrate, but, by God, no minglers would violate the nonfraternization rule while he was on duty.

His attitude lightened when tickets became available, and he even clapped when I managed to get two. “Wicked” turned out to be all splash and glitz and Broadway hoo-hah, but two other shows we saw -- “The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee” and “The Light in the Piazza” -- were worth the price. And don’t mention this to anyone disdainful of precision dancing, but I liked the Rockettes too, all those legs kicking as one, the heads bobbing as one and those cute little behinds wiggling as one. Bravo.

For a reason not yet clear to either of us, we decided on a night city tour, expecting to see the lights of Christmas from within the comforts of a heated bus. Instead, we sat shivering atop a two-decker as the temperature dropped to 22 degrees, and wind whistling down the cross streets probably dropped it into single digits. Like 1.

We were among the darers whom I mentioned earlier, and our attitude was a kind of what-the-hell-let’s-do-it, so we froze our bravados off seeing lights we had already seen and listening to a guide named Randy babble into the frigid air about Trump Tower, the Empire State Building, Tavern on the Green and Grand Central Terminal, where we stopped so we could chip the ice off our noses and Randy could sneak a cigarette.

Travel often involves unexpected moments but also entails a process of discovery. We discovered, for instance, sitting next to them at a country French restaurant called Pigalle, that people from New Jersey, contrary to public opinion, do not eat coq au vin with their fingers, do not drink directly from their soup bowls and do not think that “a la carte” means rolling side dishes to the table on a farmer’s wooden cart.

On this, our last night in the Big Apple, we will laugh and dine and walk among the crowds and just barely miss the transit strike that would amp up the madness, but this wondrous city will survive without us and it even survived without the subway, for a while anyhow. As we leave JFK, a PA system will be playing “New York, New York” over and over again, as though to remind us that it’s a wonderful town no matter what.

It will be 80 degrees in L.A. for Christmas and the freeways will be a mess, but I’ll still be glad to get there, even if the place lacks a core and has “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” as its official song. At least it’s warmer.

Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He’s at al.martinez@latimes.com.