Before I start my story, let me give you an idea of the beginning/middle of December last year. With a fair level of stress sitting on my shoulders, I tried to be as reasonable a human being as being a reasonable human being would allow. Not only was I a fresh freelance photographer in the most densely artistic city in the world, but my month sublet in Gramercy had ended and an exhausting real estate search through Manhattan, plus various boroughs, had begun - all the while sleeping on a friend's living room couch in Park Slope, retrieving necessary items from my suitcase that was her car on a daily basis. Working through my issues, working through the issues of people I loved - everything happening at once. I don't know that I solved my problems or theirs, but I did find a wonderful abode at the southern tip of Manhattan, which was certainly a start. With work not flowing as regularly as I would have liked and a move-in date of the 15th, a Christmas tree wasn't out of the question, but definitely wasn't likely.

So I've been here over a year now, and the tree you sort of see above is my first Christmas tree in New York. I found its purchase particularly necessary, because this year also marks my first Christmas spent in this extraordinary place. Now, I'm not the sentimental anniversary type and usually wouldn't bother to mention this occasion, had it not come about as it did.

Cue week 2 of December 2009...

Last Tuesday, Ms. Brown, my gentile roommate, and I set out to get a tree. As of Monday, there hadn't been any tree vendors in our neighborhood, so we were assuming the worst (or the best, in my opinion) of having to take a subway ride with our new fragrant, green friend. By Tuesday morning, Brown reported that our local 24-hour market had some trees out front. Super. Great. However, by the time we were both off work, we arrived to find three sad Fraser firs left, about 6ft, going for $75 a pop with the market's owner refusing to lower the price. The guy handling the trees told us to come back late Wednesday night, as a different owner would be there and would give us a deal. Done.

I got out of my last Cirque show on Wednesday around 9:30, promptly calling my cohabiting Gentile to make our festive purchase. No answer. Despising inefficiency, my final decision was to get off the train two stops sooner to check out the prospects on my own. As I got off the train, I called B again. Still no answer, though with the excitement of a Sheik spotting an oasis in the desert, my eyes widened to see trees! Trees! Lots of green trees!

As I approached with a little dance across the street, I saw a small Ukrainian emerge from behind a row of trees:

"Excuse me, Sir, how much for a tree?"
"Eh, what kind you want? What size you want?"
"Fraser, balsam fir, either will be fine... mmm 6-7 feet"
"Come."

Unlike a lot of the trees he had, the tree he lead me to was an unbound, deeply green, 6.5 ft balsam fir.

"It's 60, but for you, I give 50."
"It is quite pretty. I do like it, but just to be sure, may I see another?"
"Other tied up, on wall, will have to untie. This one prettiest."

Skeptical of his motives, despite the tree's outward good health, I agreed it would be foolish to open more trees because of a compulsion. I asked him to pick up the tree and drop it. The only needles to fall off were the dead ones. Okie dokie. Check and check.

"Sir, it's a very pretty tree, but I'm not quite sure how I'm going to get this tree home. My roommate isn't answering calls and with my computer bag, I'm not sure if this is going to work."
"I vould help, but have to stay with trees. Can help you at 10."
"How heavy is it?"
"Eh" (he lifts the tree again) "Not bad. Can carry for you at 10."
"No, no, thank you, but I appreciate the offer. All right, Sir, I'll take it. I need a stand too. How much?"
"20, but for you, 10."
"Do you take cards or just cash?"
"Both, but ATM 'cross street."
"Not my bank and I hate bank charges." (Running joke: my bank is STILL in NJ, but now with a full branch in Manhattan)
"Listen [pronounced l-eee-sen]. I pay bank charge. No tax vhen you pay cash."

I ran across the street to the ATM assuming he's sawing off the bottom and putting it through that net-machine thing that I had assumed existed.

I crossed back over and saw that I guessed correctly about one of the two.

"Can you please tie the tree up? Twine? Net?"
"No more twine. Garbage bag?"

Four pauses of me staring at him pass.

"Sure."

I call Brown again, because while I was sure I could carry a wrapped tree on my own, I was not sure I'd be able to manage the width of an open tree. Again, niente for B.

So this delightful small Ukrainian and I tore a hole in the bottom of a giant garbage bag for the trunk (aka grip 1) and shimmied that tree into its carrying pouch. I tossed the stand into the bag and with my right hand on the bottom of the trunk and my left hand somewhere at the 3/4 mark, my new green friend dressed in plastic and I in Marc Jacobs were off on our 15-block trek home.

Receiving plenty of questionable glances from passing pedestrians, I suddenly became aware that it appeared as if I had just kidnapped a Christmas tree from goodness knows where. Now I'm sure someone has carried a 6.5 ft. tree in a garbage bag through Manhattan before me. Probably during the middle of June. As far as I was concerned, it was just a method of getting my friend home.

When my willing captive and I landed on my doorstep, we had two flights of stairs to tackle and then we were home free... into the apartment, onto the stand.

It wasn't until Thursday night that Brown and I were able to collect the suitable trimmings, put on some Christmas tunage and make our little tree look divine. Simple, affordable, elegant. As Brown plugged the lights in, I switched off the lights. A home is not a home until you make it one and we had just done that. Brown went to sit and watch the tree and I walked over to do the dishes. With nothing but the tree light, I was a happy, serene little clam. Listening to music, taking in the soft light and dancing about the kitchen: wash, dry, dance, repeat. I don't know what it was, but it made me very happy.

Happiest of holidays, Kids.

Photo: Tree, apartment, me.