Sunday Jazz at Marjorie's

A hidden gem at the border of Harlem and Washington Heights: every Sunday afternoon at 4pm, Marjorie Eliot invites friends and strangers into her home where she plays a nearly 2 and a half hour long jazz concert.

My good friend Anna had done her homework before coming to visit me in New York last month; she found all kinds of fun and quirky things to do, particularly in Harlem. Marjorie's jazz concert was one of them. On a beautiful Sunday afternoon, after having brunch at this little cafe I newly discovered just around the corner from my apartment, we took a long walk up to 160th St. That walk was already worth the time. We passed through a handful of different neighborhoods with completely different feels to them. The lower part of Harlem, where I live, is now very mixed, with lots of middle class families - both black and white - living in the area. As you walk north, things get a little poorer at first, maybe even a little sketchy for a few blocks, but then near 145th st on the West side, it's a whole new neighborhood with nice stores and little cafes, beautiful buildings and a gorgeous view of the Bronx on the other side of the Harlem river. To get to Marjorie's, we had to walk up a big hill up where the island of Manhattan narrows to only a few blocks in width. It's a lovely area with lots of greenery, playgrounds and families.

As soon as we entered 555 Edgecombe Ave, we were shown to the parlor apartment no the 3rd floor by the doorman. A girl in the elevator with us mentioned that Marjorie used to be her piano teacher. The door to 3F was decorated with newspaper clippings and flowers and we were immediately escorted in by a friendly older lady who turned out to not be Marjorie. We were shown to a couple of seats near what must be the kitchen. There were chairs set up in the living room, hallway and kitchen of the small but comfortable apartment. On the walls everywhere were pictures of famous African Americans, mainly musicians, but also of Martin Luther King, Jr and the President. Newspaper clippings from The Times writing about the Sunday afternoon jazz concerts. Christmas decorations. There was a smell of incense. Marjorie is a tall, slender, very fit - almost ageless looking even though she must be near 70 if not more - lady. She was wearing a simple blue dress and high heels.

She started playing the piano suddenly one moment and soon she was joined by a much younger gentleman who started singing along. Mainly love songs. Then the saxophonist came out. He was really good, as far as I could tell. Then a frail looking older man showed up with a bass that was at least twice his size. He had a distinct limp. I was worried the instrument might crush him. But of course didn't and he played beautifully. There was also a young trumpet player in the little band. People kept arriving too. Some were obviously regulars, friends of Marjorie's. They greeted her personally, with hugs and kisses. Some were tourists. Some looked like neighbors who had just come from upstairs in their pajamas. Some people might have come from a fancy Upper East Side lunch. It was an incredible mix of people. In front of us sat two Italian girls, and later on a Portuguese guy sat down next to them. By the end of the concert, they were exchanging contact info and talking about meeting up later. It was that kind of atmosphere. Everybody was connected by the music, by being in Marjorie's apartment, by being welcome there, by being New Yorkers, even if just for the day.

At about halfway through the concert, the musicians took a break. I took the opportunity to go to the bathroom, which was just in the back of the apartment. I saw that there was a bedroom back there where the musicians came out of, but it must have been Marjorie's bedroom. Her bathroom was also full of personal items, a place where someone obviously lives. When I got back to the living room, Marjorie and some friends of hers were serving cookies and juice to everyone there. We gave small donations, but the whole affair was completely free.

I still cannot believe the openness, the welcoming atmosphere that I experienced that afternoon. We were invited into someone's home, someone's life, as if we were longtime friends. There was a sense of love in the air, to be extremely cheesy. It didn't feel like 2011 New York City at all. Nothing in that apartment was motivated by greed or money or anything beyond a love for music and a love of people, all people who want to enjoy music. I had the distinct feeling of having traveled back in time for a few hours. I left feeling like I was a part of something bigger. Humanity maybe, the best of it, which is not always how I feel among people.