Lillian Boxfish dreamed of New York as a child receiving postcards from her Manhattan-dwelling aunt, and she eagerly moved to New York City from Washington, D.C. in her twenties, remaining there for decades until, on New Year's Eve 1984/85, she embarks on a walk. the book begins with an afternoon phone call from her only son, explaining the plans for the funeral of her husband's second wife, the one he left her for. Unenthused, but always civil, Lillian hangs up the phone and dresses up for her standing five o'clock dinner reservation at Grimaldi's before realizing that, somehow, she has spoiled her own appetite by eating an entire sleeve of Oreo cookies while on the phone with her son, despite having no recollection of buying the cookies (and in fact a distinct distaste for them) in the first place. Nonetheless, Lillian heads out. She stops for a Negroni at a local bar, disappointed to see that they have installed a television, and distraught by the simplistic approach of modern advertisements, but finds that by the time she arrives at Grimaldi, she still isn't hungry enough for dinner. She sits for a few minutes with the owner and enjoys a glass of wine before stepping outside, suddenly realizing that, despite herself, she isn't tired at all; rather, she is energized, nostalgic, and determined to have a night, enjoying the streets of her favorite town and giving herself a chance to do-over and reflect on some of the key moments of her own life. Lillian, thus, walks to Delmonico's, with alternate chapters describing her years as the highest-paid woman advertiser in the country, her devotion to R.H. Macy's, her love for her husband, the dissolution of their marriage, and her struggles with addiction and mental health, all with trademark dry wit. From Delmonico's, where she is welcomed by a kind family with an extra seat at their table, Lillian continues to the West Side Elevated Highway, peering through the construction grates to see the water. She walks up town to a Chelsea party, hosted by a young photographer she met on a walk in the park, and eventually crosses town to return home to Murray Hill with pit stops in Times Square, where she encounters three Black teens from the South Bronx who agree to exchange coats in a bizarre mugging scenario, and at the R.H. Macy's flagship.

This was a perfect book for me, and Lillian's commentary on why she enjoys walking in New York was extremely resonant. I always love the nostalgia of old women who love New York, and these books bring me such pleasure. That Lillian particularly craved the experience of walking through the neighborhoods and observing her fellow city-dwellers and pedestrians contributed even more to my appreciation of the books. The alternating chapters and reflections on previous periods in Lillian's life were occasionally confusing, but overall, I thought the story was well-crafted, with a beautiful emphasis on the walking itself. This is a book that I would love to have a copy of on my own shelves because I think it is one I could return to semi-regularly as a comfort read. There are times in my life when this book would have made me cry. That wasn't my experience this time around, but I truly appreciated the paired grit and whimsy of Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk. 


Some Beautiful Quotations
If I am in a place with that many pigeons, then it is probably urban enough for me to want to live there and be satisfied with the quantity of urbanity. (40)

By now I have come to appreciate the Twin Towers, even though I thought them ugly at first, boxy and rectangular and needlessly huge. While they were being constructed, somebody, I can't remember who, called them soulless and inhospitable to human use: a pair of glass and metal filing cabinets on a colossal scale. In spite of myself, I have always found their gigantism majestic, and now I esteem them, too. If some latter-day Moses ever displaces them--their current tenants' arcane shifting of cash and commodities someday rendered as quaint as the radio scrappers' labor, supplanted by robots, satellites, who knows what--then I suppose I would feel their absence much as I do that of other already absented parts of my city. Dully but not quite fully gone. A pair of phantom limbs. (124)