The tiny southern tip of Manhattan Island was the site of the first Dutch settlement of the city of New Amsterdam. It houses the gateways to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, perhaps the two most significant symbols of the American dream. It's home to some of the most famous of New York City's neighborhoods: Chinatown, Little Italy, Wall Street. On September 11, 2001, it was enveloped in a toxic cloud of dust, the pulverized remains of two of the largest skyscrapers in the world.

Wednesday, May 8, 2002
12:15pm
The 6 subway train stops at Astor Place -- my old stomping grounds in the East Village. I left the neighborhood, reluctantly, in 1994. If I hadn't, I'd have been well within the "frozen zone" of Lower Manhattan on and immediately after September 11. Maybe someone saner would have been happy to be far away on that day. I wished I'd still been living there.

Maybe only New Yorkers read meanings beyond the merely geographic into the words "uptown" and "downtown": "uptown" is cool, smooth, sophisticated; "downtown" is rough, eclectic, unpredictable. And downtown is all the more downtown since September 11. The cobblestone streets still twist and turn -- there's no grid system here, just 200- year- old cowpaths and horse trails that've been paved over -- and now we've lost the one impossible- to- miss landmark looming over us, the one signpost that allowed us to navigate: the towers are south. But fuck it -- you can't keep downtown down.

You can still taste the dust in the air, when the wind is right, though.

A few stops beyond Astor Place is Canal Street. It used to be a real canal, with water and everything. Now it's the place to go for cheap hardware and nice art supplies and knockoff designer handbags. Canal Street runs east and west and bisects Manhattan Island about a mile and half north of its southern tip, and it gives part of that tail end of the island its name: Tribeca, or TriBeCa: TRIangle BElow CAnal. The funny thing is, though, that even though Canal could be the top side of a triangle that encompasses all of the island below it, the Triangle that it refers to is the one bordered by Canal, the Hudson River, and the north-south-running Broadway. I don't know why this is, except that even though Manhattan below Canal is no more than a few square miles, that's too big to be a single New York neighborhood. New York neighborhoods are entire worlds in a few square blocks.

Tribeca is converted warehouses and pubs that predate the Civil War and funky shops and hip dining and Robert DeNiro. His indie prodco, Tribeca Productions, is headquartered at 375 Greenwich Street, at his Tribeca Film Center, which also houses his restaurant, Tribeca Grill. Maybe he went a bit overboard with the Tribeca theme, but I think maybe he loves the neighborhood.

This is the view south, standing on the sidewalk outside Tribeca Film Center. A banner for the Tribeca Film Festival fills part of the sky where two immensely tall buildings used to be, half a mile away.

1pm
I get into a press screening of the new Hugh Grant movie, About a Boy, which is kicking off the festival later tonight with the whole gala red-carpet thing. Somehow I imagine this will be a more enjoyable experience, kicking back in a half-empty screening room -- the Tribeca Film Center's is one of the plusher places in the city to catch a flick. Not that I had a choice -- the premiere screening is invitation-only: no riff-raff press like me allowed.

Boy is another based-on-a-novel-by-Nick Hornby trifle about an irresponsible thirtysomething man discovering the unexpected joys of something or other. It's High Fidelity, only with kids instead of women, and with Hugh Grant as John Cusack. It's no High Fidelity and Grant is no Cusack, but he's lost the floppy hair and isn't playing his usual obsequious twit, so there's hope for him yet. Instead, Grant plays an obnoxious, arrogant, self-centered twit, exploring that moderately darker side we saw in Bridget Jones's Diary, and that's worth a look-see. Plus, the kid who helps him understand the true meaning of Christmas ain't half bad, either. He's no Haley Joel Osment, but get this: Not only does his character make explicit reference to Haley Joel, but his mom is played by Toni Collette, who played Haley Joel's mom in The Sixth Sense. Spooky. [my review]

3:30pm
Lunch, finally. The festival's hospitality suite puts on a nice spread. I feel like a bit of a phony. I mean, I've got the press pass with my picture on it and all, hanging around my neck on an official American Express lanyard, but don't they realize I'm just a gal with a Web site?

4pm
As small as Lower Manhattan is, it's a haul over to City Hall for the opening ceremony thingie. I stop at a drugstore for Band-Aids -- these new shoes are rubbing the backs of my heels raw. Shoulda stuck with the sneakers -- this is my punishment for attempting to look professional. Maybe the shoes are what fooled them at the press check-in, though.

4:15pm
City Hall Park. Benito Guiliani turned the park into a warzone, with barriers and rules and stormtroopers on patrol. But I guess security would've been tight anyway. I have to walk through a metal detector while my bag is searched. I'm torn: My civil rights are being violated left and right, and yet that cop is really cute. I decide not to rant about the Constitution and how Thomas Jefferson is spinning six feet under.

An official-looking young man accosts me, and I think: Okay, this is the moment at which they realize their mistake, and I am escorted off the premises. But no: He just wants to point me in the direction of the press corral.

4:30pm
Photographers jostle for position, so they can all get exactly the same image of Robert DeNiro.

It's an absolutely gorgeous day: warm, bright, sunny, breezy. Just like September 11th was. I turn 45 degrees from the photographers and the steps of City Hall, and there's the Woolworth Building, once again the tallest building in Lower Manhattan.

I look through the press packet while I wait for the 5pm start of the shindig. After this, I could run all the way across Chambers Street to fight for a place on the red carpet of the About a Boy premiere, or I could hop right on the subway and get home in time for Enterprise. Possible glimpse of Hugh Grant versus possibility of another episode in which Commander Tucker runs around the ship in his skivvies. I decide to play it by ear.

5:07pm
Robert DeNiro, Hugh Grant, and Kevin Spacey would like to know who the hell the guy in the orange tie is.

5:15pm
A few years ago, at the St. Patrick's Day parade here in NYC, I heard two real Noo Yawk guys scream in delight to each other, as Rudy Guiliani strolled by us on the sidewalk, "We saw da fuckin' maya!" You must understand that this was the highest of compliments. Love him or hate him, Rudy was da fuckin' maya.

Mike Bloomberg, bless his little billionaire heart, may be the mayor, but he will never be da fuckin' maya. The poor guy has less personality than a bowl of store-brand vanilla ice cream, the kind without the little black bean-y dots in it. He stands up, stumbles through some prepared notes, and moves not a one of us. The complete text of his little speech:

Blah blah blah. Movies are great. Blah blah blah. New York is great. Blah blah blah. Revitalizing Manhattan is great. Blah blah blah. DeNiro is great. Blah blah blah. Thank you.

Governor Pataki then says much the same thing.

The sentiments may be heartfelt, but please shoot me. And then DeNiro gets up to say a few words, and all the important stuff is in what he doesn't say. He's obviously not comfortable speaking before a crowd, and when he talks about September 11th, he gets audibly choked up. I think he asks for a moment of silence as much to compose himself again as in memorial. It's a long moment, like he needs the time, and I realize I was right about how much he loves the city, and how much this festival is for himself as much as it is for the rest of us.

5:50pm
The sartorial splendor of Bill Clinton. Of course he's here, though it wasn't previously announced. He's maybe the world's most famous movie fan, and definitely the world's most famous wannabe New Yorker. His few moments at the podium put Bloomberg and Pataki to shame: With no prepared notes, he stood casually and confidently, one hand in his pocket, throwing out off- the- cuff comments on movies and the city, and made everyone feel like he was your best friend. He's a master speaker, and devastatingly charming, and he's wearing a fuck- you- very- much dark green suit and neon-green tie, as if in defiance of the somber navy blue everyone else is sporting. I love it.

If only Nelson Mandela hadn't been here, Clinton's would've been the biggest round of applause.

Hugh Grant, apparently photographed by Zapruder*. He said he was looking forward to the "general debauchery" that accompanies film festivals. I bet he is.

I got that glimpse of Hugh Grant, so it'll be an evening with Commander Tucker after all.

Next: Thursday at the festival

--MaryAnn Johanson

*actually, all photos by yours truly