Celebrating Christmas in New York is can be tricky. On the one hand, post Thanksgiving, Christmas essentially throws up in midtown - spreading Christmas joy and holiday lights in storefronts and centers across the city's midsection. Every Park and Square from Bryant to Union is suddenly covered with makeshift shops of artisan crafts and Christmas goodies. Every major retailer takes a new pride in dressing its windows with ornate displays complete with fake snow, moving parts, and gasps from the crowd inevitably gathered. The center of town - from the tree in Rockefeller Center to the Rockets kicking up their heels a half block away - is dense with people, all clamoring to breathe in the magic and mysticism of Christmas in New York.
In the outer neighborhoods however, things are a little more low key. I was walking my dog Christmas morning in the park and a woman standing next to me exclaimed: "I can't wait until this damn holiday is over. If one more person wishes a Merry christmas to a Jew, I'm going to lose it."
New York is a melting pot - and as such - a variety of religions co-exist in close proximity. Christmas Eve I was standing in line to purchase a bottle of wine. The women taking the order appeared to be East Indian. She wished the patron in front of me a Merry Christmas to which he responded, "the same to you!" Come on, I thought to myself - do you really think she celebrates Christmas? OF course it was possible, but making such an assumption seemed to me a bit of a leap.
assumption that everyone you meet celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ. Wishing people a happy new year is pretty safe - unless you're in Chinatown, but Christmas in New York, quite honestly, seems to be mostly for the tourists.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Lost and Found
I met some friends out one late Saturday night in the lower east side a couple weeks ago. Our meet-up spot was a place called "Home Sweet Home." I had the address, but had also been told there was no sign to let you know you were in the right place. It was one of those places.
I managed to find my way there and made my way past the doorman, down the steep staircase to the booming music below. There was a coat check at the front, but the line was long, and I really had to use the bathroom by the time I got to the club, so I decided to come back for it. On my way to the restroom, I ran into my friends, who told me to lose my coat (it was hot in the club) so I put my coat and purse in a large pile on one of the many benches that surrounded the dance floor.
The evening continued in a blur of whiskey, laughs, loud conversations over louder music, and sweaty dancing. As the night wore on, the club got more and more packed and the group of friends got more and more tipsy, eventually making their way out of the club. When it was time to go, I went back to the bench for my coat and purse. My coat was found rather easily, but the purse was nowhere to be found. I was screwed.
I had a sinking feeling in my stomach and knew someone had taken it. It was my favorite purse - a classy, understated coach - a gift from my mother who thought after all my years with knock-offs I deserved at least one genuine article. The contents of the purse were gut-wrenching: my favorite wallet (a gift from my brother), my brand new Metro Card (price: $89), my I-pod (price: $200), my phone (price: $300), my ID (priceless), my bank card, my glasses (price: $500), and Chapstick (price: $4).
The silver lining was that evening I had opened a tab at the bar, and they had my credit card. Without that, I would have been completely powerless - unable to make a purchase or get cash in the most expensive city in the country.
I went to the front and asked the coat check, the bartenders, the DJ - anyone who would listen - if someone had turned in a purse. They all shook their heads sadly. I started to feel a little sick to my stomach and feel the tears prickle in my eyes - threatening to come. I made my way to the front and asked the door man, who seemed to genuinely feel my pain. He shook his head sadly, but a look of determination crossed over his face as his grabbed a flash light and led me back through the dance floor. We circled the floor, looking on every bench, under every table. We asked people to move, we disrupted their groove, we did what was we could to look for a small brown bag in the dark chaos of a downtown club on a Saturday night. We came up with nothing.
He was still determined. He was ignoring a line of people outside to help me look for my bag, and he was not giving up. He asked another bouncer to take a second look. He touched my shoulder sweetly and said, “he’ll find it. He always finds it.” My lower lip started to quiver and I squeaked , “…my dog….” He seemed to understand and said again, “he’ll find it.” But, alas, he did not.
I left the club that night without a way to get into my apartment, without a way to prove my identity, without a way to make a phone call. I felt completely lost.
The next morning I woke up and started the slow process of replacing everything. I paid a locksmith $179 to break into my apartment and had a lovely reunion with Taetu. I paid AT&T $300 and another two years of my life to get my phone back. I stopped by Lenscrafters, locksmiths, and more - every stop breaking out my weary credit card - paying my way out of my stupidity.
I still don’t have my bank card, and carrying my passport to clubs has been ridiculous, but slowly I’ve gotten back to normal.
I was stopping home to walk puppy two nights ago. It was cold outside and I rushed through the lobby, quickly working my mail key (freshly made) to collect my mail. A small package nearly fell out into my hands. I thought at first it was an early Christmas gift from my dad, but when I noticed the return address my adrenalin started kicking in: “Good Samaritan NYC.”
I couldn’t open the package in the lobby - I needed scissors, but I knew it was the purse. I took the stairs two at a time and burst through the front door, nearly running over puppy. I grabbed my scissors from above the kitchen sink, broke into the package and pulled out my long lost purse. I screamed out loud as I unzipped the bag and emptied its contents onto my kitchen counter - my phone, my I-pod, my wallet, my Chapstick…it was all there. The cash was gone, but I didn’t care…I considered it a finders fee.
I haven’t been so excited in a very long time. I leapt around the apartment, hardly believing my luck. It truly seemed like a Christmas miracle.
The biggest thing I’ve taken from this entire thing, aside from the lesson to never leave my purse on a bench in a nightclub unattended (wow…it took me way too long to learn that one)….was a lesson in the kindness of strangers. I was touched by the doorman at the club, even in my fog of panic and distress. He went out of his way to help a stranger, and he really didn’t owe me anything. The entire situation was truly my own damn fault.
I was touched by friends who came through for me - helping me piece me life back together.
But ultimately, I was touched that someone, somewhere out there, had it in their heart to put my purse in an envelope, take it to the post office, and drop it in the mail. People are genuinely good - even in the “rudest city in the country” - this is true, and it’s lovely to revel in that Truth. As the temperatures drop and the weather starts to chill, that single thought will keep me warm at night.
I managed to find my way there and made my way past the doorman, down the steep staircase to the booming music below. There was a coat check at the front, but the line was long, and I really had to use the bathroom by the time I got to the club, so I decided to come back for it. On my way to the restroom, I ran into my friends, who told me to lose my coat (it was hot in the club) so I put my coat and purse in a large pile on one of the many benches that surrounded the dance floor.
The evening continued in a blur of whiskey, laughs, loud conversations over louder music, and sweaty dancing. As the night wore on, the club got more and more packed and the group of friends got more and more tipsy, eventually making their way out of the club. When it was time to go, I went back to the bench for my coat and purse. My coat was found rather easily, but the purse was nowhere to be found. I was screwed.
I had a sinking feeling in my stomach and knew someone had taken it. It was my favorite purse - a classy, understated coach - a gift from my mother who thought after all my years with knock-offs I deserved at least one genuine article. The contents of the purse were gut-wrenching: my favorite wallet (a gift from my brother), my brand new Metro Card (price: $89), my I-pod (price: $200), my phone (price: $300), my ID (priceless), my bank card, my glasses (price: $500), and Chapstick (price: $4).
The silver lining was that evening I had opened a tab at the bar, and they had my credit card. Without that, I would have been completely powerless - unable to make a purchase or get cash in the most expensive city in the country.
I went to the front and asked the coat check, the bartenders, the DJ - anyone who would listen - if someone had turned in a purse. They all shook their heads sadly. I started to feel a little sick to my stomach and feel the tears prickle in my eyes - threatening to come. I made my way to the front and asked the door man, who seemed to genuinely feel my pain. He shook his head sadly, but a look of determination crossed over his face as his grabbed a flash light and led me back through the dance floor. We circled the floor, looking on every bench, under every table. We asked people to move, we disrupted their groove, we did what was we could to look for a small brown bag in the dark chaos of a downtown club on a Saturday night. We came up with nothing.
He was still determined. He was ignoring a line of people outside to help me look for my bag, and he was not giving up. He asked another bouncer to take a second look. He touched my shoulder sweetly and said, “he’ll find it. He always finds it.” My lower lip started to quiver and I squeaked , “…my dog….” He seemed to understand and said again, “he’ll find it.” But, alas, he did not.
I left the club that night without a way to get into my apartment, without a way to prove my identity, without a way to make a phone call. I felt completely lost.
The next morning I woke up and started the slow process of replacing everything. I paid a locksmith $179 to break into my apartment and had a lovely reunion with Taetu. I paid AT&T $300 and another two years of my life to get my phone back. I stopped by Lenscrafters, locksmiths, and more - every stop breaking out my weary credit card - paying my way out of my stupidity.
I still don’t have my bank card, and carrying my passport to clubs has been ridiculous, but slowly I’ve gotten back to normal.
I was stopping home to walk puppy two nights ago. It was cold outside and I rushed through the lobby, quickly working my mail key (freshly made) to collect my mail. A small package nearly fell out into my hands. I thought at first it was an early Christmas gift from my dad, but when I noticed the return address my adrenalin started kicking in: “Good Samaritan NYC.”
I couldn’t open the package in the lobby - I needed scissors, but I knew it was the purse. I took the stairs two at a time and burst through the front door, nearly running over puppy. I grabbed my scissors from above the kitchen sink, broke into the package and pulled out my long lost purse. I screamed out loud as I unzipped the bag and emptied its contents onto my kitchen counter - my phone, my I-pod, my wallet, my Chapstick…it was all there. The cash was gone, but I didn’t care…I considered it a finders fee.
I haven’t been so excited in a very long time. I leapt around the apartment, hardly believing my luck. It truly seemed like a Christmas miracle.
The biggest thing I’ve taken from this entire thing, aside from the lesson to never leave my purse on a bench in a nightclub unattended (wow…it took me way too long to learn that one)….was a lesson in the kindness of strangers. I was touched by the doorman at the club, even in my fog of panic and distress. He went out of his way to help a stranger, and he really didn’t owe me anything. The entire situation was truly my own damn fault.
I was touched by friends who came through for me - helping me piece me life back together.
But ultimately, I was touched that someone, somewhere out there, had it in their heart to put my purse in an envelope, take it to the post office, and drop it in the mail. People are genuinely good - even in the “rudest city in the country” - this is true, and it’s lovely to revel in that Truth. As the temperatures drop and the weather starts to chill, that single thought will keep me warm at night.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Macy's - more than just a department store
Thanksgiving to me has always meant the smell of cooking and the crackling sound of football - family gatherings and overeating. It's also meant waking up to the sounds of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. In my opinion, the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is the best parade in the world. Not only do you have the standard marching bands and floats - you have dancers and balloons AND (this is the best part) - Broadway shows performed right in front of you! It's a glorious mix of music and dance and spectacle. While I'm not a big parade-goer in my everyday life, this year I was thrilled to be able to go to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade for the first time. I started talking about it in August.
Most New Yorkers were a little blase about the parade. They had seen the floats and balloons before and many complained about the cold weather or the fact that their parents had dragged them year after year against their will. Their childhood memories of the parade were quite a bit different from my own. I was undeterred by their stories, however. I was still anxious to see the parade for the first time. I even put off a trip to North Carolina to visit my mother by a day - just so I could witness the spectacle.
The night before the parade, I invited some friends to my neighborhood (yes - that's not a type-o - something was actually happening in my neighborhood....amazing) to see the balloons blown up outside the Natural History Museum. One by one my friends bagged out on me, but I took puppy in the early evening to see the balloons anyway. The crowd was dense with strollers and screaming kids, but the balloons were pretty amazing. They lined them up, shoulder to shoulder on either side of the museum and slowly started to fill them with helium. As they started to grow, the balloons took shape and really seemed like they were coming to life. It was like watching a flower bloom in quicktime - and at six stories high it was a really big flower. The crowds however, were not amazing and puppy didn't care too much about the balloons, so we didn't stay long.
The next morning I woke up at 6:00 to take puppy back to the scene. We made our way first down Columbus Avenue where bus after bus rumbled down the center of the street carrying parade participants. These were the balloon handlers, the dressers, and the dancers of the parade and 100% of them were in costumes. The buses seemed to be pre-organized, so each bus carried a group of around 100 people with the same outfit. A bus would stop and 100 people dressed in bright blue jumpers would file out (not unlike a prison movie). The bus behind it would stop and 100 people dressed like Harry Potter would file out. The next bus would stop and 100 people dressed like oversized leaves would file out. If you were on any kind of prescription medication and unaware of the parade later that morning - this would be a truly trippy experience.
The balloons were still on either side of the museum, but were now tied down, like something out of Gulliver's Travels.
I made my way past the museum and over to Central Park West where every single float in the parade was lined up - tip to tip - for over 12 blocks. It was incredible. You could walk up an touch these floats with their bright, beautiful colors and eclectic themes. There was a float shaped like a boat, a float shaped like New York City, a float shaped like a giant teacup with bears around it and of course, the last float with a giant hill, an oversized sleigh and eight life-sized reindeer - waiting for Santa. I felt like a kid in a toy store. I don't think my mouth closed all morning.
I hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, so I decided to head home with puppy before the parade and take a quick nap. On my way home, I saw the marching bands starting to file in. On 86th and 85th street, rows and rows of marching bands were walking down - taking up the entire street with waves of bright colors and musical instruments. They filed down the street and towards the back of the floats to await their next instruction. It looked like an ocean of marching band members - it was amazing.
After my nap I made my way back to the museum where I set up right before the starting line. The crowd was dense, but nowhere near as crazy as the night before. I'm sure there are areas of the city where it gets super packed, but where I was people were pretty mellow and everyone could see the action.
The balloons were much more impressive as they were carried down the streets by handlers. Now they no longer seemed like oversized toys - but like toys that had come to life. They were huge - overwhelming. When they floated by, they would block out the sun for several moments.
The floats were also more impressive in movement. Now they were accompanied by dancers and music and the occasion pop super star (hello Kayne!). The dancers were lovely and the marching bands - well, the marching bands kind of just sounded like marching bands - but they were from all over the country and seemed very excited to be there.
I had a tremendous amount of excitement leading up to the Macy's Thanksgiving day parade. Local New Yorkers tried to downplay the magic of they day, but I wouldn't be deterred. And I was right not to. The parade exceeded my heightened anticipations - and was one of the most magical things I've witnessed so far in New York. I absolutely loved it.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Just a Splash of Color
Hot damn, New York is beautiful in the Fall. Spring and summer are nice and all, but tey don't hold a candle to the bright colors, crisp temperatures, and piercing blue skies of the fall. \
I was walking my dog the other morning and the park was absolutely exploding with color. There was a film crew setting up on my way in and a fashion shoot in process on my way out. I obviously wasn't the only one who recognized the park's beauty this time of year.
Some trees along the periphery of the great lawn turn such a bright shade of red it looks like they're on fire. I brought my dog upstate to walk along the trees without the disruption of concrete a couple weeks ago. It was an absolutely lovely afternoon and the canopy formed by trees of bright gold, yellow and orange were something out of a Robert Frost poem. Puppy loved running along the trees and I enjoyed escaping the city to this Autumnal paradise, if only for a few hours.
I love the west coast - the sushi is better, the people are more relaxed, the weather more temperate - but the west coast doesn't compare to the east when it comes to changing leaves. It's not even a contest. The northwest has trees, sure, but they're always green! The trees here change dramatically and suddenly - announcing the new season with a flourish.
Ella Fitzgerald's version of "April in Paris" may be more popular, but for my listening pleasure, you can't beat her belting out "Autumn in New York."
I was walking my dog the other morning and the park was absolutely exploding with color. There was a film crew setting up on my way in and a fashion shoot in process on my way out. I obviously wasn't the only one who recognized the park's beauty this time of year.
Some trees along the periphery of the great lawn turn such a bright shade of red it looks like they're on fire. I brought my dog upstate to walk along the trees without the disruption of concrete a couple weeks ago. It was an absolutely lovely afternoon and the canopy formed by trees of bright gold, yellow and orange were something out of a Robert Frost poem. Puppy loved running along the trees and I enjoyed escaping the city to this Autumnal paradise, if only for a few hours.
I love the west coast - the sushi is better, the people are more relaxed, the weather more temperate - but the west coast doesn't compare to the east when it comes to changing leaves. It's not even a contest. The northwest has trees, sure, but they're always green! The trees here change dramatically and suddenly - announcing the new season with a flourish.
Ella Fitzgerald's version of "April in Paris" may be more popular, but for my listening pleasure, you can't beat her belting out "Autumn in New York."
Dance Dance Revolution
New Yorkers have a rhythm. There's a natural beat and pulse to the city that not only provides a driving energy, but also the city's soundtrack.
I was on the subway to Brooklyn one bright, beautiful Sunday and a man came on the subway in a black coat and sunglasses. We shared a pole and stoof facing each other as we rumbled our way downtown. I'm certainly used to being in close proximity to others after nine months here, but he stood quite close, like we knew each other and he was about to tell me a story. He had earbuds in and was obviously listening to music he enjoyed, because he started bopping his head slightly and swaying his hips. This movement became more and more exaggerated until it felt like he was trying to dance with me. I stole a glance with another female passenger and she laughed out loud. I think we looked ridiculous.
Dancing is certainly a part of life here. There are hundreds of dance clubs and it's often seen as a way to top off the evening. I was at a birthday party last month and a oman there claimed she had too much to drink. "I'm going to have to find a club and dance it off," she said. Most people would try to sleep off a buzz, but this is New York.
So while the instant dance party on the subway ride was a little awkward, I let it go. I did however, change cars the next stop.
I was on the subway to Brooklyn one bright, beautiful Sunday and a man came on the subway in a black coat and sunglasses. We shared a pole and stoof facing each other as we rumbled our way downtown. I'm certainly used to being in close proximity to others after nine months here, but he stood quite close, like we knew each other and he was about to tell me a story. He had earbuds in and was obviously listening to music he enjoyed, because he started bopping his head slightly and swaying his hips. This movement became more and more exaggerated until it felt like he was trying to dance with me. I stole a glance with another female passenger and she laughed out loud. I think we looked ridiculous.
Dancing is certainly a part of life here. There are hundreds of dance clubs and it's often seen as a way to top off the evening. I was at a birthday party last month and a oman there claimed she had too much to drink. "I'm going to have to find a club and dance it off," she said. Most people would try to sleep off a buzz, but this is New York.
So while the instant dance party on the subway ride was a little awkward, I let it go. I did however, change cars the next stop.
Run run run...as fast as you can....
The New York City marathon was last weekend and it was a really big deal. I knew it was going to be big when they started putting up fencing in the park five days early - which, incidentally, confused the heck out of my dog. He kept getting stuck between the fences. I would call for him 25 yards ahead only to find him stuck and frustrated.
Another sign that this marathon was rather colossal was when my boss from the upper east side gym I teach at Sunday mornings e-mailed me that she had found me a sub. "You won't make it across the park," she wrote simply. She was right.
I actually saw the marathon in Seattle one year. I was trying, unsuccessfully to get around South Lake Union and they had closed off some of the streets. I remember there were cops directing traffic. As I waited for them to give me the go ahead to pass through the course, I watched the smattering of runners make their way. They looked tired. There were very few people cheering them on - maybe 1/2 a dozen - and the runners outfits of white t-shirts and running shorts were muted and unassuming. It was actually a little quiet.
This is not the marathon scene in New York. The marathon scene in New York consists of waves of thousands upon thousands of runners from all over the world making their collective way through the city. They wear bright colors and costumes, they paint their faces and wave their flags. Marathon runners in New York write their names in bright, decisive strokes across their chest so when people cheer them on, it can be on a first name basis.
Along the path of the marathon, people bring water and snacks to distribute to the runners. Bands play upbeat, energizing music and the entire atmosphere is the unlikely combination of block party and torture chamber. I saw runners limping along the sidelines with pained expressions and runners with bright red, flushed cheeks that looked like they were in the middle of a good cry. Some runners made it look easy, but most, at mile 22, looked ready to give up.
Marathons in general seem a little insane. You don't run the full distance until the day of the race because of the toll it takes on your body. You have to grease down your chest to avoid chaffing of such severity you will bleed through your shirt. Blisters are guaranteed. No part of your body comes away from a marathon undamaged. Marathons are destructive. Yet in New York, the demand to get into the NYC Marathon is so great, there's a lottery. The "winners" get to participate in 26+ miles of hell.
Certainly it's a monumental achievement - a triumph of will. I suppose if forced to do one, New York wouldn't be a bad place to do it. I was talking to my brother about the city the other day and he said when you first leave the airport "the energy of New York City hits you right in the face." So it would be preferable to attempt a marathon in a city with such innate, pulsing energy as opposed to the sweet calm of a place like Seattle. But I don't know.
I think in the years to come my New York City Marathon participation won't involve pinning a number to my chest, but rather cheering on those who do.
Another sign that this marathon was rather colossal was when my boss from the upper east side gym I teach at Sunday mornings e-mailed me that she had found me a sub. "You won't make it across the park," she wrote simply. She was right.
I actually saw the marathon in Seattle one year. I was trying, unsuccessfully to get around South Lake Union and they had closed off some of the streets. I remember there were cops directing traffic. As I waited for them to give me the go ahead to pass through the course, I watched the smattering of runners make their way. They looked tired. There were very few people cheering them on - maybe 1/2 a dozen - and the runners outfits of white t-shirts and running shorts were muted and unassuming. It was actually a little quiet.
This is not the marathon scene in New York. The marathon scene in New York consists of waves of thousands upon thousands of runners from all over the world making their collective way through the city. They wear bright colors and costumes, they paint their faces and wave their flags. Marathon runners in New York write their names in bright, decisive strokes across their chest so when people cheer them on, it can be on a first name basis.
Along the path of the marathon, people bring water and snacks to distribute to the runners. Bands play upbeat, energizing music and the entire atmosphere is the unlikely combination of block party and torture chamber. I saw runners limping along the sidelines with pained expressions and runners with bright red, flushed cheeks that looked like they were in the middle of a good cry. Some runners made it look easy, but most, at mile 22, looked ready to give up.
Marathons in general seem a little insane. You don't run the full distance until the day of the race because of the toll it takes on your body. You have to grease down your chest to avoid chaffing of such severity you will bleed through your shirt. Blisters are guaranteed. No part of your body comes away from a marathon undamaged. Marathons are destructive. Yet in New York, the demand to get into the NYC Marathon is so great, there's a lottery. The "winners" get to participate in 26+ miles of hell.
Certainly it's a monumental achievement - a triumph of will. I suppose if forced to do one, New York wouldn't be a bad place to do it. I was talking to my brother about the city the other day and he said when you first leave the airport "the energy of New York City hits you right in the face." So it would be preferable to attempt a marathon in a city with such innate, pulsing energy as opposed to the sweet calm of a place like Seattle. But I don't know.
I think in the years to come my New York City Marathon participation won't involve pinning a number to my chest, but rather cheering on those who do.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
As part of the White Light Festival, I went to Lincoln Center this weekend and listened to a panel of experts discuss the virtue of silence. The panel was made up of a religious author, who discussed the role of silence in faith and ceremony, a best-selling author who "practiced" silence (every other Monday she's silent...she's done this 18 years), a professor who studied the sociological and cultural implications of silence, and a professor of neuroscience who discussed the physiological effects of science on the brain.
I thought this was an interesting topic to tackle in a city that has so little silence as part of its genetic code. It was like having a panel on strip malls or laziness; exploring a topic rather foreign to a typical New Yorker.
The panel spoke of the importance of silence in daily life. They described silence as the space in our lives; the tool that helps orient ourselves in the density of constant noise. Without silence we can't put the noise we experience - however the noise is externalized - in perspective. I thought this was fascinating. If there's one thing New Yorkers lack even more than silence, it's space. Perhaps silence is a way for us to create space in a city that has none.
But how do you find silence in New York? In addition to the audible assault of honking horns, wailing sirens, rumbling trains, and the chatter of nine million - New York is filled with another type of noise - the uproar created by incessant stimulation. I have never felt so bombarded by messaging as I have since moving here. Information is everywhere. You can check your stocks on reader boards scrolling across Times Square, the subway is covered from floor to ceiling in posters, people rattle off information at you rather than to you, in every cab there are TVs within and billboards on top, and still it's not enough - half of the people you pass on the street walk or ride with their nose in their smart phones...the flash and grind of messages are unending . At times it feels impossible to escape. Is it any wonder our yoga classes are packed? People are so desperate for a period of silence, they'll make room in their lives and pay good money to find it even in its most generic and transient forms.
As a result of this rapid-fire messaging, New Yorkers process and dispense data quickly and with little patience. This city is too big - there's too much diverse data at our fingertips - to really delve into the complexities of a single subject, we'd rather skim on the surface. From house parties to elevators, New Yorkers want to know what you think on a variety of subjects in 3 words or less - they don't have time for much more. Conversations veer from Bloomberg to Afghanistan to the future of Green Peace within a blink of an eye and you are expected to keep up. In a sense, New Yorkers value breadth rather than depth.
This all makes sense for a city that moves fast and prides itself on compression. But where, in this cacophony of data, streaming information, and other noise, can a typical New Yorker find silence? It's not easy - and perhaps they don't want to.
New Yorkers have gotten pretty good at avoiding it. People in general often don't want to uncover what's lurking in the depths of silence. What's hidden in the murk under the constant noise that perpetuates our every day. What's hidden in that void could be feeling of inadequacy, questioning, doubt, the struggle to deal with our own morality. We fear what will rise up when we make the space for silence. It's no wonder we reach out for constant stimulation. We use this constant stimulation as drug - to ward off hte depression that may lurk just under the surface, and theree seems to be no bigger users than New Yorkers and no bigger pusher than New York itself. New York, in essence, is one big distraction from silence.
So where can I find my silence? I guess that's one of the reasons I wake up at such an early hour every day. I know this is the city that doesn't sleep, but somehow the hour between 5 and 6 on a weekday morning is pretty darn quiet. There are no honking horns, no crowded sidewalks. I often walk to the park or the gym without seeing another soul.
The park I guess is my sanctimony. It's the one constant in my time here and something i wouldn't trade for anything. The dog is an excuse, but I wake up every morning and head to the park with other dog owners as most New Yorkers are hitting the snooze button or fighting the crowds, already deep into their commute. I walk around the aptly named great lawn, I take in the weather, the changing seasons reflected in the dense trees that surround the park, and occasionally exchange a glance with my puppy. I run into other dog owners and we'll make small talk, but many mornings, we'll say nothing at all. And that silence, like the sunrise we often see over the skyline that early in the morning, is truly golden.
I thought this was an interesting topic to tackle in a city that has so little silence as part of its genetic code. It was like having a panel on strip malls or laziness; exploring a topic rather foreign to a typical New Yorker.
The panel spoke of the importance of silence in daily life. They described silence as the space in our lives; the tool that helps orient ourselves in the density of constant noise. Without silence we can't put the noise we experience - however the noise is externalized - in perspective. I thought this was fascinating. If there's one thing New Yorkers lack even more than silence, it's space. Perhaps silence is a way for us to create space in a city that has none.
But how do you find silence in New York? In addition to the audible assault of honking horns, wailing sirens, rumbling trains, and the chatter of nine million - New York is filled with another type of noise - the uproar created by incessant stimulation. I have never felt so bombarded by messaging as I have since moving here. Information is everywhere. You can check your stocks on reader boards scrolling across Times Square, the subway is covered from floor to ceiling in posters, people rattle off information at you rather than to you, in every cab there are TVs within and billboards on top, and still it's not enough - half of the people you pass on the street walk or ride with their nose in their smart phones...the flash and grind of messages are unending . At times it feels impossible to escape. Is it any wonder our yoga classes are packed? People are so desperate for a period of silence, they'll make room in their lives and pay good money to find it even in its most generic and transient forms.
As a result of this rapid-fire messaging, New Yorkers process and dispense data quickly and with little patience. This city is too big - there's too much diverse data at our fingertips - to really delve into the complexities of a single subject, we'd rather skim on the surface. From house parties to elevators, New Yorkers want to know what you think on a variety of subjects in 3 words or less - they don't have time for much more. Conversations veer from Bloomberg to Afghanistan to the future of Green Peace within a blink of an eye and you are expected to keep up. In a sense, New Yorkers value breadth rather than depth.
This all makes sense for a city that moves fast and prides itself on compression. But where, in this cacophony of data, streaming information, and other noise, can a typical New Yorker find silence? It's not easy - and perhaps they don't want to.
New Yorkers have gotten pretty good at avoiding it. People in general often don't want to uncover what's lurking in the depths of silence. What's hidden in the murk under the constant noise that perpetuates our every day. What's hidden in that void could be feeling of inadequacy, questioning, doubt, the struggle to deal with our own morality. We fear what will rise up when we make the space for silence. It's no wonder we reach out for constant stimulation. We use this constant stimulation as drug - to ward off hte depression that may lurk just under the surface, and theree seems to be no bigger users than New Yorkers and no bigger pusher than New York itself. New York, in essence, is one big distraction from silence.
So where can I find my silence? I guess that's one of the reasons I wake up at such an early hour every day. I know this is the city that doesn't sleep, but somehow the hour between 5 and 6 on a weekday morning is pretty darn quiet. There are no honking horns, no crowded sidewalks. I often walk to the park or the gym without seeing another soul.
The park I guess is my sanctimony. It's the one constant in my time here and something i wouldn't trade for anything. The dog is an excuse, but I wake up every morning and head to the park with other dog owners as most New Yorkers are hitting the snooze button or fighting the crowds, already deep into their commute. I walk around the aptly named great lawn, I take in the weather, the changing seasons reflected in the dense trees that surround the park, and occasionally exchange a glance with my puppy. I run into other dog owners and we'll make small talk, but many mornings, we'll say nothing at all. And that silence, like the sunrise we often see over the skyline that early in the morning, is truly golden.
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