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.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Meet the Parents
New York and I haven’t been together very long. We’re still in the infatuation stage where everything is fresh and exciting. We have that kind starry eyed adoration where you overlook the flaws of smelly garbage and crowded subways and only see the sparkle of the Crysler Building – the storybook beauty of Bethesda Fountain. I’m gitty – I’m smitten – I’m head over heels. I’m falling in love.
So you can understand my heightened anxiety when my father came to visit. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted New York to be on its best behavior so my dad would love this city as much as I did. I carefully planned a series of events that would show off New York in the best light. I arranged trips to the Union Square farmers market, Broadway and the Public, the canine gathering on the great lawn and the jewel that is the 92nd Street Y. I had dressed my boyfriend New York in his best duds. I made him shave, shower and cover up his tattoos. I was ready to show him off. New York was ready to impress.
Unfortunately, after a few short hours, the New York blemishes started to show. It continued to be crowded on the subway (even on a Sunday – unheard of) and confusing to a fault (was that 45th and 6th or 46th & 5th?) and loud, abrasive and generally…overwhelming. It continued to be New York.
When a man peed in front of my dad and me on E 16th, one of the most charming areas of the city, I had to restrain myself from putting my hands on my hips, pulling my shoulders back and saying: “Come ON New York! Pull it together!” And then, under my breath, in a fierce whisper: “You’re embarrassing me.”
I’ve always been like this with New York, especially with people experiencing the Big Apple for the first time. I long for them to love it. I know it shouldn’t matter to me so much, but somehow it does. I remember coming to New York with a group of ladies a few years ago, many of whom hadn’t been here, and I was struck with anxiety right before the wheels of our plane touched down. I felt responsible for their enjoyment. It made no sense, but somehow I felt like a strange matchmaker. I wanted to create a love connection.
The truth is, there’s nothing I can do to make people fall in love with a city. I just need allow the events to unfold naturally. Whether it’s my dad or a group of ladies, they will have their own experience and reaction to New York, regardless of what I do or say or plan. They don’t have to love New York simply because I do. It’s just like the attraction between lovers. Sometimes it’s there and sometimes it’s not – an outsider is powerless in whether the affair heats up or turns cold. It’s a matter of chemistry.
So New York showed its grit during my dad’s visit this weekend. It showed the dirt under its fingernails, the grease in its hair, its tendency to speak a little too loud and chew with its mouth open. Although I felt New York was on display, New York absorbed my father with the “take it or leave it” attitude it’s had since the days of the Dutch. The good news is that despite its flawed appearance, my Dad, like so many others, was drawn in.
Together, the three of us had a great time. It wasn’t perfect…and that was perfect.
So you can understand my heightened anxiety when my father came to visit. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted New York to be on its best behavior so my dad would love this city as much as I did. I carefully planned a series of events that would show off New York in the best light. I arranged trips to the Union Square farmers market, Broadway and the Public, the canine gathering on the great lawn and the jewel that is the 92nd Street Y. I had dressed my boyfriend New York in his best duds. I made him shave, shower and cover up his tattoos. I was ready to show him off. New York was ready to impress.
Unfortunately, after a few short hours, the New York blemishes started to show. It continued to be crowded on the subway (even on a Sunday – unheard of) and confusing to a fault (was that 45th and 6th or 46th & 5th?) and loud, abrasive and generally…overwhelming. It continued to be New York.
When a man peed in front of my dad and me on E 16th, one of the most charming areas of the city, I had to restrain myself from putting my hands on my hips, pulling my shoulders back and saying: “Come ON New York! Pull it together!” And then, under my breath, in a fierce whisper: “You’re embarrassing me.”
I’ve always been like this with New York, especially with people experiencing the Big Apple for the first time. I long for them to love it. I know it shouldn’t matter to me so much, but somehow it does. I remember coming to New York with a group of ladies a few years ago, many of whom hadn’t been here, and I was struck with anxiety right before the wheels of our plane touched down. I felt responsible for their enjoyment. It made no sense, but somehow I felt like a strange matchmaker. I wanted to create a love connection.
The truth is, there’s nothing I can do to make people fall in love with a city. I just need allow the events to unfold naturally. Whether it’s my dad or a group of ladies, they will have their own experience and reaction to New York, regardless of what I do or say or plan. They don’t have to love New York simply because I do. It’s just like the attraction between lovers. Sometimes it’s there and sometimes it’s not – an outsider is powerless in whether the affair heats up or turns cold. It’s a matter of chemistry.
So New York showed its grit during my dad’s visit this weekend. It showed the dirt under its fingernails, the grease in its hair, its tendency to speak a little too loud and chew with its mouth open. Although I felt New York was on display, New York absorbed my father with the “take it or leave it” attitude it’s had since the days of the Dutch. The good news is that despite its flawed appearance, my Dad, like so many others, was drawn in.
Together, the three of us had a great time. It wasn’t perfect…and that was perfect.
Monday, October 18, 2010
An Emergency
Last weekend, I found myself in a New York City emergency room. When I realized where I was going and what was happening, I immediately got a sinking feeling deep in my stomach. A New York City emergency room?!? There were going to be flying gurneys filled with moaning gun shot victims, gang members meddling about, doctors running through the crowded corridors with blood splattered on their scrubs.
Men hunched over in chairs with a knife protruding from their torsos.
A woman in labor running through the lobby with her cabbie, recently befriended amid quips, romantic banner, and heavy breathing on the cab ride to the hospital.*
Weary nurses pulling a double shift…or is it a triple shift….peering across the fluorescent soaked room.
Basically, I was anticipating pandemonium. Pandemonium is not what I got.
My friend and I were at a show Sunday afternoon. Prior to curtain, she commented on a sore back, so I wasn’t surprised when an hour into the production she started shifting slightly, leaning forward and back in her chair. A while later, she leaned over and whispered: “I have to go.”
“Do you want me to go with you,” I asked in a hush. She nodded and we took off. The usher found us immediately and quickly led us out of the dark auditorium. My friend started to black out as we moved quickly through a secret hallway behind the risers and she crumpled onto the floor. At that point, I knew this was much bigger than just a back issue.
When we got into a little more light, I saw that she was shaking with the chills and her lips were a light shade of blue. We quickly decided that this was something that wasn’t going to just go away, and we needed an expert to check her out. So that’s how foud myself at the emergency room in the east village on a Sunday afternoon. And how I found myself with that pit in my stomach, anticipating all the hospital commotion primetime television has to offer.
AS we made our way through the double-doors marked “emergency room,” we were greeted by two clean-cut, smiling security guards who directed us to the left. There were no wounded thugs lining the wall. No running doctors. No yelling. It was as quiet as a library. They were calm and pleasant. This was the emergency room? Where was George Clooney? Zach Braff? Where was the drama? The drama had left this emergency room long ago.
They checked us in, took my friend’s temperature and moved us into a private room. A nurse came by followed shortly by a gum-snapping doctor and two back-up singer residents. The three of them declared my friend had a fever and prescribed a week’s dose of antibiotics.
So here’s the deal with a New York City hospital: The halls are empty and clean. The people are calm, cordial, and for the most part, extremely helpful. We were out with a diagnosis and prescription in under 60 minutes.
So it wasn’t the experience I expected out of a New York City emergency room, and that’s probably a good thing. While it would make for a dreadfully boring episode of ER, it made an efficient, effective healing resource for my friend. And that’s all that really mattered.
* I may have seen Look Who's Talking a few too many times.....
I need 30 milligrams of Tatianam Expositus….Stat!
Men hunched over in chairs with a knife protruding from their torsos.
We’re going to lose him!
A woman in labor running through the lobby with her cabbie, recently befriended amid quips, romantic banner, and heavy breathing on the cab ride to the hospital.*
Clear!
Weary nurses pulling a double shift…or is it a triple shift….peering across the fluorescent soaked room.
Basically, I was anticipating pandemonium. Pandemonium is not what I got.
My friend and I were at a show Sunday afternoon. Prior to curtain, she commented on a sore back, so I wasn’t surprised when an hour into the production she started shifting slightly, leaning forward and back in her chair. A while later, she leaned over and whispered: “I have to go.”
“Do you want me to go with you,” I asked in a hush. She nodded and we took off. The usher found us immediately and quickly led us out of the dark auditorium. My friend started to black out as we moved quickly through a secret hallway behind the risers and she crumpled onto the floor. At that point, I knew this was much bigger than just a back issue.
When we got into a little more light, I saw that she was shaking with the chills and her lips were a light shade of blue. We quickly decided that this was something that wasn’t going to just go away, and we needed an expert to check her out. So that’s how foud myself at the emergency room in the east village on a Sunday afternoon. And how I found myself with that pit in my stomach, anticipating all the hospital commotion primetime television has to offer.
AS we made our way through the double-doors marked “emergency room,” we were greeted by two clean-cut, smiling security guards who directed us to the left. There were no wounded thugs lining the wall. No running doctors. No yelling. It was as quiet as a library. They were calm and pleasant. This was the emergency room? Where was George Clooney? Zach Braff? Where was the drama? The drama had left this emergency room long ago.
They checked us in, took my friend’s temperature and moved us into a private room. A nurse came by followed shortly by a gum-snapping doctor and two back-up singer residents. The three of them declared my friend had a fever and prescribed a week’s dose of antibiotics.
So here’s the deal with a New York City hospital: The halls are empty and clean. The people are calm, cordial, and for the most part, extremely helpful. We were out with a diagnosis and prescription in under 60 minutes.
So it wasn’t the experience I expected out of a New York City emergency room, and that’s probably a good thing. While it would make for a dreadfully boring episode of ER, it made an efficient, effective healing resource for my friend. And that’s all that really mattered.
* I may have seen Look Who's Talking a few too many times.....
Arts that go "BAM" in the Night
A couple of weeks ago, I went to see my first dance performance in New York City. New York has a plethora of dance companies and spaces. Dance is an integral part of the arts scene. Generally, I enjoy dance as a participant more than a spectator, but I was excited about the evening. A small group of us accompanied my friend to BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music) to see Pina Bausch's Vollmond (Full Moon). My friend worked at BAM for several years, so I was also excited to see her old stomping grounds.
After a quick bite to eat, we arrived to the theatre right before show time. BAM is located the heart of Fort Green in a trendy area of Brooklyn. The outside of the building is unassuming grey concrete, not unlike a high school. Once you step out of the elevator and into the theater however, the imposing beauty hits you like a wave. The walls of bright gold and deep red are lined with the delicate, intricate detail of 100-year-old craftsmanship.
We were in the upper balcony in a packed house on opening night. From our vantage point, we were able to absorb this beautiful theatre in all its glory. The lights dimmed and the dance began with two muscular men running frantically around the circumference of the stage. A high pitched synthesizer pumped through the theatre. In the center of the stage was a large, fake rock that stood two stories high and was a deep, charcoal grey. As the show went on, it started to rain on stage. The downpour fell among the dancers, creating a slow moving river that flowed under the giant rock. The 16 dancers cascaded through the water with their overblown, sweeping movements. They leapt, convulsed, and sashayed around the stage as their costumes grew wetter and clung to their taut bodies.
A female dancer dressed all in white commanded the stage for seven minutes in an impressive solo.
A man leapt from the top of the rock into the river below. Women swam in the water on their bellies as their long dressed flowed gracefully around them.
An older lady with hair of bright frizz periodically took center stage and yelled in her scratch of a voice about the joys of booze and men.
The show ran 2 ½ hours and while the dancers were athletic and energetic, throwing themselves into the piece with abandon–overall, the show was a little disjointed and confusing.
And long.
It was very long.
Afterwards, we discussed the art scene in New York City. There are so many performances and productions going on at any given night, the sheer quantity of artistic outpouring can be overwhelming. Because this outpouring shows no sign of diminishing, one has to assume that there’s an audience in this city to support it. But you have to wonder how many of these patrons are sitting in these dark auditoriums because they want to be there and how many are there because they feel like they should be. How many use the theatre to create his or her self-identity?
Everyone says they love to travel, but most people, when they travel, go to a secluded beach, lie in the sun and sand and read novels while sipping boozy candy cocktails. So really, they love to relax – they don’t necessarily love to travel.
Everyone claims to love the indie music scene, but how often are you at a show on a Wednesday night, standing in a dark room with other hipsters, waiting for the show to start, and longing to be in the comforts of your home?
When people visit large cities, museums are often the first thing on their list. They simply must go to the Louvre, the Prado, the Met….but museums are often overwhelming. And boring. Museums are often too big. You end up glazing over the art and worrying more about your sore feet than the artistic expression hanging on the walls.
So maybe the arts are (at times) more about reputation and less about experience. But, I’m still glad that there’s a demand to support this artistic supply.
New York is a city built on commerce. Making money efficiently is in the roots of this town, from the flow of the harbor to the structure of the streets. It’s been this way since the days of the Dutch and continues to thrive on Wall Street. Without the arts to soften the edges of this tangled concrete, it would be a very difficult place to live indeed. The arts provide the creativity, the frivolity, the humanity of New York – and whatever their motivation, I’m glad people continue to frequent the arts as much as they do. I will certainly continue to be one of them.
After a quick bite to eat, we arrived to the theatre right before show time. BAM is located the heart of Fort Green in a trendy area of Brooklyn. The outside of the building is unassuming grey concrete, not unlike a high school. Once you step out of the elevator and into the theater however, the imposing beauty hits you like a wave. The walls of bright gold and deep red are lined with the delicate, intricate detail of 100-year-old craftsmanship.
We were in the upper balcony in a packed house on opening night. From our vantage point, we were able to absorb this beautiful theatre in all its glory. The lights dimmed and the dance began with two muscular men running frantically around the circumference of the stage. A high pitched synthesizer pumped through the theatre. In the center of the stage was a large, fake rock that stood two stories high and was a deep, charcoal grey. As the show went on, it started to rain on stage. The downpour fell among the dancers, creating a slow moving river that flowed under the giant rock. The 16 dancers cascaded through the water with their overblown, sweeping movements. They leapt, convulsed, and sashayed around the stage as their costumes grew wetter and clung to their taut bodies.
A female dancer dressed all in white commanded the stage for seven minutes in an impressive solo.
A man leapt from the top of the rock into the river below. Women swam in the water on their bellies as their long dressed flowed gracefully around them.
An older lady with hair of bright frizz periodically took center stage and yelled in her scratch of a voice about the joys of booze and men.
The show ran 2 ½ hours and while the dancers were athletic and energetic, throwing themselves into the piece with abandon–overall, the show was a little disjointed and confusing.
And long.
It was very long.
Afterwards, we discussed the art scene in New York City. There are so many performances and productions going on at any given night, the sheer quantity of artistic outpouring can be overwhelming. Because this outpouring shows no sign of diminishing, one has to assume that there’s an audience in this city to support it. But you have to wonder how many of these patrons are sitting in these dark auditoriums because they want to be there and how many are there because they feel like they should be. How many use the theatre to create his or her self-identity?
Everyone says they love to travel, but most people, when they travel, go to a secluded beach, lie in the sun and sand and read novels while sipping boozy candy cocktails. So really, they love to relax – they don’t necessarily love to travel.
Everyone claims to love the indie music scene, but how often are you at a show on a Wednesday night, standing in a dark room with other hipsters, waiting for the show to start, and longing to be in the comforts of your home?
When people visit large cities, museums are often the first thing on their list. They simply must go to the Louvre, the Prado, the Met….but museums are often overwhelming. And boring. Museums are often too big. You end up glazing over the art and worrying more about your sore feet than the artistic expression hanging on the walls.
So maybe the arts are (at times) more about reputation and less about experience. But, I’m still glad that there’s a demand to support this artistic supply.
New York is a city built on commerce. Making money efficiently is in the roots of this town, from the flow of the harbor to the structure of the streets. It’s been this way since the days of the Dutch and continues to thrive on Wall Street. Without the arts to soften the edges of this tangled concrete, it would be a very difficult place to live indeed. The arts provide the creativity, the frivolity, the humanity of New York – and whatever their motivation, I’m glad people continue to frequent the arts as much as they do. I will certainly continue to be one of them.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Time for a Better Apartment
I’m starting to think I have the smallest apartment in Manhattan. I know this can’t possibly be true, but everywhere I look, people have these amazing pads.
First, a comparison:
The Mediocre:
My apartment is a fourth-floor walk-up in the upper west side. The front door opens onto a narrow hallway. The kitchen is immediately to the left upon entry. I use the word “kitchen” loosely. I generally think of a kitchen as a room with four walls, but in New York, that’s not necessarily the case. My kitchen consists of an oven, sink, and a mini-fridge that all stand shoulder to shoulder at attention. This row of kitchen “appliances” (another word I use loosely) is my kitchen. The opposing wall is actually a closet where I keep most of my clothes. Yes, that’s right: I keep my clothes in the kitchen. There’s an additional, smaller linen closet in the hall that’s meant for towels and sheets. I use it for pants.
Our “tour” (loosely) continues past a regular bathroom to the main feature: the living room. My living room is lovely. I’m not trying to brag, but it’s a very nice room. There's a couch, a couple chairs, a desk, a wine rack – it’s extremely comfortable. The problem is that in essence, this room is my entire house. There’s a “sleeping loft” which is technically a loft, but has about 6” of clearance from the ceiling, so no one’s sleeping up there. I don’t even think my 15 lb. dog could sleep up there. So that’s where I keep my winter sweaters and suitcases. Yeah – it’s more of a storage loft than a sleeping loft.
The Good:
I was complaining about the size of my apartment to a friend a couple weeks ago. His response? “Move to Brooklyn.”
He lives in Brooklyn Heights, pays the same rent I do, and has an apartment more than twice my size. “I was walking from my bed to the kitchen the other day and I got so tired I had to rest on my couch.” Ha ha, Carl – you’re hilarious. Point taken, though. While I’ve never been to Carl’s house, it does appear he has quite a few more square feet for the dollar.
The Better:
Another friend has his own home uptown that he purchased 10 years ago with the help of his parents. The three floors (three. floors.) has a real kitchen with four walls, extra bedrooms, and a living room. Three floors! He’s now putting a circular staircase up to his roof (roof access – that’s like four floors!). It's a ton of space for Manhattan and it's impressive. I mean, the last time I was over, he asked if I had some bad sushi because I was turning a subtle shade of green. “No,” I said, “That’s just envy.”
But it leads me to my next point, which is that good real estate in New York takes time. You can trade your own time via your commute and get more space, as is the case in Brooklyn, or you can buy early (like 10 years ago) and hunker down in a spot for a long time. It’s almost like being “grandfathered” into your own apartment.
The Best:
This idea was really brought to life last night at dinner. I was invited over to the house of my step-father's former professor. His apartment, in the mid-sixties and 5th Ave, was a grand old building with a doorman. He and his lovely wife live on the 16th floor. The entire floor. The top floor. The elevator opens to an expansive living room with a huge grand piano, a marble fireplace...the works. The apartment has several bedrooms, a large kitchen, a back-up kitchen, and a full formal dining room. The pièce de résistance is the wrap-around balcony which offers the view of a lifetime. To the left, the flashing, garish lights of Times Square. Further down, the soft, warm, yellow hue of Columbus Circle. Across the back, the smattering of buildings that make up the west side which traverses up to the lower, squatter buildings of Harlem. Directly in front, the rich, lush expanse of Central Park – shockingly dark compared to the rest of the city. The view is so incredible it almost takes your breath away. I had a physical reaction in the pit of my stomach as I realized a limited number of people would ever see a view like this. This apartment was so phenomenal; Richard Geer lived on the 13th floor. Neat. I was on the 16th. Enjoy your “view” Geer, (if you can even call it that). AND this apartment had roof access! The view from the roof was isolated, majestic, causing the city to drop out from below. The entire thing was ridiculous. Ridiculous! How do people live like this? I’ll tell you how: time.
The entire building was purchased from the professor’s father in 1946 after a little war you may have heard of. The building was being liquidated at the time, so they got a good price for the space. The apartment has been passed down for 64 years, but will no doubt stay in this family for generations. Sure, they could sell today for a premium and make a ton of money, but the time it’s taken to acquire this property in this place at this time (plus the view….Good God that view!) is absolutely priceless.
Not like my pad. My pad definitely has a price tag – and it ain’t cheap. I think however, if I take the extra time come February to find a better apartment (more than the three hours I had to find this place), I’ll be more successful. New York real state is pricey, but I’m learning it’s not exclusively a monetary expense. In addition to spending cash on a deposit, rent and a Broker’s fee, to get a bigger, better apartment in New York you have a to spend a little time as well.
First, a comparison:
The Mediocre:
My apartment is a fourth-floor walk-up in the upper west side. The front door opens onto a narrow hallway. The kitchen is immediately to the left upon entry. I use the word “kitchen” loosely. I generally think of a kitchen as a room with four walls, but in New York, that’s not necessarily the case. My kitchen consists of an oven, sink, and a mini-fridge that all stand shoulder to shoulder at attention. This row of kitchen “appliances” (another word I use loosely) is my kitchen. The opposing wall is actually a closet where I keep most of my clothes. Yes, that’s right: I keep my clothes in the kitchen. There’s an additional, smaller linen closet in the hall that’s meant for towels and sheets. I use it for pants.
Our “tour” (loosely) continues past a regular bathroom to the main feature: the living room. My living room is lovely. I’m not trying to brag, but it’s a very nice room. There's a couch, a couple chairs, a desk, a wine rack – it’s extremely comfortable. The problem is that in essence, this room is my entire house. There’s a “sleeping loft” which is technically a loft, but has about 6” of clearance from the ceiling, so no one’s sleeping up there. I don’t even think my 15 lb. dog could sleep up there. So that’s where I keep my winter sweaters and suitcases. Yeah – it’s more of a storage loft than a sleeping loft.
The Good:
I was complaining about the size of my apartment to a friend a couple weeks ago. His response? “Move to Brooklyn.”
He lives in Brooklyn Heights, pays the same rent I do, and has an apartment more than twice my size. “I was walking from my bed to the kitchen the other day and I got so tired I had to rest on my couch.” Ha ha, Carl – you’re hilarious. Point taken, though. While I’ve never been to Carl’s house, it does appear he has quite a few more square feet for the dollar.
The Better:
Another friend has his own home uptown that he purchased 10 years ago with the help of his parents. The three floors (three. floors.) has a real kitchen with four walls, extra bedrooms, and a living room. Three floors! He’s now putting a circular staircase up to his roof (roof access – that’s like four floors!). It's a ton of space for Manhattan and it's impressive. I mean, the last time I was over, he asked if I had some bad sushi because I was turning a subtle shade of green. “No,” I said, “That’s just envy.”
But it leads me to my next point, which is that good real estate in New York takes time. You can trade your own time via your commute and get more space, as is the case in Brooklyn, or you can buy early (like 10 years ago) and hunker down in a spot for a long time. It’s almost like being “grandfathered” into your own apartment.
The Best:
This idea was really brought to life last night at dinner. I was invited over to the house of my step-father's former professor. His apartment, in the mid-sixties and 5th Ave, was a grand old building with a doorman. He and his lovely wife live on the 16th floor. The entire floor. The top floor. The elevator opens to an expansive living room with a huge grand piano, a marble fireplace...the works. The apartment has several bedrooms, a large kitchen, a back-up kitchen, and a full formal dining room. The pièce de résistance is the wrap-around balcony which offers the view of a lifetime. To the left, the flashing, garish lights of Times Square. Further down, the soft, warm, yellow hue of Columbus Circle. Across the back, the smattering of buildings that make up the west side which traverses up to the lower, squatter buildings of Harlem. Directly in front, the rich, lush expanse of Central Park – shockingly dark compared to the rest of the city. The view is so incredible it almost takes your breath away. I had a physical reaction in the pit of my stomach as I realized a limited number of people would ever see a view like this. This apartment was so phenomenal; Richard Geer lived on the 13th floor. Neat. I was on the 16th. Enjoy your “view” Geer, (if you can even call it that). AND this apartment had roof access! The view from the roof was isolated, majestic, causing the city to drop out from below. The entire thing was ridiculous. Ridiculous! How do people live like this? I’ll tell you how: time.
The entire building was purchased from the professor’s father in 1946 after a little war you may have heard of. The building was being liquidated at the time, so they got a good price for the space. The apartment has been passed down for 64 years, but will no doubt stay in this family for generations. Sure, they could sell today for a premium and make a ton of money, but the time it’s taken to acquire this property in this place at this time (plus the view….Good God that view!) is absolutely priceless.
Not like my pad. My pad definitely has a price tag – and it ain’t cheap. I think however, if I take the extra time come February to find a better apartment (more than the three hours I had to find this place), I’ll be more successful. New York real state is pricey, but I’m learning it’s not exclusively a monetary expense. In addition to spending cash on a deposit, rent and a Broker’s fee, to get a bigger, better apartment in New York you have a to spend a little time as well.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Hot "Child" in the City
This city is competitive. It moves fast. Bars are open until four. Restaurants serve $14 martinis that could double as hot tubs. Hundred of clubs, trendy wine bars, and strip clubs dot the streets. It’s almost as though the city has a large “Adults Only” sign at its entrance. In reality, however, that’s not the case. Kids live here too!
I was reminded of this on Friday night at the Armory, a monstrous structure that looms over midtown east. The armory is so expansive it’s almost overwhelming in a city that constantly forces you to shrink, squeeze and hunch to fit into smaller and smaller spaces. It’s so large in fact, they installed an entire carnival there over the weekend. The carnival had a large slide, rotating swings, food booths, a tiny magician tent and an enormous, flashing Ferris Wheel that loomed over the activities in the center of the room.
Usually, Friday activities for me involve standing around in a crowded room with fellow 25-42-year-old professionals dressed in black and sipping alcoholic beverages out of sparkling, over-sized glassware. This Friday evening involved very few people taller than my waist. To be fair though, I was wearing heels.
These little “whipper-snappers” screamed, squealed and ran around the expansive room with abandon. They flew down the slide, watched the magician with wide-eyed wonder, and periodically stood still just long enough for their parents (or nannies) to snap their picture. Admission to the carnival was only $5 – so it felt like every kid from Manhattan and the Bronx was there. It was an abrupt reminder that kids share this city too.
When I started to take note however, I noticed kids everywhere. A handful of kids take the subway to school in the morning with their parents. I’m not sure where they go and I don’t see them every day (some mornings I’m running a little later than others), but they always get off on 79th street. Their over-sized backpacks and lunch boxes stand out in the mass of briefcases and power ties. I started to notice other evidence of children in Manhattan as well.
Nearly every weekend you’ll see a frazzled, exhausted mothers on the train with a sleeping toddler in a stroller. Manhattan generally is not built for strollers. The sidewalks are narrow and packed with people, and the subways only have elevators at express stops, so bringing strollers into and out of the subway almost always takes two people. Doors are narrow and heavy and have you ever tried to take a stroller through a rotating door? Me neither, but it sounds like a bitch. Even if you’re willing to take on the challenge of a stroller in Manhattan, some places just won’t allow you. The pizza place next to my building has the largest dining area in the five boroughs (I’m convinced). Even they have a sign on the front door that specifically prohibits strollers. Trying to navigate a stroller in a typical Manhattan restaurant is impossible so a sign is unnecessary. It would be easier to bring an unruly St. Bernard with you to dinner.
A colleague of mine just had a daughter last week. I was shocked to learn yesterday that he lives my neighborhood. “The upper west side,” I asked, when he told me. “But you just had a child!” He apparently is ready to take the stroller challenge head on.
I have a good friend who was born and grew up mere blocks from my current residence. In the past few weeks, I’ve met some of his elementary, middle and high school classmates. So I know these native Manhattanites exist, it just took a random Friday carnival for me to put the reality of their childhood in context. They didn’t ride a yellow school bus, they rode the nine train. While I took 8th grade Social Science, they enjoyed classes in philosophy, origami, and current events (where the required reading included the New York Times. In eighth. grade.). They didn’t have a backyard to throw the ball around, but they did have access to a 90 acre park. They didn’t get a drivers license when they turned 16 (many of them still don’t know how to drive) because they’ve been hailing cabs since they could hold out their hand. Instead of Cheerios, they enjoyed bagels for breakfast. Their building blocks likely created Maslows Hierarchy of Needs. Instead of movies, they went to the theater. I saw a little boy at Gatz last weekend who liked he was about 8 years old. The 2:00 PM show let out about 9:00 PM. If I was 8, it would be torture to sit in a dark theatre for seven hours. Heck, as an adult I was dubious and I dropped some serious cash to do it! So native New Yorkers are out there. They grow up in a forrest of concrete. Their parents tackled the challenge of strollers, private schools, and precocious dispositions to successfully raise children in Manhattan.
As I grow older myself, it’s encouragig that this opportunity exists. I was in a marketing training this week and the instructor presented a case study of baby formula. He showed a series of pbaby pictures and talked about the psychographic segmentation of women with children. The instructor, raising his voice over the ticking of my biological clock, revealed that every woman in his example lived in New York City. I smiled to myself. Yes, it would be a huge pain in the ass, but having a family in the city was possible. I had a case study, my friend, the subway school kids and a midtown carnival to prove it.
Footnotes: I wrote this blog yesterday and when I got home last night, I had the movie "Babies" waiting for me in the mail from Netflix. Ha ha, Universe, you're hilarious.
I was reminded of this on Friday night at the Armory, a monstrous structure that looms over midtown east. The armory is so expansive it’s almost overwhelming in a city that constantly forces you to shrink, squeeze and hunch to fit into smaller and smaller spaces. It’s so large in fact, they installed an entire carnival there over the weekend. The carnival had a large slide, rotating swings, food booths, a tiny magician tent and an enormous, flashing Ferris Wheel that loomed over the activities in the center of the room.
Usually, Friday activities for me involve standing around in a crowded room with fellow 25-42-year-old professionals dressed in black and sipping alcoholic beverages out of sparkling, over-sized glassware. This Friday evening involved very few people taller than my waist. To be fair though, I was wearing heels.
These little “whipper-snappers” screamed, squealed and ran around the expansive room with abandon. They flew down the slide, watched the magician with wide-eyed wonder, and periodically stood still just long enough for their parents (or nannies) to snap their picture. Admission to the carnival was only $5 – so it felt like every kid from Manhattan and the Bronx was there. It was an abrupt reminder that kids share this city too.
When I started to take note however, I noticed kids everywhere. A handful of kids take the subway to school in the morning with their parents. I’m not sure where they go and I don’t see them every day (some mornings I’m running a little later than others), but they always get off on 79th street. Their over-sized backpacks and lunch boxes stand out in the mass of briefcases and power ties. I started to notice other evidence of children in Manhattan as well.
Nearly every weekend you’ll see a frazzled, exhausted mothers on the train with a sleeping toddler in a stroller. Manhattan generally is not built for strollers. The sidewalks are narrow and packed with people, and the subways only have elevators at express stops, so bringing strollers into and out of the subway almost always takes two people. Doors are narrow and heavy and have you ever tried to take a stroller through a rotating door? Me neither, but it sounds like a bitch. Even if you’re willing to take on the challenge of a stroller in Manhattan, some places just won’t allow you. The pizza place next to my building has the largest dining area in the five boroughs (I’m convinced). Even they have a sign on the front door that specifically prohibits strollers. Trying to navigate a stroller in a typical Manhattan restaurant is impossible so a sign is unnecessary. It would be easier to bring an unruly St. Bernard with you to dinner.
A colleague of mine just had a daughter last week. I was shocked to learn yesterday that he lives my neighborhood. “The upper west side,” I asked, when he told me. “But you just had a child!” He apparently is ready to take the stroller challenge head on.
I have a good friend who was born and grew up mere blocks from my current residence. In the past few weeks, I’ve met some of his elementary, middle and high school classmates. So I know these native Manhattanites exist, it just took a random Friday carnival for me to put the reality of their childhood in context. They didn’t ride a yellow school bus, they rode the nine train. While I took 8th grade Social Science, they enjoyed classes in philosophy, origami, and current events (where the required reading included the New York Times. In eighth. grade.). They didn’t have a backyard to throw the ball around, but they did have access to a 90 acre park. They didn’t get a drivers license when they turned 16 (many of them still don’t know how to drive) because they’ve been hailing cabs since they could hold out their hand. Instead of Cheerios, they enjoyed bagels for breakfast. Their building blocks likely created Maslows Hierarchy of Needs. Instead of movies, they went to the theater. I saw a little boy at Gatz last weekend who liked he was about 8 years old. The 2:00 PM show let out about 9:00 PM. If I was 8, it would be torture to sit in a dark theatre for seven hours. Heck, as an adult I was dubious and I dropped some serious cash to do it! So native New Yorkers are out there. They grow up in a forrest of concrete. Their parents tackled the challenge of strollers, private schools, and precocious dispositions to successfully raise children in Manhattan.
As I grow older myself, it’s encouragig that this opportunity exists. I was in a marketing training this week and the instructor presented a case study of baby formula. He showed a series of pbaby pictures and talked about the psychographic segmentation of women with children. The instructor, raising his voice over the ticking of my biological clock, revealed that every woman in his example lived in New York City. I smiled to myself. Yes, it would be a huge pain in the ass, but having a family in the city was possible. I had a case study, my friend, the subway school kids and a midtown carnival to prove it.
Footnotes: I wrote this blog yesterday and when I got home last night, I had the movie "Babies" waiting for me in the mail from Netflix. Ha ha, Universe, you're hilarious.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Rules of the Rail
The true, accurate, genuine, bona fide, unofficial rules of the New York Subway System
The following is a list of ten rules to be applied when utilizing the New York public subway system. Infringement of said rules will result in no punishment or law enforcement or retribution of any kind, but will officially label you as a “douche” by fellow riders on said Subway system. These rules are technically unauthorized and unsanctioned, but all readers and riders should make every attempt to abide by these rules at all times when riding the subway. Please note: these rules can be altered, enhanced, augmented, modified, amended, revised, reworked, and are subject to change without notice or warning:
Rule 1:
Subway traffic flow will always be initiated with exiting passengers followed by entering passengers.
Amendment 1A: Riders of the New York Subway (hereby referred to as the “subway”), should avoid pushing into the subway prior to the full and entire exodus of outgoing passengers.
Amendment 1B: Those exiting the subway should do so quickly and efficiently. Lollygaggers will not be tolerated and will result in said lollygaggers being stepped on and walked over from incoming subway traffic. If it’s your stop, do not pause, take a breather, suspend, wait, or halt: get off damn the train.
Rule 2:
Upon entering the train, incoming passengers should move to the center of the train. Even if it appears you are the last person on the train, assume you are not. Someone will inevitably jump on the train after you, nano-seconds before the doors close, causing a domino effect of shoving and teeter-tottering bodies and will cause said subway doors to open and close 7-8 times sequentially, thereby delaying the departure of the train. You are never the last person on the train. Never.
Amendment 2A: Moving to the center of the train means physically moving away from the doors. This will likely mean standing in front of a seated passenger. That’s okay. Don’t be afraid. Sometimes it’s unavoidable.
Amendment 2B: Headphones do not exempt you from Rule 2. While headphones (or “i-buds” as the kids call them these days) have the potential to hinder your ability to hear what’s going on around you, headphones actually have no affect on your visual competence or your capacity to notice that someone behind you is trying to get on the train. Headphones may make it feel like you’re somewhere else, but you know you’re on a train. Make room for the person behind you.
Rule 3:
Under no circumstances should a rider lean, hug or otherwise embrace the holding pole* thereby warranting the pole useless for other riders. The pole is meant to be shared.
Amendment 3A: Respect the holding pole. Don’t sneeze into your hand and then grab the pole. Come on! No one likes a snotty pole.
Amendment 3B: If you have children, don’t let them lick the pole. Note that all riders do not adhere to Amendment 3A – so – eeeww….
Clause 3B1: As a general rule, it’s good to avoid letting your kids tongue anything on the subway – the poles, the seats, the windows – kids should keep their tongues in their mouths while on the train.
Clause 3B2: Clause 3B1 also applies to adults.
Rule 4:
The following is prohibited during rush hour:
- Over-sized luggage
- Bicycles
- Walkers
- Mariachi Bands
- “Let’s Go Europe” backpacks
- Break-dancers**
Rush hour is about transporting as many bodies as possible in a condensed time period. One bike = 3 bodies. It’s simple math. If you have a bike, perhaps you should ride it.
Amendment 4A: In the rare occasion where a seat is available during rush hour, it is mandatory that the nearest passenger must sit. An empty seat = a potential rider whose been left behind on the platform and will have to wait 3-5 minutes for the next train which could mean the difference between a clean carpet and a dog emptying his bladder because he just couldn’t hold it that last 90 seconds. Basically, it comes down to doggy pee. So take the seat because that stuff is hard to get out.
Rule 5:
Yes, Amendment 4A spoke of “taking the seat,” but Rule 5 is about giving up your seat. The following is an official chart of seat hierarchy:
- Elderly Female***
- Pregnant Female****
- Child with crutches
- Adult with crutches
- Elderly Male
- Adult with stroller *****
- Child (male or female) under 12
- Adult Female (able-bodied)
- Adult Male (able-bodied)
- Male (16-18)******
Rule 6:
If you choose to tell your story about being homeless and having a wife / husband with a deadly disease and having three children under the age of three and a sweet yellow lab with one eye who needs doggy treats and an aging mother suffering from Alzheimer’s aloud to your fellow subway passengers and you say something like “anything will help…money….food…” and a good-hearted subway user from the west coast gives you a perfectly healthy, unopened, delicious, pecan flavored granola bar, you can, under no circumstances reject the granola bar. This is prohibited. You must take the granola bar. It doesn’t matter if it is the tenth granola bar you’ve received that day. You asked for food and must take the food. A “thank you” would also be appreciated.
Rule 7:
Your music is awesome. It is so awesome you want to play it really loud. If I’m in the next car however, and can hear the music on your i-pod, it’s probably a little loud. Listen to your music. Love your music. But don’t share your music…it’s yours! Other passengers don’t want to hear it.
Rule 8:
Eating on the subway is permitted but should be limited to contained, compact and easily edible food. All foods with excessive crumbs, globs, girth, sauce, or packaging should be avoided. This is rule is subject to interpretation and passengers should use their best judgment. Prohibited foods include, but are not limited to the following:
- Falafel
- Over-sized Philly Cheesecake sandwiches where th e cheese oozes out the back
- Crumb Cake
- Spaghetti
- Juicy, over-sized, hamburgers
- Anything that takes both a knife and fork to consume
Amenment 8A: Foods with pungent odors should also be avoided whenever possible.
Rule 9:
In a crowded subway, if you are closest to the door and the train comes to a stop, you must temporarily step off the train to let people off. You will be guaranteed premium access back on the train once the exiting passengers have departed.
Amendment 9A: If you are waiting for a train and see someone step off the train to let exiting passengers off - you must let them get back on the train before stepping on yourself. Stepping in front of them to enter the train will lead to automatic douche status.
Rule 10:
Do not urinate on the train.*******
* At time of publication, the author of this publication could not think of a better term for “holding pole.” The “holding pole” is the stripper-like pole in the center of the train that exists for people to hold onto so they don’t fall down during the general turbulence of subway travel.
** It’s all fun and games until someone gets kicked in the face….which I’ve seen happen. Let’s keep the break-dancing where it belongs –1986.
*** Less defined by age and more by fragility. If she could play a sweet old grandmother in a black and white movie, she gets the seat, hands down. On the subway culture, elderly ladies rein supreme. They should always have a seat. No exceptions.
****If the pregnancy is questionable, use caution. Giving up your seat to an overweight woman could be offensive to her and create an uncomfortable ride for the person sitting next to her.
***** Please note: The stroller MUST have a child. If the stroller is carrying groceries, clothes, or other miscellaneous items, this person should not get a seat and should not be riding during rush hour (see Rule 4).
****** It may not be fair, but teenage boys are almost always standing on the train. Don’t shed too many tears though, they have the metabolism to eat six meals a day topped off by a liter of Coke and jumbo pack of king-size Oreos (double stuffed!) without gaining an ounce – so the cosmic karma all shakes out.
*******This may seem like an obvious one, but apparently it's not. Urinating on the train creates a phenomena called "stinky car", which, not unlike "unair-conditioned car" in the summer, leads to a mass exodus of passengers at every stop running frantically for the next car over. Also, pee on the train runs down the length of the car, so no one is safe from its path. Pee on the train is just no fun for anyone.
Thank you for taking the time to read these 10 rules and regulations in regards to the New York City Subway. If we can all follow these ten simple rules, subway transit will run smoother and every ride will be a little more pleasant for us all.
The following is a list of ten rules to be applied when utilizing the New York public subway system. Infringement of said rules will result in no punishment or law enforcement or retribution of any kind, but will officially label you as a “douche” by fellow riders on said Subway system. These rules are technically unauthorized and unsanctioned, but all readers and riders should make every attempt to abide by these rules at all times when riding the subway. Please note: these rules can be altered, enhanced, augmented, modified, amended, revised, reworked, and are subject to change without notice or warning:
Rule 1:
Subway traffic flow will always be initiated with exiting passengers followed by entering passengers.
Amendment 1A: Riders of the New York Subway (hereby referred to as the “subway”), should avoid pushing into the subway prior to the full and entire exodus of outgoing passengers.
Amendment 1B: Those exiting the subway should do so quickly and efficiently. Lollygaggers will not be tolerated and will result in said lollygaggers being stepped on and walked over from incoming subway traffic. If it’s your stop, do not pause, take a breather, suspend, wait, or halt: get off damn the train.
Rule 2:
Upon entering the train, incoming passengers should move to the center of the train. Even if it appears you are the last person on the train, assume you are not. Someone will inevitably jump on the train after you, nano-seconds before the doors close, causing a domino effect of shoving and teeter-tottering bodies and will cause said subway doors to open and close 7-8 times sequentially, thereby delaying the departure of the train. You are never the last person on the train. Never.
Amendment 2A: Moving to the center of the train means physically moving away from the doors. This will likely mean standing in front of a seated passenger. That’s okay. Don’t be afraid. Sometimes it’s unavoidable.
Amendment 2B: Headphones do not exempt you from Rule 2. While headphones (or “i-buds” as the kids call them these days) have the potential to hinder your ability to hear what’s going on around you, headphones actually have no affect on your visual competence or your capacity to notice that someone behind you is trying to get on the train. Headphones may make it feel like you’re somewhere else, but you know you’re on a train. Make room for the person behind you.
Rule 3:
Under no circumstances should a rider lean, hug or otherwise embrace the holding pole* thereby warranting the pole useless for other riders. The pole is meant to be shared.
Amendment 3A: Respect the holding pole. Don’t sneeze into your hand and then grab the pole. Come on! No one likes a snotty pole.
Amendment 3B: If you have children, don’t let them lick the pole. Note that all riders do not adhere to Amendment 3A – so – eeeww….
Clause 3B1: As a general rule, it’s good to avoid letting your kids tongue anything on the subway – the poles, the seats, the windows – kids should keep their tongues in their mouths while on the train.
Clause 3B2: Clause 3B1 also applies to adults.
Rule 4:
The following is prohibited during rush hour:
- Over-sized luggage
- Bicycles
- Walkers
- Mariachi Bands
- “Let’s Go Europe” backpacks
- Break-dancers**
Rush hour is about transporting as many bodies as possible in a condensed time period. One bike = 3 bodies. It’s simple math. If you have a bike, perhaps you should ride it.
Amendment 4A: In the rare occasion where a seat is available during rush hour, it is mandatory that the nearest passenger must sit. An empty seat = a potential rider whose been left behind on the platform and will have to wait 3-5 minutes for the next train which could mean the difference between a clean carpet and a dog emptying his bladder because he just couldn’t hold it that last 90 seconds. Basically, it comes down to doggy pee. So take the seat because that stuff is hard to get out.
Rule 5:
Yes, Amendment 4A spoke of “taking the seat,” but Rule 5 is about giving up your seat. The following is an official chart of seat hierarchy:
- Elderly Female***
- Pregnant Female****
- Child with crutches
- Adult with crutches
- Elderly Male
- Adult with stroller *****
- Child (male or female) under 12
- Adult Female (able-bodied)
- Adult Male (able-bodied)
- Male (16-18)******
Rule 6:
If you choose to tell your story about being homeless and having a wife / husband with a deadly disease and having three children under the age of three and a sweet yellow lab with one eye who needs doggy treats and an aging mother suffering from Alzheimer’s aloud to your fellow subway passengers and you say something like “anything will help…money….food…” and a good-hearted subway user from the west coast gives you a perfectly healthy, unopened, delicious, pecan flavored granola bar, you can, under no circumstances reject the granola bar. This is prohibited. You must take the granola bar. It doesn’t matter if it is the tenth granola bar you’ve received that day. You asked for food and must take the food. A “thank you” would also be appreciated.
Rule 7:
Your music is awesome. It is so awesome you want to play it really loud. If I’m in the next car however, and can hear the music on your i-pod, it’s probably a little loud. Listen to your music. Love your music. But don’t share your music…it’s yours! Other passengers don’t want to hear it.
Rule 8:
Eating on the subway is permitted but should be limited to contained, compact and easily edible food. All foods with excessive crumbs, globs, girth, sauce, or packaging should be avoided. This is rule is subject to interpretation and passengers should use their best judgment. Prohibited foods include, but are not limited to the following:
- Falafel
- Over-sized Philly Cheesecake sandwiches where th e cheese oozes out the back
- Crumb Cake
- Spaghetti
- Juicy, over-sized, hamburgers
- Anything that takes both a knife and fork to consume
Amenment 8A: Foods with pungent odors should also be avoided whenever possible.
Rule 9:
In a crowded subway, if you are closest to the door and the train comes to a stop, you must temporarily step off the train to let people off. You will be guaranteed premium access back on the train once the exiting passengers have departed.
Amendment 9A: If you are waiting for a train and see someone step off the train to let exiting passengers off - you must let them get back on the train before stepping on yourself. Stepping in front of them to enter the train will lead to automatic douche status.
Rule 10:
Do not urinate on the train.*******
* At time of publication, the author of this publication could not think of a better term for “holding pole.” The “holding pole” is the stripper-like pole in the center of the train that exists for people to hold onto so they don’t fall down during the general turbulence of subway travel.
** It’s all fun and games until someone gets kicked in the face….which I’ve seen happen. Let’s keep the break-dancing where it belongs –1986.
*** Less defined by age and more by fragility. If she could play a sweet old grandmother in a black and white movie, she gets the seat, hands down. On the subway culture, elderly ladies rein supreme. They should always have a seat. No exceptions.
****If the pregnancy is questionable, use caution. Giving up your seat to an overweight woman could be offensive to her and create an uncomfortable ride for the person sitting next to her.
***** Please note: The stroller MUST have a child. If the stroller is carrying groceries, clothes, or other miscellaneous items, this person should not get a seat and should not be riding during rush hour (see Rule 4).
****** It may not be fair, but teenage boys are almost always standing on the train. Don’t shed too many tears though, they have the metabolism to eat six meals a day topped off by a liter of Coke and jumbo pack of king-size Oreos (double stuffed!) without gaining an ounce – so the cosmic karma all shakes out.
*******This may seem like an obvious one, but apparently it's not. Urinating on the train creates a phenomena called "stinky car", which, not unlike "unair-conditioned car" in the summer, leads to a mass exodus of passengers at every stop running frantically for the next car over. Also, pee on the train runs down the length of the car, so no one is safe from its path. Pee on the train is just no fun for anyone.
Thank you for taking the time to read these 10 rules and regulations in regards to the New York City Subway. If we can all follow these ten simple rules, subway transit will run smoother and every ride will be a little more pleasant for us all.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Quiet Down!
New York is loud. It's the rumble of the train, the honk of the horn, the blare of the siren, the wail of the guitar from a street performer, the pounding of 4 million pairs of heels, the base from a boom box, the constant chatter of the people always around you. It's the white, incessant noise of the city. Like the blazing lights that shine off this island, the noise of New York is omnipresent.
For the most part, you don't really notice this constant noise. There are few exceptions, however. When you're waiting for the train, for example, listening to the latest Radio Lab on your i-pod. You can have the volume maxed out and you won't be able to hear a word if the express train rumbles by. Not one word.
Or if you're taking the subway home late on a Saturday night when everyone is wired and chatty. If you try to have a conversation with the person next to you, you'll have to raise your voice just to be heard and even then they won't hear everything even when they're right next to you.
I really started to notice the noise of New York after I lost my voice two Sundays in a row. I couldn't figure out the cause at first. I hadn't been to a rock show or anything and I hadn't been teaching a large number of classes. The only thing both weekend had in common were birthdays.
Both birthday parties were held at dark, trendy, intimate bars below 30th St. Both birthdays had packed the bar with interesting, lovely, lively people and both had loud music flowing trough the room in addition to the gin and whiskey. Loud Music + Great People = Damaged Vocal Chords. I found myself literally yelling into the ears of people I had just met. An evening of this creates a husky voice the next day. Ten years of it, though, can cause serious damage.
I have a dear friend who just went to the doctor last week to see why his voice was always raspy. It turns out he has developed nodules on his vocal chords that will only shrink if he keeps his speaking voice at a soft whisper for 3-4 weeks. I don't know how he is going to do it. We both agreed that any kind of socializing was completely out of the question. He can't even take his girlfriend to dinner. In New York, restaurants are small, tables are set within inches of each other, and most are usually packed. That means a romantic dinner for two often involves yelling at each other across the table. So dinner is out, bar hopping is out, and any kind of rock concert or sporting event that actually encourages yelling is, of course, out of the question.
He can't even have a conversation with someone while walking down the street. Such a mundane activity might seem benign, but between the roars and honks and blares of the city, you must project forcefully to be heard. After a while, you do this conversational yelling without even thinking about it. It's when you're forced to stop when it becomes a real challenge.
My friend is just going to have to lay low for a while. The city isn't accommodating for someone forced to whisper. Simply put, to succeed in New York, you have to be able to yell.
For the most part, you don't really notice this constant noise. There are few exceptions, however. When you're waiting for the train, for example, listening to the latest Radio Lab on your i-pod. You can have the volume maxed out and you won't be able to hear a word if the express train rumbles by. Not one word.
Or if you're taking the subway home late on a Saturday night when everyone is wired and chatty. If you try to have a conversation with the person next to you, you'll have to raise your voice just to be heard and even then they won't hear everything even when they're right next to you.
I really started to notice the noise of New York after I lost my voice two Sundays in a row. I couldn't figure out the cause at first. I hadn't been to a rock show or anything and I hadn't been teaching a large number of classes. The only thing both weekend had in common were birthdays.
Both birthday parties were held at dark, trendy, intimate bars below 30th St. Both birthdays had packed the bar with interesting, lovely, lively people and both had loud music flowing trough the room in addition to the gin and whiskey. Loud Music + Great People = Damaged Vocal Chords. I found myself literally yelling into the ears of people I had just met. An evening of this creates a husky voice the next day. Ten years of it, though, can cause serious damage.
I have a dear friend who just went to the doctor last week to see why his voice was always raspy. It turns out he has developed nodules on his vocal chords that will only shrink if he keeps his speaking voice at a soft whisper for 3-4 weeks. I don't know how he is going to do it. We both agreed that any kind of socializing was completely out of the question. He can't even take his girlfriend to dinner. In New York, restaurants are small, tables are set within inches of each other, and most are usually packed. That means a romantic dinner for two often involves yelling at each other across the table. So dinner is out, bar hopping is out, and any kind of rock concert or sporting event that actually encourages yelling is, of course, out of the question.
He can't even have a conversation with someone while walking down the street. Such a mundane activity might seem benign, but between the roars and honks and blares of the city, you must project forcefully to be heard. After a while, you do this conversational yelling without even thinking about it. It's when you're forced to stop when it becomes a real challenge.
My friend is just going to have to lay low for a while. The city isn't accommodating for someone forced to whisper. Simply put, to succeed in New York, you have to be able to yell.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Taking Myself Out
I've met a lot of great people in New York. In my short time here, my circle of friends has grown from tiny to small. What I lack in quantity however, I more than make up in quality. Each friend offers something unique and precious. I feel grateful every day to have them.
That being said, because I now have friends, I no longer venture out to the city alone very often. When I first moved here, I would go out solo quite a bit out of necessity. I didn' t know anyone and I didn't want to stay home, so out I would go. I would almost inevitably find an interesting person or have a great experience.
When you go out with friends it's also wonderful, but it becomes more about the friend and the interaction with them and less about the experience. I've decided to try and take a day a week where I take myself out. I don't want loose that feeling of giving myself completely to the city - to seeing where it takes me.
I started last Friday. I took myself out to a lecture at the Met with the famous director Norm Jeweson. He was being interviewed on stage by a New York Times film critic about his famous movie In the Heat of the Night. I had never seen the movie and thought this would be a good way to do it. I got free tickets online and took the 6 to the upper east side.
It was a grey, cool, drizzly evening and I got to the neighborhood early. I ducked into a small French restaurant and made myself comfortable at one of the four stools at the tiny bar. The oversized bartender was washing glasses when I came in. He turned immediately to take my order - a Manhattan.
As he made my drink, he revealed that this was his first shift at this bar and my Manhattan was his very first drink. I felt honored. He also said he was excited about my order - he didn't want his first drink to be a white wine or beer - or worse, some fancy concoction known only by the truly wealthy. I assured him his Manhattan was delicious and it was.
We started talking about his upbringing in Brooklyn and a recent finishing trip with his Dad in the Hamptons. He was 24 and had worked in a small bar in Brooklyn since he was 16. He viewed this move as a way to venture out and spread his wings. It was a big step for him and I felt lucky to be a part of this momentous move. Our conversation was extended by complimentary appetizers and pleasant company and I was 30 minutes late to the lecture.
My tardiness was inconsequential. Norm Jeweson had a family emergency and wasn't able to make it.
The movie was great, but wasn't the highlight of my evening. I was grateful to be a part of helping a fellow New Yorker start his own adventure and take a big step toward reaching his full potential. The city is full of stories - that evening I felt privlidged to be part of one about new beginnings.
That being said, because I now have friends, I no longer venture out to the city alone very often. When I first moved here, I would go out solo quite a bit out of necessity. I didn' t know anyone and I didn't want to stay home, so out I would go. I would almost inevitably find an interesting person or have a great experience.
When you go out with friends it's also wonderful, but it becomes more about the friend and the interaction with them and less about the experience. I've decided to try and take a day a week where I take myself out. I don't want loose that feeling of giving myself completely to the city - to seeing where it takes me.
I started last Friday. I took myself out to a lecture at the Met with the famous director Norm Jeweson. He was being interviewed on stage by a New York Times film critic about his famous movie In the Heat of the Night. I had never seen the movie and thought this would be a good way to do it. I got free tickets online and took the 6 to the upper east side.
It was a grey, cool, drizzly evening and I got to the neighborhood early. I ducked into a small French restaurant and made myself comfortable at one of the four stools at the tiny bar. The oversized bartender was washing glasses when I came in. He turned immediately to take my order - a Manhattan.
As he made my drink, he revealed that this was his first shift at this bar and my Manhattan was his very first drink. I felt honored. He also said he was excited about my order - he didn't want his first drink to be a white wine or beer - or worse, some fancy concoction known only by the truly wealthy. I assured him his Manhattan was delicious and it was.
We started talking about his upbringing in Brooklyn and a recent finishing trip with his Dad in the Hamptons. He was 24 and had worked in a small bar in Brooklyn since he was 16. He viewed this move as a way to venture out and spread his wings. It was a big step for him and I felt lucky to be a part of this momentous move. Our conversation was extended by complimentary appetizers and pleasant company and I was 30 minutes late to the lecture.
My tardiness was inconsequential. Norm Jeweson had a family emergency and wasn't able to make it.
The movie was great, but wasn't the highlight of my evening. I was grateful to be a part of helping a fellow New Yorker start his own adventure and take a big step toward reaching his full potential. The city is full of stories - that evening I felt privlidged to be part of one about new beginnings.
Monday, October 4, 2010
The Great White Way
When I first moved to New York, one of the objections I got from friends in Seattle was that I wouldn’t enjoy New York if I lived in New York. They worried I would get bogged down with daily rituals and routine and wouldn't take the time to relish in all New York has to offer the way I did as a visitor. I would say that while they were 90% wrong, there was 10% that was right.
Since I’ve moved to New York, I haven’t been to the Empire States Building, the Statue of Liberty or Carnegie Hall. And as a theatre lover, I have to admit I have not been to the Great White Way in months. New Yorkers generally don’t go to Broadway. It’s amazing how people who will throw down $100 on a few cocktails without batting an eye will balk at Broadway prices. I attended a fundraiser for the lower eastside where plates were $1000 and my host, who paid for my admission, told me he thought Broadway was “too rich for his blood.” Reactions when I first moved here and went to shows varied from: “Wow. Really? Did you come into some money?” to “Dollah dollah bill y’all!” Somehow the value equasion for Broadway does not jive for natives. Broadway is almost exclusively a tourist destination.
That does not, however, mean I have been void of theatre. In fact, I’m seeing more theater here than ever before. There are off-Broadway shows and tons of festivals that keep original theatre flourishing throughout Manhattan. Last month it was the New York Fringe Festival. They extended 30 of the top shows in the month of September and I made an effort to attend three of them. The quality ranged from good to bad to (of course) ugly.
The Good
The best show was the first one I saw – a little piece called Jurassic Parq the Musical. It was a gem. At a running time of 70 minutes, they jammed in a musical repertoire that ranged from gospel to rap to ragtime, and dramatic themes that ranged from gender identity to existentialism to the supreme question of faith versus science – and it was a scream! The audience laughed the entire time. It was everything good musical theatre should be – entertaining, thought-provoking, fun, and you left the theatre singing the songs from the show. I loved it so much, I saw it twice. I wanted to share the joy and was not disappointed the second time around.
The Bad
The final show I took in was called Bunked about camp counselors. The talent was incredible, but the story, music, and dialogue were so mundane I found myself dozing off at certain points. Every song sounded the same, every character was a caricature and the set was hokey and distracting. Even the pacing of the storyline was abrupt and awkward. That being said, the cast gave it 100% and were incredibly talented. Their voices shone through the theatre and they threw themselves into the mediocre score. Their talent simply wasn’t enough to overcome the stinky script and music. It was too bad, but they did manage to salvage the production to a point where it wasn’t a total and complete waste of time. I went to the show with a friend who screens musicals for a living. His reaction was more direct. “I’m not spending a dime on that show,” he said as we left the theatre.
I was sorry I did.
The Ugly
For my birthday, I could think of nothing better than taking in some original musical theatre. I bought tickets to the audience winner of the Fringe Festival – a little production called Viva Los Bastarditos. The story seemed weird and the reviews were mixed, but I was optimistic. I knew it was going to be great.
I was wrong.
It was the story of these three band members, the "Pickles," who move back to some land they own in Western Massachusettes. No, I'm not making this up, this was the actual story. An evil wrong-doer played by a man with tiny nostrals and pointy eyebrows decides to forge a document that says he owns all the land and starts creating crazy laws that make the "towns folk" (all four of them), miserable. It's up to the "Pickles" to don masks and homemade capes and save the day.
We left at intermission.
I went with a friend whose only comment throughout the first act was: "What the fuck is happening?" Exactly.
What was happening, in fact, was New York theatre. Real New York theatre isn't neccessarily the glossy pop you find on Broadway, where every decision is based on money. Why else would 90% of the shows come from movies or books or TV shows? These musicals cater to tourists who shell out a lot of money and don't want to be disappointed.
I paid $20 for Los Bastarditos and I was pissed! Imagine if I had paid the Broadway prices of $125+. I would be beside myself. It would reflect poorly on New York. So instead, musicals are produced with familiar characters and story lines. Everyone knows walking into the theatre that they like Shrek or Spiderman or Mary Poppins. Their love is prepopulated. The real risks are taken off Broadway - south of 14th street. That's where theatre still soars, and sometimes falls flat.
So my friends in Seattle turned out to be right - I don't go to Broadway as much as I thought I would. Instead, I enjoy a different kind of theatre - just as I enjoy a different kind of New York.
Since I’ve moved to New York, I haven’t been to the Empire States Building, the Statue of Liberty or Carnegie Hall. And as a theatre lover, I have to admit I have not been to the Great White Way in months. New Yorkers generally don’t go to Broadway. It’s amazing how people who will throw down $100 on a few cocktails without batting an eye will balk at Broadway prices. I attended a fundraiser for the lower eastside where plates were $1000 and my host, who paid for my admission, told me he thought Broadway was “too rich for his blood.” Reactions when I first moved here and went to shows varied from: “Wow. Really? Did you come into some money?” to “Dollah dollah bill y’all!” Somehow the value equasion for Broadway does not jive for natives. Broadway is almost exclusively a tourist destination.
That does not, however, mean I have been void of theatre. In fact, I’m seeing more theater here than ever before. There are off-Broadway shows and tons of festivals that keep original theatre flourishing throughout Manhattan. Last month it was the New York Fringe Festival. They extended 30 of the top shows in the month of September and I made an effort to attend three of them. The quality ranged from good to bad to (of course) ugly.
The Good
The best show was the first one I saw – a little piece called Jurassic Parq the Musical. It was a gem. At a running time of 70 minutes, they jammed in a musical repertoire that ranged from gospel to rap to ragtime, and dramatic themes that ranged from gender identity to existentialism to the supreme question of faith versus science – and it was a scream! The audience laughed the entire time. It was everything good musical theatre should be – entertaining, thought-provoking, fun, and you left the theatre singing the songs from the show. I loved it so much, I saw it twice. I wanted to share the joy and was not disappointed the second time around.
The Bad
The final show I took in was called Bunked about camp counselors. The talent was incredible, but the story, music, and dialogue were so mundane I found myself dozing off at certain points. Every song sounded the same, every character was a caricature and the set was hokey and distracting. Even the pacing of the storyline was abrupt and awkward. That being said, the cast gave it 100% and were incredibly talented. Their voices shone through the theatre and they threw themselves into the mediocre score. Their talent simply wasn’t enough to overcome the stinky script and music. It was too bad, but they did manage to salvage the production to a point where it wasn’t a total and complete waste of time. I went to the show with a friend who screens musicals for a living. His reaction was more direct. “I’m not spending a dime on that show,” he said as we left the theatre.
I was sorry I did.
The Ugly
For my birthday, I could think of nothing better than taking in some original musical theatre. I bought tickets to the audience winner of the Fringe Festival – a little production called Viva Los Bastarditos. The story seemed weird and the reviews were mixed, but I was optimistic. I knew it was going to be great.
I was wrong.
It was the story of these three band members, the "Pickles," who move back to some land they own in Western Massachusettes. No, I'm not making this up, this was the actual story. An evil wrong-doer played by a man with tiny nostrals and pointy eyebrows decides to forge a document that says he owns all the land and starts creating crazy laws that make the "towns folk" (all four of them), miserable. It's up to the "Pickles" to don masks and homemade capes and save the day.
We left at intermission.
I went with a friend whose only comment throughout the first act was: "What the fuck is happening?" Exactly.
What was happening, in fact, was New York theatre. Real New York theatre isn't neccessarily the glossy pop you find on Broadway, where every decision is based on money. Why else would 90% of the shows come from movies or books or TV shows? These musicals cater to tourists who shell out a lot of money and don't want to be disappointed.
I paid $20 for Los Bastarditos and I was pissed! Imagine if I had paid the Broadway prices of $125+. I would be beside myself. It would reflect poorly on New York. So instead, musicals are produced with familiar characters and story lines. Everyone knows walking into the theatre that they like Shrek or Spiderman or Mary Poppins. Their love is prepopulated. The real risks are taken off Broadway - south of 14th street. That's where theatre still soars, and sometimes falls flat.
So my friends in Seattle turned out to be right - I don't go to Broadway as much as I thought I would. Instead, I enjoy a different kind of theatre - just as I enjoy a different kind of New York.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Take me Out to the Ballgame
The Yankees have a certain reputation across the country. They’re spoiled, over-paid, pretty boys who complain about their diamond shoes being too tight and their wallets not having enough room for their hundreds. Basically, they’re the privileged youth - the Blaine, not the Ducky - of Major League Baseball.
This reputation is polarizing. Across the country and across New York, people either love or hate the Yankees. 2010 marked the inaugural year of the new Yankees Stadium and last week I was fortunate enough to take in a game there for the first time.
My friend Ian and his girl have eight season tickets and are avid fans. Last Tuesday they had an extra ticket and invited me to tag alone. They were the perfect hosts to the new stadium – they weren’t your garden variety special-occasion-walk-off-the-street kind of fans. No, they had a whole system going on and were more than happy to show me the ropes.
We started at the Yankee bar, a small hole in the wall with friendly service and stiff drinks. I had a bit of a throat issue going on, so I sipped whiskey, but their group’s drink of choice was universally Bud Light. This Bud Light affection continued through the night. There was a group of six – which was a great size to take in a game. We watched the first inning on television as the real game happened less than 200 yards away. The Yankees took a strong lead (5-0), so we were rather casual about getting to the stadium.
After the drinks, we meandered over to the field. I don’t exactly know where our seats were, because we immediately went to a small area right behind home plate. Ian seemed to know everyone in the area and introduced me around. It felt a bit like going to a cocktail party (or a barbecue – wink) as it was 80% socializing and drinking and 20% actually watching the baseball activity happening literally in front of our eyes.
We talked of puppies and parking, women and warts- anything and everything but baseball. We stayed posted at this spot until the seventh inning stretch and then hiked up three flights to another viewing spot they scouted.
This one was outside a restaurant, so there were actual tables on which to place your drinks. The view was amazing a more expansive than the first. We stayed there through the end of the eighth inning. At that point, while it wasn’t the end of the game, it was time for us to go.
The group continued to party and went from the game to another bar in the area. I opted out and said my farewells. It was past 11:00 and I was teaching in the morning. I had a great time, though. It was so different than the experience I would have if I just went there alone. I would undoubtedly get to the stadium and go directly to my seat . I would likely be there on time and stay through the end of the game. I would probably avoid purchasing any beer at the stadium (at $10 a pop….for Bud Light!), and would have had a perfectly lovely time at the game. As it happened though, it felt like the baseball was secondary and it was all about hanging out with friends. It was a more intimate, social experience that made me feel like a true New Yorker....and I loved every minute of it.
This reputation is polarizing. Across the country and across New York, people either love or hate the Yankees. 2010 marked the inaugural year of the new Yankees Stadium and last week I was fortunate enough to take in a game there for the first time.
My friend Ian and his girl have eight season tickets and are avid fans. Last Tuesday they had an extra ticket and invited me to tag alone. They were the perfect hosts to the new stadium – they weren’t your garden variety special-occasion-walk-off-the-street kind of fans. No, they had a whole system going on and were more than happy to show me the ropes.
We started at the Yankee bar, a small hole in the wall with friendly service and stiff drinks. I had a bit of a throat issue going on, so I sipped whiskey, but their group’s drink of choice was universally Bud Light. This Bud Light affection continued through the night. There was a group of six – which was a great size to take in a game. We watched the first inning on television as the real game happened less than 200 yards away. The Yankees took a strong lead (5-0), so we were rather casual about getting to the stadium.
After the drinks, we meandered over to the field. I don’t exactly know where our seats were, because we immediately went to a small area right behind home plate. Ian seemed to know everyone in the area and introduced me around. It felt a bit like going to a cocktail party (or a barbecue – wink) as it was 80% socializing and drinking and 20% actually watching the baseball activity happening literally in front of our eyes.
We talked of puppies and parking, women and warts- anything and everything but baseball. We stayed posted at this spot until the seventh inning stretch and then hiked up three flights to another viewing spot they scouted.
This one was outside a restaurant, so there were actual tables on which to place your drinks. The view was amazing a more expansive than the first. We stayed there through the end of the eighth inning. At that point, while it wasn’t the end of the game, it was time for us to go.
The group continued to party and went from the game to another bar in the area. I opted out and said my farewells. It was past 11:00 and I was teaching in the morning. I had a great time, though. It was so different than the experience I would have if I just went there alone. I would undoubtedly get to the stadium and go directly to my seat . I would likely be there on time and stay through the end of the game. I would probably avoid purchasing any beer at the stadium (at $10 a pop….for Bud Light!), and would have had a perfectly lovely time at the game. As it happened though, it felt like the baseball was secondary and it was all about hanging out with friends. It was a more intimate, social experience that made me feel like a true New Yorker....and I loved every minute of it.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Long Live the Barbecue
Here’s something I didn’t realize about myself until I moved to New York: I love a good barbecue. You would think as a vegetarian I would be turned off by a party that revolves around the slow cooking of flesh, but actually, I think barbecues are a hoot! In the past three weeks, I’ve partaken in three equally delightful and diverse barbecues.
The first one was on a friend’s roof in the lower east side. The crowd of 15-20 stayed standing for much of the festivities and mingled in small groups. I met a man who owned his own hedge fund firm, an investment banker, and an advertising executive. I felt a little intimated by their successes and stature, but I was able to fit into this crowd by being one of many who owned two houses - that seemed pretty standard.
These upwardly mobile work-acoholics were meeting me for the first time, but were universally warm and welcoming. In addition to the standard barbecue fare of hamburgers and potato chips, our host had put out pita and hummus, a variety of olives, and a couscous dish that was a celebration of summer with the inclusion of all its fresh vegetables. The company was delightful, but the food made me stay until almost midnight.
The next barbecue was exactly a week later at my co-workers house. He lives in a tiny apartment with his girlfriend in the upper eastside with one treasured feature: a backyard. They took this 10 x 20 slab of concrete connected to their back sliding door and planted fresh herbs and plants around its circumference to soften up the atmosphere and give the entire area a sweet, comfortable feel. Their backyard consisted of a long dining table, a couple lounge chairs, and of course, a barbecue. Every other square inch was taken up with people. They invited 50 and 75 showed up to their 500 square foot apartment. The atmosphere was loud, raucous and a lot of fun. The wide variety of guests made for great conversations. A small sampling:
- Fat people on hot airplanes, Vegas, the Yankees
- Popular New York bike rides, vegetarianism, marathons
- Hangover cures, trade shows, dating
It was quite a bit different than the barbecue a week prior. For one thing, there was no hummus in sight and the alcoholic selection was 100% beer, but the group was equally as warm and friendly. If I hadn’t been to the US Open all day, I would likely have stayed until midnight at this one as well. As it was, I left a bit after 8:00, regrettably. I had to get home to my dog who I had left alone early that morning.
The final barbecue was a week later in Harlem. It was a school reunion of sorts and I had been invited as a friend of one of the alumni. The festivities took place in the basement of our host's childhood home, where his much younger, much messier brother resided. There was a makeshift bar and a kitchen counter, but the gem was out back. Roy, our host, had real grass and trees in his backyard along with a selection of eclectic chairs and a real live fire pit. It was lovely.
I was one of the few in attendance who wasn't a professional designer. The group was intelligent, witty, and very creative. After a few beverages, the conversation flowed. Everyone glowed a reddish hue from the light of the fire and their own alcohol-induced warmth.
The guest of honor was a young woman who was visiting from Ireland. She met her husband on a vacation there and married him two years later. Her visits to New York were infrequent and cause for celebration. A small group of us, including the Irish resident and a visitor from Minnesota who flew in for this reunion, stumbled through the dark streets of Northern Manhattan well past three in the morning. We were content with an evening of great food, stimulating conversation, and laughter that crackled like the fire through the night.
Yes, barbecues are fantastic. It's interesting that in a city of this magnitude, a suburban activity still reins as king of the summer. I'm glad it does. There's nothing wrong with a few friends congregating around grilled meats and cold beers, wherever they can find a slab of concrete or a blade of grass. It's a universal summer pastime - even in New York City.
The first one was on a friend’s roof in the lower east side. The crowd of 15-20 stayed standing for much of the festivities and mingled in small groups. I met a man who owned his own hedge fund firm, an investment banker, and an advertising executive. I felt a little intimated by their successes and stature, but I was able to fit into this crowd by being one of many who owned two houses - that seemed pretty standard.
These upwardly mobile work-acoholics were meeting me for the first time, but were universally warm and welcoming. In addition to the standard barbecue fare of hamburgers and potato chips, our host had put out pita and hummus, a variety of olives, and a couscous dish that was a celebration of summer with the inclusion of all its fresh vegetables. The company was delightful, but the food made me stay until almost midnight.
The next barbecue was exactly a week later at my co-workers house. He lives in a tiny apartment with his girlfriend in the upper eastside with one treasured feature: a backyard. They took this 10 x 20 slab of concrete connected to their back sliding door and planted fresh herbs and plants around its circumference to soften up the atmosphere and give the entire area a sweet, comfortable feel. Their backyard consisted of a long dining table, a couple lounge chairs, and of course, a barbecue. Every other square inch was taken up with people. They invited 50 and 75 showed up to their 500 square foot apartment. The atmosphere was loud, raucous and a lot of fun. The wide variety of guests made for great conversations. A small sampling:
- Fat people on hot airplanes, Vegas, the Yankees
- Popular New York bike rides, vegetarianism, marathons
- Hangover cures, trade shows, dating
It was quite a bit different than the barbecue a week prior. For one thing, there was no hummus in sight and the alcoholic selection was 100% beer, but the group was equally as warm and friendly. If I hadn’t been to the US Open all day, I would likely have stayed until midnight at this one as well. As it was, I left a bit after 8:00, regrettably. I had to get home to my dog who I had left alone early that morning.
The final barbecue was a week later in Harlem. It was a school reunion of sorts and I had been invited as a friend of one of the alumni. The festivities took place in the basement of our host's childhood home, where his much younger, much messier brother resided. There was a makeshift bar and a kitchen counter, but the gem was out back. Roy, our host, had real grass and trees in his backyard along with a selection of eclectic chairs and a real live fire pit. It was lovely.
I was one of the few in attendance who wasn't a professional designer. The group was intelligent, witty, and very creative. After a few beverages, the conversation flowed. Everyone glowed a reddish hue from the light of the fire and their own alcohol-induced warmth.
The guest of honor was a young woman who was visiting from Ireland. She met her husband on a vacation there and married him two years later. Her visits to New York were infrequent and cause for celebration. A small group of us, including the Irish resident and a visitor from Minnesota who flew in for this reunion, stumbled through the dark streets of Northern Manhattan well past three in the morning. We were content with an evening of great food, stimulating conversation, and laughter that crackled like the fire through the night.
Yes, barbecues are fantastic. It's interesting that in a city of this magnitude, a suburban activity still reins as king of the summer. I'm glad it does. There's nothing wrong with a few friends congregating around grilled meats and cold beers, wherever they can find a slab of concrete or a blade of grass. It's a universal summer pastime - even in New York City.
Summer Swansong
New York is a biking town. For people outside the city, this may come as a shock. Yes, there is quite a bit of traffic, lanes are subject to interpretation, and street-level flow is manic. All that is true, but Manhattan also has the busiest bike path in the country which runs along the west side highway and circumferences the entire island. You can bike around Central and Prospect parks, over the Brooklyn bridge, and all the way to Coney island on the oldest bike path in America. There are annual century rides, weekly races around Central Park, and a bike race through all five boroughs that attract thousands of enthusiastic participants. More and more people are using bikes as their primary means of transportation with a new lane on 6th making riding even easier. I was talking to a man the other night who rides from his Brooklyn home to his work in Queens daily. He said the fastest commute was on his bike followed by the subway. The slowest option was a car.
I hadn’t been on a bike since the start of summer and was anxious to get back on two wheels before Labor Day. My adventure started in Prospect Park Sunday afternoon and winded through Brooklyn towards Coney Island. Along the way, we rode past storefronts in Yiddish, Chinese, Russian, and even English. A pit stop at the famous Spamoni Gardens alone was worth the trip. The crunchy, sweet crust was spread with a creamy, salty cheese and topped with a tomato sauce that puckered your lips with its fresh tang. The pie melted in your mouth and expanded in your stomach. Without the post-lunch ride, I think I would still be in a food coma.
The ride continued through Coney Island along the boardwalk, past the Tatiana cafes of Brighton Beach and the party boats on Sheepshead Bay. After crossing a narrow bridge, we ended up at Riis Park at the foot of the Rockaways. With the absence of lifeguards and the $25 roundtrip ticket from the city, this beach is known for attracting its fair share of hipsters. Bikini tops are optional and tattoos strongly encouraged. The sea was rough from Hurricane Earl and I opted not to go too far out in the water for fear of being swept away.
In the evening we continued our journey to downtown Rockaway where we were staying at the D Piper Inn. When we arrived, Peter, the Inn’s owner, had opted for surfing over hanging around to greet us, but his friend Tom stepped in to show us around. After stashing our bikes among the boogie boards and surfboards in their overgrown backyard, we went in search of the famous Rockaway tacos. The pizza was now a distant memory, so we headed over to the taco shack at a brisk pace to make sure we caught them before they closed at eight. The shack was 10 feet wide with a single window where people walked up to place their order. Cartoon shapes were painted on its side in bright colors that had chipped off with the tumultuous ocean weather. Tomato plants lined the roof and a smattering of mismatched chairs and ½ dozen end tables were set up in a small alley off to the side. The crowd was mostly younger and many carried boards from their day at the beach. The fish tacos were divine and (because we ordered deluxe) topped with chunky guacamole. It was clear to see why this place was legendary.
From our taco feast, we walked along the shore to the Sand Bar, the only bar in New York with a view of the Atlantic Ocean. The bar was featured in the Times that morning and that notoriety was all the incentive we needed. Once we got there, we saw that while the bar was technically on the beach, the bright, garish, fluorescent lights instantly made you forget you were on the water.
There were less than 20 people milling about the square bar, sipping their gin & tonics and amber beers. We saddled up to a corner spot and ended up next to an inebriated elderly man who bragged about doing time for attempted murder in between questioning the manliness of “sissy Manhattan types.” The whole scene made me uncomfortable and I suggested we depart after a single drink.
We meandered through the sleepy, rundown town and found a commemorative park on the bay – about eight blocks west of the ocean. The park had an alter decorated in stained glass that was set amidst a backdrop of the lapping waves of the bay and a breathtaking panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. It was not the first time I’ve been surprised by how visible that skyline is from so many areas in greater New York, and how many people must have been horrified by actual views of the devastation nine years ago.
I opted for an early night so I could see the sunrise over the ocean the next morning. It was worth the early alarm and the vibrant reds and oranges of the morning were like silent promises of a glorious day to come.
On our way out of town, we grabbed another taco for the road and biked the 10 miles to Long Beach. We got to the tip and pulled over to the shore where we thought the boardwalk began. Although we were wrong about the boardwalk, the attendant didn’t charge us the standard admission fee and the beach was practically empty. We decided to lock our bikes up and stay for the day.
The water was cold, but the sun was gloriously toasty. We lounged around like walruses, occasionally turning over in the sun to keep our bodies evenly warm. It felt like the last hoorah of summer – and as it turned out – it was. It was our final beach trip before the chill of Autumn breezed into New York, driving residents to their closets for scarves and turning green leaves red. It was as if the summer sun had looked at a calendar, and turned down its heat post-Labor Day. It was a wonderful summer swansong however, and one I’ll always remember fondly.
I look forward to welcoming the summer back with open arms…and a similar trip…in about nine months.
I hadn’t been on a bike since the start of summer and was anxious to get back on two wheels before Labor Day. My adventure started in Prospect Park Sunday afternoon and winded through Brooklyn towards Coney Island. Along the way, we rode past storefronts in Yiddish, Chinese, Russian, and even English. A pit stop at the famous Spamoni Gardens alone was worth the trip. The crunchy, sweet crust was spread with a creamy, salty cheese and topped with a tomato sauce that puckered your lips with its fresh tang. The pie melted in your mouth and expanded in your stomach. Without the post-lunch ride, I think I would still be in a food coma.
The ride continued through Coney Island along the boardwalk, past the Tatiana cafes of Brighton Beach and the party boats on Sheepshead Bay. After crossing a narrow bridge, we ended up at Riis Park at the foot of the Rockaways. With the absence of lifeguards and the $25 roundtrip ticket from the city, this beach is known for attracting its fair share of hipsters. Bikini tops are optional and tattoos strongly encouraged. The sea was rough from Hurricane Earl and I opted not to go too far out in the water for fear of being swept away.
In the evening we continued our journey to downtown Rockaway where we were staying at the D Piper Inn. When we arrived, Peter, the Inn’s owner, had opted for surfing over hanging around to greet us, but his friend Tom stepped in to show us around. After stashing our bikes among the boogie boards and surfboards in their overgrown backyard, we went in search of the famous Rockaway tacos. The pizza was now a distant memory, so we headed over to the taco shack at a brisk pace to make sure we caught them before they closed at eight. The shack was 10 feet wide with a single window where people walked up to place their order. Cartoon shapes were painted on its side in bright colors that had chipped off with the tumultuous ocean weather. Tomato plants lined the roof and a smattering of mismatched chairs and ½ dozen end tables were set up in a small alley off to the side. The crowd was mostly younger and many carried boards from their day at the beach. The fish tacos were divine and (because we ordered deluxe) topped with chunky guacamole. It was clear to see why this place was legendary.
From our taco feast, we walked along the shore to the Sand Bar, the only bar in New York with a view of the Atlantic Ocean. The bar was featured in the Times that morning and that notoriety was all the incentive we needed. Once we got there, we saw that while the bar was technically on the beach, the bright, garish, fluorescent lights instantly made you forget you were on the water.
There were less than 20 people milling about the square bar, sipping their gin & tonics and amber beers. We saddled up to a corner spot and ended up next to an inebriated elderly man who bragged about doing time for attempted murder in between questioning the manliness of “sissy Manhattan types.” The whole scene made me uncomfortable and I suggested we depart after a single drink.
We meandered through the sleepy, rundown town and found a commemorative park on the bay – about eight blocks west of the ocean. The park had an alter decorated in stained glass that was set amidst a backdrop of the lapping waves of the bay and a breathtaking panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. It was not the first time I’ve been surprised by how visible that skyline is from so many areas in greater New York, and how many people must have been horrified by actual views of the devastation nine years ago.
I opted for an early night so I could see the sunrise over the ocean the next morning. It was worth the early alarm and the vibrant reds and oranges of the morning were like silent promises of a glorious day to come.
On our way out of town, we grabbed another taco for the road and biked the 10 miles to Long Beach. We got to the tip and pulled over to the shore where we thought the boardwalk began. Although we were wrong about the boardwalk, the attendant didn’t charge us the standard admission fee and the beach was practically empty. We decided to lock our bikes up and stay for the day.
The water was cold, but the sun was gloriously toasty. We lounged around like walruses, occasionally turning over in the sun to keep our bodies evenly warm. It felt like the last hoorah of summer – and as it turned out – it was. It was our final beach trip before the chill of Autumn breezed into New York, driving residents to their closets for scarves and turning green leaves red. It was as if the summer sun had looked at a calendar, and turned down its heat post-Labor Day. It was a wonderful summer swansong however, and one I’ll always remember fondly.
I look forward to welcoming the summer back with open arms…and a similar trip…in about nine months.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Misty
I always get to the subway station when the local entertainment is singing Misty. His steel guitar is accompanies by his sweet, lofty voice that cuts through the rumbling of the express trains. Recently, he’s starting bringing a friend along to play the sax. It’s a very nice arrangement.
His rendition is fine as cherry wine, and certainly I have no cause to complain, but I would appreciate a little variety. I feel like hit the subway station at slightly different times every day. A series of events – how many miles I run on the treadmill, if there’s hot water in my building, how many friends puppy runs into in the park, how interesting the top news stories are on Morning Edition, how I wear my hair down or up, if it’s one of the mornings I get the New York Times – dictate whether I get to the subway station at 7:42 or 8:35 or sometime in between.
Yet despite the variance of the minute hand, the song is always the same…Misty. Is this an uncanny coincidence? Do I just happen to hit him during Misty every day? Or do I perhaps inspire him in some way? When he sees me, is he compelled to breakout into Misty? Or does he just play one song? Is it possible to earn a living in New York City, the most expensive, expansive city in the country, off a single rendition of Misty?
Apparently, it is.
I guess I’ll just continue to enjoy this entertainment as part of the steady rhythm and routine of my mornings in the city. What else can I do? Cry about it? Now here I go….getting misty….
His rendition is fine as cherry wine, and certainly I have no cause to complain, but I would appreciate a little variety. I feel like hit the subway station at slightly different times every day. A series of events – how many miles I run on the treadmill, if there’s hot water in my building, how many friends puppy runs into in the park, how interesting the top news stories are on Morning Edition, how I wear my hair down or up, if it’s one of the mornings I get the New York Times – dictate whether I get to the subway station at 7:42 or 8:35 or sometime in between.
Yet despite the variance of the minute hand, the song is always the same…Misty. Is this an uncanny coincidence? Do I just happen to hit him during Misty every day? Or do I perhaps inspire him in some way? When he sees me, is he compelled to breakout into Misty? Or does he just play one song? Is it possible to earn a living in New York City, the most expensive, expansive city in the country, off a single rendition of Misty?
Apparently, it is.
I guess I’ll just continue to enjoy this entertainment as part of the steady rhythm and routine of my mornings in the city. What else can I do? Cry about it? Now here I go….getting misty….
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Dance Off
I have a friend who loves to dance. This is most fortunate because it’s a love we share. In Seattle, there were few opportunities and companions with which to dance, but in New York, people are always throwing down.
He recommended we go to one of his favorite spots on Thursday nights to dance Bhangra at a club on the corner of West Houston and Verick. We met at 9:00 so we could take the pre-dance lessons. Lord knows I needed it.
Dancing Bhangra is kind of like being in Bollywood movie. The drums are heavy, the sitars are tight, and everyone dances with their hands in the air and a wiggle in their shoulders. The lesson was similar to an aerobics class. The beautiful woman on stage would show the crowd 8-32 counts of choreography and turn on the music so we could mimic the steps to our best ability. After a while, she started putting things together and inviting people on stage. I couldn’t stop smiling. I know I looked a bit goofy, but it was certainly a lot of fun.
When the lesson was over, the woman left the stage, the music grew even louder, and the good dancers started to file in. The crowd was heavily East Indian, but overall was a quite a mix of ages and backgrounds. The one thing everyone had in common seemed to be their smiles and enthusiasm for the dance. Most of the crowd threw themselves into the music, abandoning any attempt to be “cool” or “sophisticated.” It was quite refreshing for New York.
I pointed out to my friend that it was rare to see men dancing with such joy and vigor. Men danced in clusters with their whole bodies moving to the music; their hands waving in the air, their hips shaking, shifting side to side in lateral leaps and kicks – it was a true expression of joy.
The man I was with got completely drenched in sweat as he moved his own body around to the beat for the few hours we were there. He too was smiling nearly the entire time. With every shake of their shoulders, the driving beat and the warm, welcoming environment, men in the room were allowed to shake off the pretenses of being a typical stoic, macho New York man, and resign themselves to the joy of Bhangra.
He recommended we go to one of his favorite spots on Thursday nights to dance Bhangra at a club on the corner of West Houston and Verick. We met at 9:00 so we could take the pre-dance lessons. Lord knows I needed it.
Dancing Bhangra is kind of like being in Bollywood movie. The drums are heavy, the sitars are tight, and everyone dances with their hands in the air and a wiggle in their shoulders. The lesson was similar to an aerobics class. The beautiful woman on stage would show the crowd 8-32 counts of choreography and turn on the music so we could mimic the steps to our best ability. After a while, she started putting things together and inviting people on stage. I couldn’t stop smiling. I know I looked a bit goofy, but it was certainly a lot of fun.
When the lesson was over, the woman left the stage, the music grew even louder, and the good dancers started to file in. The crowd was heavily East Indian, but overall was a quite a mix of ages and backgrounds. The one thing everyone had in common seemed to be their smiles and enthusiasm for the dance. Most of the crowd threw themselves into the music, abandoning any attempt to be “cool” or “sophisticated.” It was quite refreshing for New York.
I pointed out to my friend that it was rare to see men dancing with such joy and vigor. Men danced in clusters with their whole bodies moving to the music; their hands waving in the air, their hips shaking, shifting side to side in lateral leaps and kicks – it was a true expression of joy.
The man I was with got completely drenched in sweat as he moved his own body around to the beat for the few hours we were there. He too was smiling nearly the entire time. With every shake of their shoulders, the driving beat and the warm, welcoming environment, men in the room were allowed to shake off the pretenses of being a typical stoic, macho New York man, and resign themselves to the joy of Bhangra.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Ladies Night
My friend invited me out for a ladies night to see some burlesque with her friend Kristin. Kristin and I had met once before and really hit it off, so I was excited for the evening.
I met the ladies in a dingy bar in the lower east side at 8:00 as the show, according to the website, was starting at 9:00. As I pulled up a stool and ordered a gin and tonic however, my friend announced that the website was wrong, and the show actually wouldn’t start until 11:00. We waited it out by getting some food at an adorable restaurant around the corner, and having one-too-many gin and tonics.
When we rolled back into the bar, we decided that because we had spent so much time there, we shouldn’t actually have to pay for the burlesque. We justified, to our slightly inebriated selves, that we had earned free tickets to the show. We set about conceiving of a sneaky plan that was about as sly and refined as Mr. Kool-Aid busting through brick walls.
Our first hurdle was the door man. The older gentleman was sitting casually by the door, staring out into space. My friend Helen approached. “Excuse me,” she said with a smile, “our friend left her sweater here earlier. Do you mind if we have a peak?” He barely acknowledged her and gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head toward the dark room. We were in.
We took a rather high profile table next to the stage. In hindsight, this wasn’t the best choice, but the gin had clouded our judgment, as gin tends to do. The act was still setting up their equipment and people were slowly starting to file into the room to watch the show. One of the members of the act approached the table and I perked up in my chair. We were busted. She was an overweight redhead in a black bustier and she looked right at me as she said: “can you guys save this seat for the camera guy?”
“Sure,” I said, smiling with relief. “What’s his name?”
“His name is Bob,” she replied and shuffled off.
“Oh we are IN,” Kristin squeeled. “We know the camera guy!”
Our glee was short-lived however, when a much smaller woman in street clothes approached. She appeared sharper than the first lady and carried a clipboard, which was immediately intimidating. “Did you guys get stamped by Joe?” she asked abruptly.
We all just stared blankly at her for a moment, and then Helen asked her to repeat herself. This went on far too long, with Helen just pretending she couldn’t hear the question and the clip-board-wielding pixie getting more and more frustrated. Finally, Kristin stopped the cycle by saying, “we’re with the camera guy.”
“Bob,” I added for good measure.
She looked at us skeptically, and tilted her head slightly to the left. “I’m going to check on this. I’ll be back,” and she continued onto the next table.
At this point, we knew we were busted. She was going to check with the door guy or, heaven forbid, with Bob himself and we would be found out. We knew it was hopeless. Well, two of us knew it was hopeless. Kristin still had hope in the form of a foolproof plan she came up with on the spot. She shared this plan of hers between bouts of hysterical laughter, so it took a while to get out the plan in its entirety, but it went something like this:
We’ll all put one hand in our pocket.
That was the plan.
We couldn't lose.
I was resigned to paying the $15, even with the inspired “pocket plan”, but then a miracle occurred. Pixie returned and said, shockingly, “all right. Your story checks out. Let me see your hands so I can stamp them.”
We all looked at her with our mouths open. Our story checked out? How could this be? Our story was a lie!
The show, turns out, was terrible. We ended up staying less than thirty minutes.
Overall however, it was a fine evening. While the entertainment was lackluster, the company was divine and the price was certainly right.
I met the ladies in a dingy bar in the lower east side at 8:00 as the show, according to the website, was starting at 9:00. As I pulled up a stool and ordered a gin and tonic however, my friend announced that the website was wrong, and the show actually wouldn’t start until 11:00. We waited it out by getting some food at an adorable restaurant around the corner, and having one-too-many gin and tonics.
When we rolled back into the bar, we decided that because we had spent so much time there, we shouldn’t actually have to pay for the burlesque. We justified, to our slightly inebriated selves, that we had earned free tickets to the show. We set about conceiving of a sneaky plan that was about as sly and refined as Mr. Kool-Aid busting through brick walls.
Our first hurdle was the door man. The older gentleman was sitting casually by the door, staring out into space. My friend Helen approached. “Excuse me,” she said with a smile, “our friend left her sweater here earlier. Do you mind if we have a peak?” He barely acknowledged her and gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head toward the dark room. We were in.
We took a rather high profile table next to the stage. In hindsight, this wasn’t the best choice, but the gin had clouded our judgment, as gin tends to do. The act was still setting up their equipment and people were slowly starting to file into the room to watch the show. One of the members of the act approached the table and I perked up in my chair. We were busted. She was an overweight redhead in a black bustier and she looked right at me as she said: “can you guys save this seat for the camera guy?”
“Sure,” I said, smiling with relief. “What’s his name?”
“His name is Bob,” she replied and shuffled off.
“Oh we are IN,” Kristin squeeled. “We know the camera guy!”
Our glee was short-lived however, when a much smaller woman in street clothes approached. She appeared sharper than the first lady and carried a clipboard, which was immediately intimidating. “Did you guys get stamped by Joe?” she asked abruptly.
We all just stared blankly at her for a moment, and then Helen asked her to repeat herself. This went on far too long, with Helen just pretending she couldn’t hear the question and the clip-board-wielding pixie getting more and more frustrated. Finally, Kristin stopped the cycle by saying, “we’re with the camera guy.”
“Bob,” I added for good measure.
She looked at us skeptically, and tilted her head slightly to the left. “I’m going to check on this. I’ll be back,” and she continued onto the next table.
At this point, we knew we were busted. She was going to check with the door guy or, heaven forbid, with Bob himself and we would be found out. We knew it was hopeless. Well, two of us knew it was hopeless. Kristin still had hope in the form of a foolproof plan she came up with on the spot. She shared this plan of hers between bouts of hysterical laughter, so it took a while to get out the plan in its entirety, but it went something like this:
We’ll all put one hand in our pocket.
That was the plan.
We couldn't lose.
I was resigned to paying the $15, even with the inspired “pocket plan”, but then a miracle occurred. Pixie returned and said, shockingly, “all right. Your story checks out. Let me see your hands so I can stamp them.”
We all looked at her with our mouths open. Our story checked out? How could this be? Our story was a lie!
The show, turns out, was terrible. We ended up staying less than thirty minutes.
Overall however, it was a fine evening. While the entertainment was lackluster, the company was divine and the price was certainly right.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Escape to the Beach....the Ritsy Beach (IV)
New Yorkers have quite a few options when choosing a beach. I’ve only been to a few, but my understanding is that Coney Island is the cheapest option, as you can get there with your Metro Card. Long Beach takes the same amount of time, but comes with the added cost of a train ticket. If you want to hang out with the rich and famous however, you go to the Hamptons.
I was invited to the Hamptons by a friend who had a random invitation from a high school classmate whose parent’s owned a house there. I didn’t know any of them very well, but an invitation to the Hamptons for the weekend is not something one takes lightly around these parts. I wanted to experience the glitz and glamour, so I enthusiastically agreed to go.
Summer weekends in New York City are pretty darn quiet. It’s easy to catch a cab and you can get from the upper west side to downtown in less than 20 minutes. There’s no need to make dinner reservations and concerts, shows, and other events rarely sell out. This is because summer weekends invoke a mass exodus of New Yorkers out of the city. Consequently, when the four of us were making our way out of Manhattan on Friday, we were faced with an unending line of bumper to bumper traffic.
The company was delightful however, and the conversation flowed from the proposed masque near Ground Zero to online dating to what kind of pie we were going to have for dessert the following night. Our hosts were a young married couple who met on J-Date. They were both as sweet and warm as the peach and blueberry pie we devoured Saturday night.
We got to East Hampton in just over three hours. Their house was close to town and had four large bedrooms plus a mother-in-law house and a sprawling backyard. It was a lovely piece of property, but it was hard to appreciate because every surface was overrun with clutter. Open bags of pretzels greeted us in the kitchen. There were bags of snack mix, chips, cereal, and a piece of aluminum with cooked chicken on the counter next to the sink. All of this was even more discerning because Victoria’s parents weren’t expected until later that night. This mess had been in this condition for an entire week. Ugh.
If the clutter wasn’t enough, there was a film of dirt over the every surface in the house. The counters and floors were simply dirty. The toilet looked like it had never been cleaned and in the mother-in-law house, where I stayed, it looked like there was a spill in the kitchen that simply never got cleaned up.
Remarkably, I didn’t see a single bug in my weekend there. Well, at least a live bug. There were some dead bugs lining my shower in the basement, but I just pretended I was camping. The water was hot, I kept telling myself. It could be worse.
The first night there, we went into town for dinner. We ate lobster, steamed clams with lemon and butter, swordfish, and fried mussels. We took our seafood feast to a local park and gazed out on the boats as we ate. It was delicious. We topped off the meal at a local ice cream shop where they made their waffle cones fresh out of real waffles! With a waffle iron! The smell was heavenly.
The following day, after stops to over-priced yuppie grocery stores and what will affectionately be called the “country pie store” (they had real chickens and rabbits out back!); we made our way to the beach. The beach was private and lovely. There were none of the Long Beach crowds and the water was crystal clear. I spent the day swimming, going for long walks, reading my book, and listening to the occasional podcast. It was very relaxing and almost seemed to make the trip worthwhile. We had packed a bunch of food, but by 6:00, were getting hungry, and reluctantly made our way back to the dirty house.
We stopped off at a local farm to grab some veggies for dinner – heirloom tomatoes, fresh corn and zucchini that had been picked that morning. A quick shower with the bugs and we all cooked an amazing dinner together. The food was truly remarkable, and it was almost possible to forget about the filth as we sipped silky wine and popped the occasional sweet tomato into our mouths. As we were finishing up preparations, Victoria’s parents returned from their day and joined us for dinner.
Dinner was a little chaotic with Victoria and her mother arguing about the messy house and people talking over each other around the circular table. The food, as it had been all weekend, was fantastic and we topped off the evening with a rousing game of Taboo. Nothing seems too bad when you’re playing board games….
I had to leave early the next day to get back to the city, and as I rode the Jitney through the grey drizzle of the morning, I reflected on the notoriety of the Hamptons. While the Hamptons are known for lovely beaches, beautiful, yet pretentious people, and high end shopping that rivals Rodeo Drive, my Hampton experience was the polar opposite. I will remember my Hampton experience as one with fresh, farm-grown food and warm, unassuming company. And I will remember being anxious to leave the Hamptons and return to the relative cleanliness…of New York City.
I was invited to the Hamptons by a friend who had a random invitation from a high school classmate whose parent’s owned a house there. I didn’t know any of them very well, but an invitation to the Hamptons for the weekend is not something one takes lightly around these parts. I wanted to experience the glitz and glamour, so I enthusiastically agreed to go.
Summer weekends in New York City are pretty darn quiet. It’s easy to catch a cab and you can get from the upper west side to downtown in less than 20 minutes. There’s no need to make dinner reservations and concerts, shows, and other events rarely sell out. This is because summer weekends invoke a mass exodus of New Yorkers out of the city. Consequently, when the four of us were making our way out of Manhattan on Friday, we were faced with an unending line of bumper to bumper traffic.
The company was delightful however, and the conversation flowed from the proposed masque near Ground Zero to online dating to what kind of pie we were going to have for dessert the following night. Our hosts were a young married couple who met on J-Date. They were both as sweet and warm as the peach and blueberry pie we devoured Saturday night.
We got to East Hampton in just over three hours. Their house was close to town and had four large bedrooms plus a mother-in-law house and a sprawling backyard. It was a lovely piece of property, but it was hard to appreciate because every surface was overrun with clutter. Open bags of pretzels greeted us in the kitchen. There were bags of snack mix, chips, cereal, and a piece of aluminum with cooked chicken on the counter next to the sink. All of this was even more discerning because Victoria’s parents weren’t expected until later that night. This mess had been in this condition for an entire week. Ugh.
If the clutter wasn’t enough, there was a film of dirt over the every surface in the house. The counters and floors were simply dirty. The toilet looked like it had never been cleaned and in the mother-in-law house, where I stayed, it looked like there was a spill in the kitchen that simply never got cleaned up.
Remarkably, I didn’t see a single bug in my weekend there. Well, at least a live bug. There were some dead bugs lining my shower in the basement, but I just pretended I was camping. The water was hot, I kept telling myself. It could be worse.
The first night there, we went into town for dinner. We ate lobster, steamed clams with lemon and butter, swordfish, and fried mussels. We took our seafood feast to a local park and gazed out on the boats as we ate. It was delicious. We topped off the meal at a local ice cream shop where they made their waffle cones fresh out of real waffles! With a waffle iron! The smell was heavenly.
The following day, after stops to over-priced yuppie grocery stores and what will affectionately be called the “country pie store” (they had real chickens and rabbits out back!); we made our way to the beach. The beach was private and lovely. There were none of the Long Beach crowds and the water was crystal clear. I spent the day swimming, going for long walks, reading my book, and listening to the occasional podcast. It was very relaxing and almost seemed to make the trip worthwhile. We had packed a bunch of food, but by 6:00, were getting hungry, and reluctantly made our way back to the dirty house.
We stopped off at a local farm to grab some veggies for dinner – heirloom tomatoes, fresh corn and zucchini that had been picked that morning. A quick shower with the bugs and we all cooked an amazing dinner together. The food was truly remarkable, and it was almost possible to forget about the filth as we sipped silky wine and popped the occasional sweet tomato into our mouths. As we were finishing up preparations, Victoria’s parents returned from their day and joined us for dinner.
Dinner was a little chaotic with Victoria and her mother arguing about the messy house and people talking over each other around the circular table. The food, as it had been all weekend, was fantastic and we topped off the evening with a rousing game of Taboo. Nothing seems too bad when you’re playing board games….
I had to leave early the next day to get back to the city, and as I rode the Jitney through the grey drizzle of the morning, I reflected on the notoriety of the Hamptons. While the Hamptons are known for lovely beaches, beautiful, yet pretentious people, and high end shopping that rivals Rodeo Drive, my Hampton experience was the polar opposite. I will remember my Hampton experience as one with fresh, farm-grown food and warm, unassuming company. And I will remember being anxious to leave the Hamptons and return to the relative cleanliness…of New York City.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Escape to the Beach - BDE (III)
A good friend has a game she calls: BDE. It's where you design a great day for you and your friends. The rules are as follows:
- it must include at least three different stops
- one stop must include art
- one stop must include a cocktail
- one stop must include food
Each stop cannot cost more than $12.
You can have more than three stops but not less than three. She calls these days: BDE - Best Day Ever. Last weekend I had a BDE with a friend that lasted 16 hours and included a beach.
We were the only ones we knew who were excited about swimming in dumpsters, so we agreed to meet at 10:00 on Saturday morning in our bathing suits and head to the dumpsters. Three Saturdays in August the city of New York shuts down Park Avenue from 72nd street to Battery Park and turns Manhattan into a pedestrian wonderland. They rent free bikes and roller blades, host free fitness classes, and preview shows from the Fringe Festival in Battery Park. The star of Summer Streets though, is definitely the dumpster pools. The city takes five oversized dumpsters and turns them into mini pools outside Grand Central Station, complete with free rafts and makeshift cabanas. It had been a hot summer, and I wanted to take a dip in a dumpster.
We got there at 10:00 and they had completely sold out of wristbands. We stood in the “stand-by” line for a while, but got bored and decided to get our free bikes and take a spin. On our way to 51st, we stopped by at the arts and crafts tent, where there was a surplus of sidewalk chalk spilling onto the street. I picked up a piece and created the outline of a hopscotch court. Soon, people from ages 6 to 70 were joining our game of hopscotch, arguing over the rules and demonstrating their technique. We met a woman from Brazil who told us the game was called “Acha” in her home country. An older couple became quite sprightly as they hopped through the faded numbers. It was a great moment of shared laughter with fellow New Yorkers.
When we got to the bike tent, they had run out of bikes. We were batting zero on our plans, but we decided not to sweat it. It was a beautiful day and we were excited to be out and about. My friend decided that because we were in our bathing suites, we should go to the beach. It certainly wasn’t on the agenda for the day, but I agreed. We walked through Times Square to get to Penn Station and they were having a kiss-off in celebration of the famous photo of a soldier kissing a nurse in Times Square during a V-Day parade. There were hundreds of couples and the media was there to cover it. I was even interviewed by Telemondo…in Spanish.
We made it to Penn Station, got our tickets, and rode the train an hour out to Long Beach. After picking up some picnic food, we made our way to the ocean. It was a super hot day and the beach was crowded, but we scoped out a good spot. The ocean breeze was reliably refreshing and we had a great time eating, swimming, napping, and reading the New York Times. Around 6:00, we decided to make our way back to the train and slept the entire way home.
In the Times, we had read about a famous meteor shower that was happening that night. So we went to another friend’s apartment, where he had access to his roof, and a group of us lay on giant blankets on the roof, looking for shooting stars with the city lights of Manhattan sparkling below us. We laughed and talked and gazed at the stars for hours. We polished off some wine, ate some fresh corn, but mostly just watched the sky. None of us saw a shooting star (it is Manhattan, for Pete’s Sake), but it was a wonderful summer day in the city and definitely qualified as a BDE.
- it must include at least three different stops
- one stop must include art
- one stop must include a cocktail
- one stop must include food
Each stop cannot cost more than $12.
You can have more than three stops but not less than three. She calls these days: BDE - Best Day Ever. Last weekend I had a BDE with a friend that lasted 16 hours and included a beach.
We were the only ones we knew who were excited about swimming in dumpsters, so we agreed to meet at 10:00 on Saturday morning in our bathing suits and head to the dumpsters. Three Saturdays in August the city of New York shuts down Park Avenue from 72nd street to Battery Park and turns Manhattan into a pedestrian wonderland. They rent free bikes and roller blades, host free fitness classes, and preview shows from the Fringe Festival in Battery Park. The star of Summer Streets though, is definitely the dumpster pools. The city takes five oversized dumpsters and turns them into mini pools outside Grand Central Station, complete with free rafts and makeshift cabanas. It had been a hot summer, and I wanted to take a dip in a dumpster.
We got there at 10:00 and they had completely sold out of wristbands. We stood in the “stand-by” line for a while, but got bored and decided to get our free bikes and take a spin. On our way to 51st, we stopped by at the arts and crafts tent, where there was a surplus of sidewalk chalk spilling onto the street. I picked up a piece and created the outline of a hopscotch court. Soon, people from ages 6 to 70 were joining our game of hopscotch, arguing over the rules and demonstrating their technique. We met a woman from Brazil who told us the game was called “Acha” in her home country. An older couple became quite sprightly as they hopped through the faded numbers. It was a great moment of shared laughter with fellow New Yorkers.
When we got to the bike tent, they had run out of bikes. We were batting zero on our plans, but we decided not to sweat it. It was a beautiful day and we were excited to be out and about. My friend decided that because we were in our bathing suites, we should go to the beach. It certainly wasn’t on the agenda for the day, but I agreed. We walked through Times Square to get to Penn Station and they were having a kiss-off in celebration of the famous photo of a soldier kissing a nurse in Times Square during a V-Day parade. There were hundreds of couples and the media was there to cover it. I was even interviewed by Telemondo…in Spanish.
We made it to Penn Station, got our tickets, and rode the train an hour out to Long Beach. After picking up some picnic food, we made our way to the ocean. It was a super hot day and the beach was crowded, but we scoped out a good spot. The ocean breeze was reliably refreshing and we had a great time eating, swimming, napping, and reading the New York Times. Around 6:00, we decided to make our way back to the train and slept the entire way home.
In the Times, we had read about a famous meteor shower that was happening that night. So we went to another friend’s apartment, where he had access to his roof, and a group of us lay on giant blankets on the roof, looking for shooting stars with the city lights of Manhattan sparkling below us. We laughed and talked and gazed at the stars for hours. We polished off some wine, ate some fresh corn, but mostly just watched the sky. None of us saw a shooting star (it is Manhattan, for Pete’s Sake), but it was a wonderful summer day in the city and definitely qualified as a BDE.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Stinky Theatre
New York is home to some of the best theatre in the world. While the 40 theatres that make up “Broadway” (i.e. theatres with over 500 seats) are the most well known, there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of small theatres all over the city. I took in a production last week at one of them.
The Flea is located in TriBeca and is a quaint theatre that seats about 50. My friend and I were seeing “Sex and Mommyville,” a one-woman show that addressed the struggles of new mothers grappling with their new role in motherhood and their continued needs as sexual beings. The old Madonna and Whore archetype re-explored and whipped up for 2010, complete with references to “Sex and the City” and “the Bachelor”.
I’ve seen quite a bit of theater in the last six months. My friend’s former employment at BAM (Brooklyn Art Museum) gives me access to free – or nearly free – tickets at numerous theaters. I’ve also treated myself to one Broadway show a month, where I get dressed up and head to midtown after 8:00 PM. I’ve seen shows I’ve adored (Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, the Scarborough Boys) and shows I don’t love so much (Falling for Eve, Lend me a Tenor), but one thing is consistent – the talent is always impeccable. From the musicians to the lighting guys to the actors on stage – the talent in New York is truly impressive. So it’s easy to take something like that for granted. After last week’s show, I will not do that again.
The star of this one-woman show descended the stairs in the middle of the stage and started her opening lines. At first, I thought it was a joke. I thought perhaps she was demonstrating how “life is a stage” or something Shakespearean with her blatant overacting and that perhaps she would snap out of it at a certain point and start acting, you know, for real. But she never did.
Instead, every line was delivered as a shout and gestures were overblown and exaggerated. In such a small theatre, these types of movements were comical. It was like my nine-year-old niece auditioning for a part in a Greek Chorus – chock full of big facial expressions and awkward gesticulations.
We knew ten minutes in that we had to leave. Unfortunately, there was no intermission and to exit, we would have to literally walk across the stage. There was no way to sneak out at this show. When I mentioned that to my friend, she later said she felt physically ill. She got that tickle one gets in the back of their throat right before a good vomit, but decided against it, swallowing hard and looking to the heavens. Getting physically ill in the theatre would have allowed her to leave, but the mess and clean-up and overall disruption just wasn’t worth it.
I went back and forth between daydreaming, zoning out, and planning my weekend. If I got pulled into what the actress was saying, I would immediately get a case of the “giggles” – which wasn’t good for anyone. At one point, she pretended her two breasts were two different people and they had a ten minute dialogue. I was giggling so much I had to turn away. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Ten minute breast talk? Come on….that’s ridiculous.
She moved around the stage, flipping between angry and whimsical like a freshly caught fish flipping on a dock. Every so often, she would make an attempt to have sex with her imaginary husband, which involved humping a stool in a way that was anything but sexy. She changed outfits, from shawls to combat boots, and provided the voices of her mother, her daughter, and her husband. Her daughter sounded like Elmo. Her mother like Stalin. At one point, I looked at my friends silver watch and wanted to cry when I realized we were only 45 minutes in. It felt like we had been there three days.
Mercifully, the show came to an end 15 minutes early. I honestly think she forgot some of her dialogue, because there were some big pauses and some of the thoughts didn’t really flow, but I didn’t care. My friend and I nearly ran out of the theatre into the refreshing reprieve of the city. It felt as though we were on a prison break. We breathed in the night air and laughed with joy as we almost skipped away from the theatre, agreeing it was the worst thing either of us had ever seen.
On my subway ride home, I saw the actress hadn’t done any acting since age 10. That explained a lot.
From now on, I will not take an actor’s talent for granted. A show with bad acting is like pouring a pound of salt on a beautiful plate of food. No matter how fresh the ingredients, everything tastes terrible.
The Flea is located in TriBeca and is a quaint theatre that seats about 50. My friend and I were seeing “Sex and Mommyville,” a one-woman show that addressed the struggles of new mothers grappling with their new role in motherhood and their continued needs as sexual beings. The old Madonna and Whore archetype re-explored and whipped up for 2010, complete with references to “Sex and the City” and “the Bachelor”.
I’ve seen quite a bit of theater in the last six months. My friend’s former employment at BAM (Brooklyn Art Museum) gives me access to free – or nearly free – tickets at numerous theaters. I’ve also treated myself to one Broadway show a month, where I get dressed up and head to midtown after 8:00 PM. I’ve seen shows I’ve adored (Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, the Scarborough Boys) and shows I don’t love so much (Falling for Eve, Lend me a Tenor), but one thing is consistent – the talent is always impeccable. From the musicians to the lighting guys to the actors on stage – the talent in New York is truly impressive. So it’s easy to take something like that for granted. After last week’s show, I will not do that again.
The star of this one-woman show descended the stairs in the middle of the stage and started her opening lines. At first, I thought it was a joke. I thought perhaps she was demonstrating how “life is a stage” or something Shakespearean with her blatant overacting and that perhaps she would snap out of it at a certain point and start acting, you know, for real. But she never did.
Instead, every line was delivered as a shout and gestures were overblown and exaggerated. In such a small theatre, these types of movements were comical. It was like my nine-year-old niece auditioning for a part in a Greek Chorus – chock full of big facial expressions and awkward gesticulations.
We knew ten minutes in that we had to leave. Unfortunately, there was no intermission and to exit, we would have to literally walk across the stage. There was no way to sneak out at this show. When I mentioned that to my friend, she later said she felt physically ill. She got that tickle one gets in the back of their throat right before a good vomit, but decided against it, swallowing hard and looking to the heavens. Getting physically ill in the theatre would have allowed her to leave, but the mess and clean-up and overall disruption just wasn’t worth it.
I went back and forth between daydreaming, zoning out, and planning my weekend. If I got pulled into what the actress was saying, I would immediately get a case of the “giggles” – which wasn’t good for anyone. At one point, she pretended her two breasts were two different people and they had a ten minute dialogue. I was giggling so much I had to turn away. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Ten minute breast talk? Come on….that’s ridiculous.
She moved around the stage, flipping between angry and whimsical like a freshly caught fish flipping on a dock. Every so often, she would make an attempt to have sex with her imaginary husband, which involved humping a stool in a way that was anything but sexy. She changed outfits, from shawls to combat boots, and provided the voices of her mother, her daughter, and her husband. Her daughter sounded like Elmo. Her mother like Stalin. At one point, I looked at my friends silver watch and wanted to cry when I realized we were only 45 minutes in. It felt like we had been there three days.
Mercifully, the show came to an end 15 minutes early. I honestly think she forgot some of her dialogue, because there were some big pauses and some of the thoughts didn’t really flow, but I didn’t care. My friend and I nearly ran out of the theatre into the refreshing reprieve of the city. It felt as though we were on a prison break. We breathed in the night air and laughed with joy as we almost skipped away from the theatre, agreeing it was the worst thing either of us had ever seen.
On my subway ride home, I saw the actress hadn’t done any acting since age 10. That explained a lot.
From now on, I will not take an actor’s talent for granted. A show with bad acting is like pouring a pound of salt on a beautiful plate of food. No matter how fresh the ingredients, everything tastes terrible.
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