Wait….what do you mean New York’s not perfect?

More songs are sung about New York than any other city in the world. Over 120 movies are shot here every year. Another 100 take place here, but are shot elsewhere. New York is the backdrop of more books, movies, and television shows than any other city. People write poems of New York, they romanticize New York. If you want to be a singer, a dancer, an actor, a model or a mogul….you come here. There is a mysticism that surrounds this city and it’s bigger than the 22 square miles – it’s epic.
But here’s the bad news. In New York, people are still…well….human. I needed to get my bangs cut. I walked into the first boutique, asked for a bang trim and assumed she / he would do an awesome job. Why would I assume such a thing? Because I was in New York. OF COURSE they knew how to cut hair here…this was New York! Guess what? I now have crappy bangs.
I went out for an audition to become an aerobics instructor at one of the largest gyms in the city. I expected to be schooled. I thought everyone would be beautiful, built, tan, and have their own video series. Guess what? I was the best one. They weren’t even that good….I couldn’t believe it.
I met a girl last week for coffee who danced in college She says she takes dance classes with dancers making a living in dance who aren’t as good as she is. What? This is New York. Every dancer is amazing. Haven’t these people seen Fame?
I went to a comedy show this weekend because it was recommended in the New York Times. I thought it would be something different and fun. I thought I would see the next Chris Rock or Sarah Silverman. You know who I saw instead? I saw someone who wasn’t that funny. In New York.
So the sad truth is this. Yes, New York produces the best talent in the world, but that doesn’t mean that every talent is the best in the world. New York, for better or worse, is made up of the good and the bad, just like everywhere else. There are people that will cut the shit out of your bangs, and then there are people that will make you look like your 3-year old niece got a hold of the scissors while you were taking a nap. New York is, in fact, not perfect. And although this is a tough lesson to learn from someone who has romanticized the hell out of NYC since age seven, it almost adds a bit to the city’s charm.

New York…the Loneliest Place on Earth

When I was seven I knew I wanted to live in New York. I came with my dad here for the first time. Our train from DC stopped off in Jersey and I thought we were there. “Look at the tall buildings,” I exclaimed. In DC, there’s a height ordinance on buildings so everyone can see the pencil at all times.* “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” my father replied. One look at the excitement and energy of New York and I was hooked. I could imagine no place better and no place more exciting to live.
I went to college in a small town in northern Washington state. It’s a great town and I loved it. After graduating, I didn’t want to leave, and stayed another two years as a barista / aerobics instructor / bar fly. After my post-graduation “Bachelor’s-of-History-party”, I started to get antsy. I had been dating a great guy for about a year and I popped the question. “Want to move to New York?” I asked him. We had just returned from a family reunion in Virginia and were having lunch at the Pike Place market in Seattle before returning north. “Uh….no,” he said definitively. “Oh,” my shoulders shrugged into a pout. After a moment, I looked up from my tuna sandwich and asked, “Want to move to Seattle?” “That I could do,” he said, and we moved two weeks later.
I was settling for a man. I enjoyed my time in Seattle, but I've always wanted to live in New York. Now I'm here, but I'm alone. Emerson once called New York "the loneliest place on earth." While I'm alone, I haven't felt lonely. I hope this feeling of community and excitement continues and I certainly hope Emerson was wrong. I suppose I'll soon find out for myself.

*Note: People who did not go to elementary school in DC might refer to the “pencil” as the “National Monument.”

Umbrellas

We had a Seattle day today. The clouds were low, the temperature was mild, and though there wasn’t any real precipitation, there was a constant mist in the air. It was almost as if you were walking through a cloud. You wouldn’t believe the complainers.
“I can’t concentrate today….with this rain,” people at work said.
“It is so dreary outside,” my co-worker said, “I cannot even go out to lunch.” She ended up eating mints at her desk to supplement the missed meal.
“I hope it stops raining,” another one said, “I wanted to go to the grocery store tonight!”
If a person in Seattle avoided going to the grocery store or out to lunch because of the weather we had today, they would simply go hungry. There is no doubt in my mind they would starve to death.
The weather today even gave Arnie pause at the Great Lawn. “It feels like Seattle today,” I told him as our dogs played.
“This is what Seattle is like,” his booming voice rising. “This sucks!”
I guess New York isn’t quite the miserable town he proclaimed it to be upon my arrival.
The rain today meant that everyone carried an umbrella and wore galoshes. I am not making this up or exaggerating. Again, let me reiterate that there was no real raindrops….just extreme humidity. So 8 million New Yorkers decided that though they weren’t actually going to get wet, they were all going to carry over-sized umbrellas today to even further clutter the sidewalks. Call me crazy, but this type of rain does not warrant an umbrella in the eye. The wind tunnels from the buildings meant that most of the umbrellas were inside out by 5:00 anyway. But I tell you, the second they step from the awnings, those puppies pop open. I even saw a man give his umbrella to another lady today. “You need an umbrella,” he said, as he handed his over. “Thank you so much,” she said graciously, and walked off with it. They might have known each other. They might have been complete strangers, but what I thought was strange was the fact that he assumed she couldn’t live without an umbrella. Did I mention that it wasn’t actually raining?
And what’s with the galoshes? Why do million-dollar, power-house New Yorkers turn into second-graders with the thought of rain? There were women in $500 Prada coats with over-sized rubbers on their feet. Is it a bit of whimsy? Are all New Yorkers secretly related to the Wicked Witch of the West? Is there a phobia of water?
I’m not exactly sure, but it did make me laugh. I guess my seven years in Seattle gave me something I didn’t even realize I had….a set of webbed feet.

Dogs

I’ve been meeting three men in the morning to walk my dog, Taetu. They are all in their late forties – early sixties and their booming voices are thick with New York. I spend most of the time listening to them talk over each other as they argue about everything from the latest movie to Olympic bobsledding. Taetu loves their dogs and they tolerate him as we make our way around the great lawn. They meet every morning “like clock work.”
When I first met up with them and told them of my recent move, Arnie, the oldest in the group asked, “Why did you move to this stinky, dirty, miserable town?”
“Meet Arnie,” Ben, the tallest one with grey hair said. “The New York welcoming committee.”
Dogs are ubiquitous in the upper west side. It’s difficult to describe how many dogs are in the neighborhood. Because of its proximity to both Riverside and Central Park, all dog owners seem to congregate to this area of Manhattan. Weekend mornings, the parks are to capacity with dogs of all sizes barking, squeaking dog toys, running and leaping over each other. It’s a dog paradise.
People love to spout out statistics about dogs in the UWS. The Upper West Side has more vets than any other neighborhood in the city. The Upper West Side has more dogs per capita than any other area in the country. The Upper West Side has over 100 pet stores from 59th to 90th street. It’s astounding. I could not have picked a better area for my puppy. He is in heaven.
The dog parks are a great place to meet people. I’ve been spending two hours a day at the park (an hour in the morning and another at night) and because there’s not much to do while the dogs play, people tend to chat it up. It’s a pleasant way to start and end my day. The dogs create a great energy and people are kind. It’s a complete shift from the intensity of my job with the multi-tasking and extreme focus. The time at the park is a time for idle conversation mixed with the occasional giggle at the dogs’ personalities.
This morning I remarked to Brian (another man I’ve met recently) about the dogs in the neighborhood as his dog Annabelle played fervently with mine. They were almost identical in size. “This is nothing,” he said, looking around at the mass of dogs. “You should see it when the weather’s warmer. There are thousands!”
I can’t imagine the park fitting any more canines on Saturday mornings. I enjoy the early morning walks, where dogs are around, but it’s tolerable. When it gets crowded, it’s easy to loose yours or even step on one.
On weekend mornings, you also get more of the crazies - people that love their pet a little too much. The outfits are incredible. There are doggie parkas, hoodies, hand-knit sweaters, bonnets – you name it, they’ll put it on a dog. During snow, many of the dogs wear little booties on their paws. These pieces of plastic are often bright yellow or red, and even though the dog might be having fun, you can tell he’s a little ashamed of them.
The craziest thing I’ve seen (so far) was at Riverside Park around 91st street. There was a woman there with her toy poodle. She had died the poodle’s hair and painted her nails hot pink. It was obscene. Taetu wouldn’t even look at that dog – it was just too bizarre.
I leave my house at 8:00 am and come home around 6:00. It’s a long time for my dog to be alone, so I’ve started looking into a dog walker. I know dog walkers exist around the country, but in New York, they’re a way of life – like grocery delivery and subway cards. This idea has taken me some time to get used to, but my guilt has lead me down this path. Dog walkers are an exercise in total, complete and utter trust. You trust these strangers with keys to your apartment. You trust them with your four-legged best friend. You trust that they walk your dog for the length agreed upon. If they’re mean to your puppy or treat him bad, your puppy can’t let you know. Your dog likely doesn’t speak English. It’s a very trusty occupation in such a skeptical town. But when you live alone with your pup and work full time, it’s a leap of faith you may be forced to make.
The first dog walker I interviewed did not go very well. I found his name on Craig’s list and he seemed legit. He had worked at an agency (yes, they have dog agencies – that’s another story) for six years and was just branching out on his own. He was taking a semester off school and dog walking to earn some cash.
When he met Taetu, I feared for his life. When he reached down to pet Taetu on the head, Taetu nearly bit off his hand. He tried to act nonchalant about this very aggressive act, but it was obvious Taetu was not fond of this character. He was in my apartment less than five minutes before I sent him on his way.
The second dog walker I met was a reference from Andy, a guy at work who also lives in the upper west side. He had used “Pampered Puppies” for his dog and loved them. When I called however, they wanted $50 a walk. $50!! I love my dog, but I’m not spending that kind of cash on what’s essentially a potty break. For 50 bucks they should throw in a doggy facial and massage. After hearing their rates, I dropped the phone like it was on fire.
I just interviewed the third contestant – Rubin. He’s young and likes the Yankees, but he seems like a good person. He left a list of references, his prices are right ($10 / walk) and most importantly, Taetu loved him immediately. It looks like hiring a dog walker might my next step in adapting to this crazy city.

Work I

White walls and grey desks. The color of the workplace is found in the work. The entire office is one large room crammed with desks. Background music of ringing phones, clicking mice, and booming voices making sales. Snow falling softly outside- mix of white and grey outside as well as in.

Moonlit Serenade

Last night I was walking my dog and heard a booming tenor as soon as I opened our front door. “Every time we say goodbye, I die a little,” the swooning sound echoed around the block. I knew it was someone singing live and not a recording, and assumed it was a street performer. When I rounded the corner, I saw a balding, overweight man with his mouth open wide, singing from his diaphragm. Both his hands were joined with those of his date, a significantly taller woman in a striking red coat. He was singing not six inches from her face at full volume with all the longing and romance of Cole Porter. He fancied up the ending with a little trill, and when his voice rang out the last note, everyone in the area gave a quiet clap (we’re all wearing gloves).
I started laughing out loud thinking about the circumstance of this up-close-and-personal serenade. Was this what he did every night? Did she request this song? Was this a first date?
It’s hard to think of a situation that would make such a show “appropriate”
under normal circumstances, but it certainly felt distinctly New York.

City of Inches

I am in the market for a new keyboard for my place. I was searching on Craig’s List and found a fantastic Roland for a good price, but the instrument was 3” to wide for the designated space. I turned it down.

In Zabars yesterday, I heard a women tell the sales clerk she was looking for a new food processor. “The one I have is 17” and I need one that’s 13”.”

New York city, with its massive skyscrapers and towering international presence, is actually a city of inches.

General Delivery

I had five large boxes delivered “general delivery” to the city of New York. This is a very precarious way to send nearly every item you own. Basically, you pack your life in over-sized boxes, seal them with tape and bring them to your local post office where you write your name and the city of your new residence. Imagine. Look around you and imagine packing up everything: your photo albums, clothes, board games, trinkets – and put them in a box with your name and city and hope they get there. Here was what on the front of my five boxes:
Erin Gilbert
c/o General Delivery
New York, NY 10022
This seemed a little fishy to me, but I trusted the United States Post Office and sent them away. For $230, I hurtled my possessions into the great abyss.
The day after their expected arrival, I went to the post office at 10022. “General delivery?!” The Asian (and aging) man said incredulously when I asked for my packages. “There no such thing!”
I insisted that not only had I talked to someone from the official USPS headquarters over the phone, but I had also discussed at length this process at the Seattle post office with a real live person. “They must be old timah or some-tin,” he said, ironically. “There no such thing.” He gave me a couple numbers to call and sent me on my way.
At this point I was thinking that this great idea of general delivery was an urban myth and that my packages would likely be sent back to Seattle where I would have to start this process anew. I was defeated. I wouldn’t have plates to eat off of or clothes to work in and I would have to spend more of my dwindling budget buying replacement items for those in these precious boxes.
The next day, I called the numbers he gave and was told that in fact, there was such thing as general delivery, but I had gone to the wrong post office. You see, no matter what zip code you put on the box, all general delivery packages are sent to the 10011 post office – what appears to be the largest building in Manhattan. Feeling like all may not be lost, this afternoon my mother and I took the subway down to 30th street and walked into the mammoth post office. The great steps leading up to the front door on Eighth Street were something out of a black and white movie. This building was so impressive and stoic it evoked the type of confidence only the United States government can provide. As I ascended each step, I felt certain they would have my boxes.
We were in the customer service line of the ostentatious lobby when a helpful worker asked if we had any questions. “We’re looking for general delivery,” I told him. He looked at me a little sideways and said, “general delivery? That entrance is on ninth.”
Mama and I descended the stairs and walked around the corner to the other side of the building. The walk was only a block, but it felt like we were going through purgatory…to the other side. When we got to ninth, the street was lined with police cars, scaffolding covered the sidewalks, and to our left a tiny door marked “General Delivery.”
The room was no bigger than a large elevator and the line snaked around its parameter. It felt like we were lining up for prison. There was graffiti on the walls, painted a light nauseating blue, and the air was a mixture of urine, mildew, and desperation. General Delivery is the postal service for the homeless. This is the New York you never see unless absolutely forced to. As I was waiting, my already pasty white skin felt translucent against the other faces in line. A man came around when we were almost half-way through, distributing leaflets. They had a screen shot from a computer and a sketch of a man. Under the pictures, he had hand-written “Wanted for Rap. If Found, Please Call Charles at 555-555-5555.” He made an announcement to the room, “this man has raped and he’ll do it again. If anyone’s seen him, please call the number.” His voice was gravelly, but projected enough to fill the room. On the way out, one of the women in front of us pulled him aside and whispered something in his ear.
The homeless seem to function within their own community with its own systems and processes. The pamphlet didn’t direct people to the police, it directed them to phone “Charles” and he would take it from there. From where they pick up their mail to how they handle law enforcement, those without an address operate on another level – just out of sight from most New Yorkers.
As I got to the front of the line I was thrilled to see my boxes stacked neatly to the side, completely out of place. I handed my ID over to the clerk and declared with delight: “Those are my boxes!” Despite all odds, my possessions had ended back up with me. I was thrilled.
The clerk brought them over one at a time. I would take a box from the room to the curb, where my mother was trying desperately to hail a cab (not easy on that particular street). As I waited for my third box, the man behind me with kind eyes asked, “are you new to the area?” I told him I had just moved from Seattle. “What’s in the boxes,” he asked, and without waiting for me to respond said, “clothes and stuff?” I nodded, but the weight in which he asked the question stopped me at once. Here I was, parading five 40lb + boxes of “stuff” in front of people who had nothing. I felt simultaneously frivolous and blessed. As we drove off in the cab I thought of how lucky I was on so many levels. Not only did my packages miraculously show up, I was lucky enough to have the packages to send in the first place. I also felt lucky to experience General Delivery. Unlike many New Yorkers, I hope the homeless don’t stay out of my sight. After that experience, they certainly won’t stay out of my mind.

Food. Glorious Food.

There’s something very beautiful about the food here. First of all, the presentation is like nothing I’ve ever seen: piles of tiny cut cucumbers in shiny metallic pans, deep red cranberries in pristine white bowls, overstuffed clouds of cream cheese, walls of apples stacked like bricks. The desserts in a typical deli are so beautiful they don’t even look edible. The shine on a mini cheesecake offset ever so slightly by a light sprinkling of powdered sugar. If it wasn’t for the rat / cockroach problem, I would take one of them home and use it as a desk ornament. It would be the most delicate, beautiful thing in my apartment.
Everywhere you go is a constant, overwhelming stimulation of food. In addition to the visual displays there are a hundred different scents in the air. Some not pleasant (more about that in the summer, I’m sure), but some are magnificent. Freshly baking bread early in the morning, sautéed garlic outside the corner Italian restaurant, the effervescent tang of ginger in Chinatown, food permeates all senses. It’s no wonder New Yorkers eat out more than anywhere else in the country – nearly 13 times a week on average. Temptation is everywhere. What people in other parts of the country only see in grocery stores – piles of oranges, piping hot croissants, cases of fresh almonds – people in New York see just by walking down the street. Good thing we walk so much (nearly 2 miles a day on average) or this would be a city with an obesity problem!
New Yorkers are passionate about food. If you give them the chance, they’ll talk your ear off about it. Where is the best pizza? Knish? Egg roll? Ask 100 different New Yorkers and you’ll get 100 different answers, all impassioned without a hint of doubt or question. I asked my broker where to get a good slice in my new neighborhood and he immediately went into spots where I could not only pick up a great pizza, but where I could get a great meatball sub, who had the best brunch, and where to go for barbecue. People are always eating in this town. There is no time that is off limits for consuming food. There is a small French bistro next to my apartment open 24 hours a day and the restaurant is never empty. Never.
I ran into a woman at a local pub and we started talking about New York. I asked her what she liked best about this town – the museums? The parks? The theatre? No. Her answer: “You can get any type of food delivered to your door day or night. Want pie a la mode at 3:00 in the morning? You can get it…..at your door!” Here eyes lit up when she was telling me this like a kid seeing his first Christmas tree. Here was her favorite thing about the most famous city in the world – food delivery.
This is another New York-ism: the delivery of food. Nearly every single restaurant on this island will deliver to your home. Old bikes with oversized baskets sit at the ready in front of the nearly 20,000 restaurants in this city. When you combine the variety and quality of food in New York with kitchens the size of a car trunk, you get a lot of people eating a lot of food made by others. Take in, drop in, order out…it’s all good here in New York. Maybe they should name it New Fork.

How Rude!

I was having a drink with a friend at a non-descript bar on 78th street when a woman noticed his ring. He started talking about how it was his grandfather’s ring and she started finishing his sentences. Here was this woman on crutches, drinking a martini with four olives, and she was a genuine psychic. We ended up talking a while and she and her friend ended up buying us third round of Manhattans (thanks for the hangover ladies). When they left I started wondering why people think New Yorkers are so rude. It’s bizarre. Are they short? Yes. Do they cut to the chase? Absolutely. There are 3 million people on 3 square miles of island – these things are a necessity, but they are some of the most sincere, kind people I’ve ever experienced. The ceremonies of traditional conversation that exist so heavily on the west coast are completely void in this city. On the west coast, people ask you how you are not because they really want to know, but because it’s expected. New Yorkers will only ask you how you are if they really want to know. Otherwise, they’re not going to waste their time or breath on the words.
When I was staying at the hotel here, I approached a lady at the front desk, smiled, and said “Hello! Do you know what time check out is?” Later, it occurred to me that this was a complete “west coast” approach. Of course she knows what time check out is…she works here! A New Yorker in the same situation would simply say, “when is check out?” Done.
For this, across the country, New Yorkers are labeled as rude. “My lord,” people in Yakima, Washington say, shaking their heads, “she didn’t even ask me how I was. How rude!”
I happen to adore the direct, succinct nature of interactions here. There’s something genuine about it. New Yorkers aren’t generally in the habit of making false promises or phony declarations or asking questions when they don’t really care about the answer. That to me is refreshing, not rude at all.

Famous People

Running into famous people is something I guess I’m just going to have to get used to. I’ve been to New York as a visitor over 30 times in my life and not once did I see someone famous. In the last 24 hours I’ve seen Christopher Walkin and Cynthia Nixon from Sex in the City. Christopher Walkin looked like a deranged old man. In other words, he looked like Christopher Walkin.
When talking about my run-ins with the rich and famous, native New Yorkers shrug it off. I suppose buying produce with Katie Couric or sharing a cab with Matthew (Damon or Broderick) is par for the course in this town. It’s something I’m just going to have to get used to. Freakin’ rad!

Sophistication

Two girls were walking down Amsterdam yesterday outside my bank. They couldn’t have been older than eight. One of them says to her friend (and I’m not making this up), “I think I’ve finally figured out my life plan.” I think New Yorkers are a little more sophisticated than the average American. Is there something in the water?

And so it begins....

The following is a partial list of reasons I should not move to New York City:

- I own a wonderful apartment in Seattle with my live-in boyfriend. We have redone the kitchen cabinets, the light fixtures, and put a fresh coat of paint on every surface. It is a hard place to abandon.
- I have a great group of friends in the Emerald City who are there when I call and laugh at my jokes.
- I lead a handful of lively aerobics classes in some of the top clubs in the city with members who appreciate my teaching skills.
- I have lived in Seattle seven years and am kind of used to the place.

Despite these reasons, last night I found myself on a plane across country with a dog in my lap and four over-sized pieces of checked luggage ($80 later...thanks Alaska Airlines!) to Newark. I flew here on a one way ticket and am not sure when I will return, but I am sure that I want to give it one year. I want to experience New York City in every season; the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center, the daffodils in Riverside Park, the fireworks over the statue of liberty on the fourth of July, I want to see it all. I want to experience the oppressive heat of mid-August and the bitter cold of mid-November. I want to take it all in in this, the greatest city in the world.

I realize I'm a tad idealistic about this endeavor and that when I'm complaining about my air conditioning being on the fritz in mid-summer and the constant, damp heat invading my every pore that some of you may throw this idealism back in my face. "You wanted to live in New York," you'll say with mock sincerity. Yes, I will answer, I do. Because New York draws me in unlike any other place I've ever been. The constant energy and motion is tangible. It's in the rumble of the subway under your feet as you eat lunch, the honks from the yellow blurs of taxi cabs, the blinking guady spectacle of Times Square. It's in the pace of the people on the sidewalks and the efficiency of their movements and words. I love being around this type of kinetic energy and it feels like there's no other place on earth where this type of energy exists. And it's all on one glorious island.

I also think I will rather enjoy my idealism for a while. I won't hide it in my back pocket, trying to look like a "native" with hunched shoulders and crossed arms. I want to experience this place with an open heart, like a tourist. I want to be present in every moment and appreciate everything I see and hear. I do not want to waste my time trying to be cool. I have neither the energy or the inclination.

Today I put an application out on an apartment in the upper west side. It is smaller than my dorm room in college, and similar in a lot of ways. There's a "loft" for sleeping that has about two feet of clearance above it. I question whether I will be able to roll over in my sleep. There's a kitchen with a mini oven, a mini fridge, and a sink and there's all of two closets which will store every piece of clothing I own. To get to this little enclave (or perhaps I should be more honest and simply call it "cave"), you walk up four flights of stairs. That's four flights of stairs for every piece of furniture, every load of laundry, and every bag of groceries. One. Two. Three. (phew). Four. And despite it's obvious downfalls, I love it. It's in an awesome area of the neighborhood and city and seems to be a very fitting place for me to spend my year in New York. My own little corner of the world.

Of course, the application was just submitted, so we wait to see if I will get this 300 square foot piece of heaven and if I will pay $1600 a month for the privilege. Yes, let's all keep our fingers crossed.

Here are some things I have loved in my less than 24 hours as a New York resident:

- I have met two Jewish women with short hair and big mouths in this short time and I absolutely find them wonderful. They make jokes, talk loud, and haven't a shred of pretension in their bones. You cannot find these women in Seattle. There they have been trained to be a bit more quiet, subdued, and "polite" as to not cause attention to themselves. I like when people aren't afraid to cause a little attention.
- I went to a diner for lunch and they served a big metal bowl of fresh cole slaw to the table before we even ordered!! That is a thing of beauty. It's like knowing what I want even before I do. That's the efficiency of New York City.
- At the same deli, the gentleman next to my table ordered an egg salad sandwich with a little pastrami.Gross, right? The waitress questioned the order and he said, "well, I only want pastrami on half the sandwich." Okay, that makes it better. I'm not quite sure if this a New York thing or not (weird orders at restaurants?), but I thought it was rather amusing.

So if all goes well, I will have an apartment by my next entry. If I succeed in that first step, all I have to do is figure out how to furnish it, light it, heat it, and store all my worldly possessions in what would be a walk in closet in the Seattle suburbs. Wish me luck!