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.
Monday, August 30, 2010
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.
Escape to the Beach (Part II)
The Coney Island crowd on a typical Friday night is quite a bit different than the crowd at the lone NYC summer music festival. The subway car was half empty when we rolled into the last stop on the D. Luna Park was vigorous as we walked by on our way to the beach. Flashing lights turned the area bright red and orange as screaming teenagers were flipped, dropped, and spun in delight on their chaotic rides. We walked passed the cacophony and amusement of the park and the horizon opened before us to the breadth of the beach. The sand was cold beneath my feet. We navigated our way among the beach towels lined up along the shore. Small families and groups of friends laughed, conversed, and soaked in the refreshing ocean breeze. It was divine.
The dinner of the finest heirloom tomatoes and cheese the Hudson Valley has to offer were washed down with a smooth pinot. Everything tasted more vibrant with the tang of the salt air. Every few moments the roar from the Cyclones game drifted across the summer sky. Manhattan became a distant memory as it felt as though we were all enjoying a leisurely summer night in a small town.
We brought a Frisbee, but never pulled it out of the bag. Instead, we opted for great food and even better conversation. The fireworks were surprisingly impressive, but not as impressive as the giant full moon that lit up after the last firework fizzled out. The great orb was so orange it looked like it was on fire.
At one point, cops came by and told us we couldn’t drink on the beach. They were cordial however, and we responded that we had already finished the bottle anyway. The chucked to themselves and simply said, “next time, hide it,” as they meandered off to patrol the rest of the beach. It was quite a different experience than run-ins with cops in the city.
The only dose of reality was when someone tried to make off with my bag. A group next to ours immediately let us know and one of my friend’s chased down the perpetrator. When he caught up to him, the man simply handed the bag back. Theft is a big problem in Coney Island, actually, and the following week was featured in a headline story in the Metro. It was a little reminder that though it might seem like we were enjoying ourselves in small town Americana, we were 20 miles from the largest metropolis in the world.
Making our way back to that metropolis later that night however, it seemed worth the trip. When you’re wilting in the summer heat, taking a trip back in time with a little ocean air is all it takes to make you bloom.
The dinner of the finest heirloom tomatoes and cheese the Hudson Valley has to offer were washed down with a smooth pinot. Everything tasted more vibrant with the tang of the salt air. Every few moments the roar from the Cyclones game drifted across the summer sky. Manhattan became a distant memory as it felt as though we were all enjoying a leisurely summer night in a small town.
We brought a Frisbee, but never pulled it out of the bag. Instead, we opted for great food and even better conversation. The fireworks were surprisingly impressive, but not as impressive as the giant full moon that lit up after the last firework fizzled out. The great orb was so orange it looked like it was on fire.
At one point, cops came by and told us we couldn’t drink on the beach. They were cordial however, and we responded that we had already finished the bottle anyway. The chucked to themselves and simply said, “next time, hide it,” as they meandered off to patrol the rest of the beach. It was quite a different experience than run-ins with cops in the city.
The only dose of reality was when someone tried to make off with my bag. A group next to ours immediately let us know and one of my friend’s chased down the perpetrator. When he caught up to him, the man simply handed the bag back. Theft is a big problem in Coney Island, actually, and the following week was featured in a headline story in the Metro. It was a little reminder that though it might seem like we were enjoying ourselves in small town Americana, we were 20 miles from the largest metropolis in the world.
Making our way back to that metropolis later that night however, it seemed worth the trip. When you’re wilting in the summer heat, taking a trip back in time with a little ocean air is all it takes to make you bloom.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Escape to the Beach (Part I)
In the summer, New York is hot. The air is sticky, the sun blazes through the haze, and plumes of steam rise up through the subway vents at all hours. Four months out of the year, the heat is a constant presence– like taxis or crowds.
Even when the skies darken with the evening hours or occasional thunderstorms, the heat remains. Eventually, the barometric pressure isn’t the only pressure to rise and New Yorkers must escape to the beach. While we live on an island, it’s not enough to be surrounded by the East and the Hudson – we must feel the wild, invigorating breeze of the Atlantic. We must feel the sand beneath our feet before it becomes concrete.
Cheap New Yorkers looking for a quick beach fix head to Coney Island. For the price of a Metro Card, you can travel back in time on the D. An hour from midtown gets you to the retro styling of Luna Park, Nathans, and fireworks every Friday.
I’ve been to Coney Island twice this summer. The first was to go to the Sirens Musical Festival. New York doesn’t have a lot of music festivals – quite a bit fewer than Washington – so Sirens is a rather big deal. The two stages and 20+ bands attract tattooed hipsters who trade their skinny jeans for bathing suits and head to Coney Island for some music. I had a few co-workers claim they would show up, but ended up bailing, so I went to Sirens alone.
I got there around 2:00 and the crowd was manageable. Perhaps it was the Sahara temperatures that kept people away, but I was able to get close to the stage without too much trouble. After the first set however, I was parched. I made my way over to the beer tent and purchased two tickets (2 beers) for $7. It was money well spent.
On this particular day, I had on a skirt and a KEXP tank over my black bathing suit. When Jesse, the beer man, saw my shirt, he immediately commented on the sheer joy that is KEXP and proclaimed “a free beer” to KEXP listeners. “Not only a listener, a member,” I said slyly. He agreed that this indeed warranted two free beers.
The three twenty-somethings pouring beer were jovial despite the heat. We ended up talking about music, beer, Seattle, and music a little more. I told them I was alone and they immediately adopted me into their “beer family.” I was having so much fun that when a co-worker I was just getting to know texted me that she had arrived at the event a few hours later, I didn’t tell her where I was. Would she pour me free beer? I think not.
I saw a total of five bands that day, but I did not lay eyes on the ocean. They had set the stages back from the beach, and I didn’t know my surroundings enough to navigate to the shore. Instead, after six hours and likely as many beers, I made my way back to the subway. I had spent a day at Coney Island with blazing music and sunshine and limitless free beers. I was exhausted and in bed by 10:00.
Even when the skies darken with the evening hours or occasional thunderstorms, the heat remains. Eventually, the barometric pressure isn’t the only pressure to rise and New Yorkers must escape to the beach. While we live on an island, it’s not enough to be surrounded by the East and the Hudson – we must feel the wild, invigorating breeze of the Atlantic. We must feel the sand beneath our feet before it becomes concrete.
Cheap New Yorkers looking for a quick beach fix head to Coney Island. For the price of a Metro Card, you can travel back in time on the D. An hour from midtown gets you to the retro styling of Luna Park, Nathans, and fireworks every Friday.
I’ve been to Coney Island twice this summer. The first was to go to the Sirens Musical Festival. New York doesn’t have a lot of music festivals – quite a bit fewer than Washington – so Sirens is a rather big deal. The two stages and 20+ bands attract tattooed hipsters who trade their skinny jeans for bathing suits and head to Coney Island for some music. I had a few co-workers claim they would show up, but ended up bailing, so I went to Sirens alone.
I got there around 2:00 and the crowd was manageable. Perhaps it was the Sahara temperatures that kept people away, but I was able to get close to the stage without too much trouble. After the first set however, I was parched. I made my way over to the beer tent and purchased two tickets (2 beers) for $7. It was money well spent.
On this particular day, I had on a skirt and a KEXP tank over my black bathing suit. When Jesse, the beer man, saw my shirt, he immediately commented on the sheer joy that is KEXP and proclaimed “a free beer” to KEXP listeners. “Not only a listener, a member,” I said slyly. He agreed that this indeed warranted two free beers.
The three twenty-somethings pouring beer were jovial despite the heat. We ended up talking about music, beer, Seattle, and music a little more. I told them I was alone and they immediately adopted me into their “beer family.” I was having so much fun that when a co-worker I was just getting to know texted me that she had arrived at the event a few hours later, I didn’t tell her where I was. Would she pour me free beer? I think not.
I saw a total of five bands that day, but I did not lay eyes on the ocean. They had set the stages back from the beach, and I didn’t know my surroundings enough to navigate to the shore. Instead, after six hours and likely as many beers, I made my way back to the subway. I had spent a day at Coney Island with blazing music and sunshine and limitless free beers. I was exhausted and in bed by 10:00.
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