I was frustrated with the subway this morning. I needed to get down to Lafayette to teach an aerobics class and the B train wasn’t running. The D was 20 minutes late because of an issue with doors not closing and I waited on the N at Washington Square another 10 minutes due to construction. The subway on the weekends is always a little slower, but this was ridiculous.
My spirits were lifted however, on my ride home. The third stop in, a man and his son boarded the train with a giant bubble machine. They were selling bubbles to all the kids (and their parents) and bubbles of all sizes soon filled the car. The next stop a six piece Mexican band came and on and started playing music. They all had guitars and sang in harmony. Amidst the cascading bubbles, it was really quite a scene. I laughed out loud as the universe reminded me of why I love this city. No matter how irritated you are at the crowds or the subway construction, it’s nothing a few bubbles and a mariachi band won’t fix.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
How Fun is THAT?
The other day I actually had this thought: “New York is so flippin’ fun, I don’t understand why everyone in the world doesn’t live here!” And then I took the subway to work and thought, “oh. I guess they do.”
I really don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun. There’s so much to see and do. In Seattle, it was all about routine. I had my job, my friends, and my classes. Here, it seems like every day is an opportunity for a new adventure.
There is an entire magazine, Time Out New York (TONY), dedicated to what you can do in the city that week. There are newsletters you can subscribe to – the Skint, Flavorpill – whose sole purpose are to list activities for that day. Every day they pop up in your in box like a gift. If you’re into art, there are hundreds of galleries and the top museums in the world. If you like theatre, there are readings, discussions, festivals and a little something referred to as the “Great White Way.” Dance? There are dozens of options every night to be a participant or a spectator. Opera? Poetry? Swedish Karaoke? It’s all happening tonight in New York.
In the last week, I’ve gone to see a French band, a fashion show at a thrift store Grand Opening (with an open bar no less), Patricia Clarkson read poetry in a neighborhood book store, Ben Stiller discuss his latest movie at the SOHO Apple Store, a musical premier near Herald Square with an audience of 70 that included Spike Lee, and Philip Seamore Hoffman at the Apple Theatre celebrating Tennessee Williams 99th birthday.
I’ve been to markets (flea, farmers, and flower) and classes (dance, yoga, and aerobics). I’ve enjoyed a gin and tonic at Pete’s, the oldest bar in New York, and a macaroon at Georgia’s on 89th (free of charge in celebration of National Macaroon Day).
For every show I see or activity I do, there are five more just as enticing. The challenge here isn’t finding stuff to do, but sorting through the options and choosing what to do. There’s a famous New York saying: “If you’re bored in New York, you ’re boring.” After six weeks here, I’m thinking if you’re bored in New York City, you’re probably dead.
I really don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun. There’s so much to see and do. In Seattle, it was all about routine. I had my job, my friends, and my classes. Here, it seems like every day is an opportunity for a new adventure.
There is an entire magazine, Time Out New York (TONY), dedicated to what you can do in the city that week. There are newsletters you can subscribe to – the Skint, Flavorpill – whose sole purpose are to list activities for that day. Every day they pop up in your in box like a gift. If you’re into art, there are hundreds of galleries and the top museums in the world. If you like theatre, there are readings, discussions, festivals and a little something referred to as the “Great White Way.” Dance? There are dozens of options every night to be a participant or a spectator. Opera? Poetry? Swedish Karaoke? It’s all happening tonight in New York.
In the last week, I’ve gone to see a French band, a fashion show at a thrift store Grand Opening (with an open bar no less), Patricia Clarkson read poetry in a neighborhood book store, Ben Stiller discuss his latest movie at the SOHO Apple Store, a musical premier near Herald Square with an audience of 70 that included Spike Lee, and Philip Seamore Hoffman at the Apple Theatre celebrating Tennessee Williams 99th birthday.
I’ve been to markets (flea, farmers, and flower) and classes (dance, yoga, and aerobics). I’ve enjoyed a gin and tonic at Pete’s, the oldest bar in New York, and a macaroon at Georgia’s on 89th (free of charge in celebration of National Macaroon Day).
For every show I see or activity I do, there are five more just as enticing. The challenge here isn’t finding stuff to do, but sorting through the options and choosing what to do. There’s a famous New York saying: “If you’re bored in New York, you ’re boring.” After six weeks here, I’m thinking if you’re bored in New York City, you’re probably dead.
New York Pride
I was on my way to the dog park in Riverside Saturday afternoon with Taetu. He ran into a black lab named Boris and I started talking to Boris’ owner, Anne. Anne was in her late 80’s and her frail frame was topped off by a startlingly white head of hair. She sat hunched on the park bench peering out onto the water through over-sized sunglasses. She started our conversation abruptly. “I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else in the world.”
I smiled back at her. I was wearing my purple “I Heart NY” t-shirt, so my affection towards out city was apparent. “New York is wonderful,” I replied benignly.
“No,” she said. “Right here. On this street.” She indicated Riverside behind her, “with this view.” Anne had moved into her fourth floor apartment on Riverside in 1969. “Back then,” she said, “this was a shady area of town.” There were different gangs on Amsterdam and Columbus and Anne generally didn’t venture out after dark. When she went out alone – to the grocery store for instance – she would clutch her “$15” in one hand and her mace in the other. “Did you ever have to use the mace,” I asked. “One time,” she replied, but didn’t elaborate.
Her love of her neighborhood was fierce. “I’ve never been to another city and thought, ‘I could live here.’ I couldn’t live anywhere but on this street.”
“My daughter lived in London for eight years,” she continued, looking me square in the eye. “London is fucking boring.” I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. I was not expecting the f-bomb from Grandma Anne. “The people there have no spark, no electricity. They lack the kind of….life…of people here.” The pride and love she had of her address is not unique to New York. I’m sure there are residents of Topeka, Kansas that feel Topeka is the best place on earth. In New York however, this sentiment is intense and nearly ubiquitous.
I passed a group of women in CP this morning and joined in briefly on their conversation as Taetu sniffed their toy poodle’s butt. One of the women was visiting New York for the first time, and the rest of the group was showing their shock at the idea.
“You love it,” one of the New Yorkers said to the first-time visitor. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. A fact. “I Heart NY” isn’t just a t-shirt slogan, it is the New York Creed.
New York pride permeates every nook and cranny of this city – from what’s on tap (Brooklyn Ale) to the New York-centric art in Herald Square. New Yorkers will dispense the fine attributes of the city at large to people outside the city, but within the borders of the East and Hudson rivers, that pride drills down to the neighborhood. A man last night actually said to me, “these are the best four blocks in New York.” Wow. The regional pride is now down to the block.
Jerry Seinfeld echoed these sentiments in a recent interview with Parade Magazine. Asked if he could live anywhere outside of New York he said: “Never in a million years. I couldn’t live four blocks from where I live now.”
Sometimes I’ll make the mistake of referencing “Manhattan” to friends at work and they’ll immediately correct me. “Actually SOHO,” they’ll say. Defining your locale in such general terms as Manhattan is like telling a Spaniard you’re from the Western Hemisphere – a little broad. In fact, if you told the Spaniard you were from New York City, they would likely respond with, “yes…but what borough?”
Neighborhoods like Chelsea and the Village actually have their own newspapers. Advertisers have caught onto this neighborhood pride as well. “Vitawater. The way Spanish Harlem rehydrates.”
People wear their metro stop on t-shirts. That’s specific. I mean, it’s not enough you live in the upper Westside – are we talking the 1 or the B train? It’s the difference of three blocks, but to New Yorkers, those three blocks can mean the world.
I smiled back at her. I was wearing my purple “I Heart NY” t-shirt, so my affection towards out city was apparent. “New York is wonderful,” I replied benignly.
“No,” she said. “Right here. On this street.” She indicated Riverside behind her, “with this view.” Anne had moved into her fourth floor apartment on Riverside in 1969. “Back then,” she said, “this was a shady area of town.” There were different gangs on Amsterdam and Columbus and Anne generally didn’t venture out after dark. When she went out alone – to the grocery store for instance – she would clutch her “$15” in one hand and her mace in the other. “Did you ever have to use the mace,” I asked. “One time,” she replied, but didn’t elaborate.
Her love of her neighborhood was fierce. “I’ve never been to another city and thought, ‘I could live here.’ I couldn’t live anywhere but on this street.”
“My daughter lived in London for eight years,” she continued, looking me square in the eye. “London is fucking boring.” I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. I was not expecting the f-bomb from Grandma Anne. “The people there have no spark, no electricity. They lack the kind of….life…of people here.” The pride and love she had of her address is not unique to New York. I’m sure there are residents of Topeka, Kansas that feel Topeka is the best place on earth. In New York however, this sentiment is intense and nearly ubiquitous.
I passed a group of women in CP this morning and joined in briefly on their conversation as Taetu sniffed their toy poodle’s butt. One of the women was visiting New York for the first time, and the rest of the group was showing their shock at the idea.
“You love it,” one of the New Yorkers said to the first-time visitor. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. A fact. “I Heart NY” isn’t just a t-shirt slogan, it is the New York Creed.
New York pride permeates every nook and cranny of this city – from what’s on tap (Brooklyn Ale) to the New York-centric art in Herald Square. New Yorkers will dispense the fine attributes of the city at large to people outside the city, but within the borders of the East and Hudson rivers, that pride drills down to the neighborhood. A man last night actually said to me, “these are the best four blocks in New York.” Wow. The regional pride is now down to the block.
Jerry Seinfeld echoed these sentiments in a recent interview with Parade Magazine. Asked if he could live anywhere outside of New York he said: “Never in a million years. I couldn’t live four blocks from where I live now.”
Sometimes I’ll make the mistake of referencing “Manhattan” to friends at work and they’ll immediately correct me. “Actually SOHO,” they’ll say. Defining your locale in such general terms as Manhattan is like telling a Spaniard you’re from the Western Hemisphere – a little broad. In fact, if you told the Spaniard you were from New York City, they would likely respond with, “yes…but what borough?”
Neighborhoods like Chelsea and the Village actually have their own newspapers. Advertisers have caught onto this neighborhood pride as well. “Vitawater. The way Spanish Harlem rehydrates.”
People wear their metro stop on t-shirts. That’s specific. I mean, it’s not enough you live in the upper Westside – are we talking the 1 or the B train? It’s the difference of three blocks, but to New Yorkers, those three blocks can mean the world.
Chivalry Lives On
There are certain things that happen here I’m pretty sure are an “east coast” thing and not a “New York” thing. In general, New York defies east coast stereotypes. It’s what Austin is to Texas; a little oasis that goes against the tradition and culture of the greater geographic region.
The East Coast has a reputation of being rather stuffy, especially to people on the left coast. People regard east coasters as an aloof group that marinates in tradition (not unlike the olives in their collective martinis). This tradition is one of class, blue bloods, cardigan sweaters, headbands, pearls, swinging clubs and joining clubs, Ivy league educations, meals with more than one fork, season opera tickets…you get the idea. Think Connecticut or the window of Brooks Brothers – this, for better or worse, is the Northern East Coast stereotype.
But New York? It ain’t like that. Sure, you can go 40 miles due north or northwest and run smack into it, but New York City is too diverse to play that game. The East Coast may have a white bread reputation, but New York is multigrain.
One of the carry-overs though, has to be chivalry. I don’t think I’ve opened a door for myself in a public building. If there is a man in the vicinity, he does it for me. On the elevator, women are always the first ones on and the first ones off. If there’s a large group waiting for the elevator, women get on first…even if they weren’t there first!
A man got in front of me yesterday as we filed onto the subway. I didn’t think anything of it, but as the doors closed he turned to me and apologized. “I’m sorry,” he said. Out loud. It’s not like he elbowed me in the ribs. I mean, he was there first, yet he still felt compelled to apologize. He had breached social etiquette by not stepping aside and allowing me on first.
This is so weird to me. It’s a lovely gesture but it all seems rather old fashioned, especially for such a progressive city. Walk my street late on a cool evening and you’ll see woman after woman with men’s’ coats draped over their shoulders. Women are so accustomed to having doors opened for them, they often don’t even thank the man doing it. I suppose these little gestures have become invisible to people who have lived here a while, but it puts me on edge. I’m just saying – men in Portland or Sacramento or Seattle are getting on elevators in front of women every day – and no one’s feeling all that bad about it.
The other carry over is in professional dress. Now, this is based on personal experience only, I’m sure there are casual organizations and businesses in New York, but from what I’ve seen, women are expected to dress nice, and men even nicer.
I’m going to my first trade show next week for work and I have to wear (and this means, of course, purchase) a (gulp) suit. A suit? In 2010? Bill Gates and Howard Schultz are closing multi-billion dollar deals in designer jeans and mock turtlenecks, but I have to wear a suit. I’ve been dreading it for weeks. In Seattle, I was the most formal person in the office because I wore slacks instead of sweat pants.* Here, the standards are a little higher.
So I have to spend time and money to purchase something I’ll dread wearing. I guess it could be worse. I could be a man. Men in the office wear suits every day. Every. Day. They shave every morning and put on a tie, like Cary Grant or something. It’s amazing. There are actually eight shoe shining stands on my commute into work. I’ve counted. What’s more – there are often men having their shoes shined! I don’t think men in Seattle know what shoe polish is. But to be fair, it’s tough to shine converse sneakers.
This is a weird juxtaposition. New York is a city of trends. It leads the world in the latest fads, from film to fashion. Our gyms have karaoke spinning classes and DJs in the weight room. Our restaurants feature cuisine like Japanese-Cajun fusion. Our bars have nightly themes like ukulele burlesque – and yet amidst this perpetual hipness, there’s an element of old-fashioned charm thrown in. This town of trends is also a town where men have their shoes shined and still hold doors for ladies….on their way to trapeze cardio aerobics.
* I’m only slightly exaggerating. Hoodies were not uncommon at my previous place of employment.
The East Coast has a reputation of being rather stuffy, especially to people on the left coast. People regard east coasters as an aloof group that marinates in tradition (not unlike the olives in their collective martinis). This tradition is one of class, blue bloods, cardigan sweaters, headbands, pearls, swinging clubs and joining clubs, Ivy league educations, meals with more than one fork, season opera tickets…you get the idea. Think Connecticut or the window of Brooks Brothers – this, for better or worse, is the Northern East Coast stereotype.
But New York? It ain’t like that. Sure, you can go 40 miles due north or northwest and run smack into it, but New York City is too diverse to play that game. The East Coast may have a white bread reputation, but New York is multigrain.
One of the carry-overs though, has to be chivalry. I don’t think I’ve opened a door for myself in a public building. If there is a man in the vicinity, he does it for me. On the elevator, women are always the first ones on and the first ones off. If there’s a large group waiting for the elevator, women get on first…even if they weren’t there first!
A man got in front of me yesterday as we filed onto the subway. I didn’t think anything of it, but as the doors closed he turned to me and apologized. “I’m sorry,” he said. Out loud. It’s not like he elbowed me in the ribs. I mean, he was there first, yet he still felt compelled to apologize. He had breached social etiquette by not stepping aside and allowing me on first.
This is so weird to me. It’s a lovely gesture but it all seems rather old fashioned, especially for such a progressive city. Walk my street late on a cool evening and you’ll see woman after woman with men’s’ coats draped over their shoulders. Women are so accustomed to having doors opened for them, they often don’t even thank the man doing it. I suppose these little gestures have become invisible to people who have lived here a while, but it puts me on edge. I’m just saying – men in Portland or Sacramento or Seattle are getting on elevators in front of women every day – and no one’s feeling all that bad about it.
The other carry over is in professional dress. Now, this is based on personal experience only, I’m sure there are casual organizations and businesses in New York, but from what I’ve seen, women are expected to dress nice, and men even nicer.
I’m going to my first trade show next week for work and I have to wear (and this means, of course, purchase) a (gulp) suit. A suit? In 2010? Bill Gates and Howard Schultz are closing multi-billion dollar deals in designer jeans and mock turtlenecks, but I have to wear a suit. I’ve been dreading it for weeks. In Seattle, I was the most formal person in the office because I wore slacks instead of sweat pants.* Here, the standards are a little higher.
So I have to spend time and money to purchase something I’ll dread wearing. I guess it could be worse. I could be a man. Men in the office wear suits every day. Every. Day. They shave every morning and put on a tie, like Cary Grant or something. It’s amazing. There are actually eight shoe shining stands on my commute into work. I’ve counted. What’s more – there are often men having their shoes shined! I don’t think men in Seattle know what shoe polish is. But to be fair, it’s tough to shine converse sneakers.
This is a weird juxtaposition. New York is a city of trends. It leads the world in the latest fads, from film to fashion. Our gyms have karaoke spinning classes and DJs in the weight room. Our restaurants feature cuisine like Japanese-Cajun fusion. Our bars have nightly themes like ukulele burlesque – and yet amidst this perpetual hipness, there’s an element of old-fashioned charm thrown in. This town of trends is also a town where men have their shoes shined and still hold doors for ladies….on their way to trapeze cardio aerobics.
* I’m only slightly exaggerating. Hoodies were not uncommon at my previous place of employment.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Whoa, Danny Boy. Pipe down those pipes!
It was St. Patrick’s Day this past Wednesday, that magical time of year when people get drunk before noon and New Yorkers actually wear something other than black. March 17 brings idle talk of clovers and rainbows in celebration of….what are we celebrating exactly? Aw…it doesn’t matter. It’s Irish, it’s festive and it’s a great excuse for a party.
New Yorkers celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. The parade is a big deal in this town. There are no floats, no costumes, and the bands are small and lack batons. Basically, the parade consists of waves and waves of Irish American New Yorkers walking down 42nd. That’s not a parade. That’s a typical Thursday.
No matter, New Yorkers are proud of their parade. When my morning CP group found out the parade started in front of my office, they were very excited. “That’s fantastic,” they said. I told them I had actually been to the parade as a tourist and was not impressed. “Well,” Bill said, “it’s no Macy’s.” Exactly.
On my walk into work I passed dozens of large Irish flags and bright green lights shining from every light post. The parade kicked off at 10, but the jarring sounds of bagpipes were already blaring through the office when I arrived at 8:30. By 9:30, the drums had kicked up and the poor guys in sales had to yell into their headsets to be heard above the clamor. The whole thing escalated throughout the morning to a dull roar. It fed my excitement, though, and every so often I would glance down 8 floors to watch the groups of Irish merge into formation.
At lunch, I decided to venture out to see some of the parade. The crowd was thick around noon, but I managed to weave through them and gain a decent view. I bored of the lines of Irish after about three minutes and decided to set out for some food. As I maneuvered through the crowd I noticed something strange. Everyone I came in contact with apologized to me. “Sorry.” “Oh! I’m sorry.” The “sorrys” buzzed in my ear like gnats. I didn’t understand at first, but realized later they were probably tourists and not used to constant human contact. It’s just a theory, of course. It might also be that well whiskey makes people exceedingly polite – who knows?
Anyhoo – I tried to make my way to 42nd, but police had blocked it off. I could get out, but I wouldn’t be able to get back. As I made my way past groups of high school students* chanting “USA”** I ran into a woman distributing green flowers. I took one for myself and some for co-workers. She was very sweet and was standing outside an already over-flowing Irish pub. I made my way towards Madison and was affronted by the overwhelming smell of beer. It was as if the entire street had turned into the basement of a frat party. I’m certainly not one to throw stones, but was turned off by the putrid smell of beer – both going in and going out – and did another about-face from the crowd.
I got a quick salad at a deli near the office and almost ran into a girl being held up by a man on either arm. It wasn’t even 1:00 and she literally could not stand up – a classic example of too much of a good thing. As I got back to 5th, an overweight 6’4” man dressed as a giant leprechaun asked me how to get to the parade. I guess maybe there were costumes. I stand corrected.
Throughout the day, people in the office would return from the festivities with stories. Here are some of the gems:
- Marissa, a sweet woman with a big personality and hair to match, claimed she saw a topless woman in an alley doing cartwheels. I was not able to confirm this claim, but even if Marissa was exaggerating, I’ll give her credit for originality.
- Damon, an Irish sales guy who sits directly behind me, said he saw a girl who couldn’t have been more than 15 wearing a shirt that said, “get me drunk” on the front and “enjoy the show” on the back. That’s the thing about St. Patrick’s Day – it lacks the refinement and sophistication of other holidays – like Mardi Gras.
- Alex, a younger woman who works in my department, said she passed a port-a-potty with a man screaming non-stop from within. She was on the phone with her mom at the time and her mom grew very concerned. “Get out of there Alex” she yelled into the phone, “be safe, those people are crazy!”
St. Patrick’s Day does bring out a bit of the crazy in everyone, but that’s part of the fun. By the time work let out and I rode the subway home, the environment felt significantly less frantic. It was a gorgeous day and Riverside Park was crowded with a much more sober crowd. After dinner, I went over to Amsterdam to a nice Irish pub that was doing a good business. I ordered a whiskey and ended up talking mostly to the bartender, the only one (aside from myself) who could actually still speak in full, coherent sentences. These people had been going all day, and there was no way I was going to catch up. I paid for my drink, tipped generously, and made my way home.
All in all, it was a good holiday. I wore my green, listened to enough bagpipes to last me a year, and had a nice smooth Jameson to top off the day. When these Irish eyes shut for the night, they were definitely smiling.
*Is St. Patrick’s Day a school holiday now? The median age in mid-town midday was about 14.
** Did these kids know what this holiday was about? Maybe they needed some more school time and a less school-ditching-beer-drinking time.
New Yorkers celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. The parade is a big deal in this town. There are no floats, no costumes, and the bands are small and lack batons. Basically, the parade consists of waves and waves of Irish American New Yorkers walking down 42nd. That’s not a parade. That’s a typical Thursday.
No matter, New Yorkers are proud of their parade. When my morning CP group found out the parade started in front of my office, they were very excited. “That’s fantastic,” they said. I told them I had actually been to the parade as a tourist and was not impressed. “Well,” Bill said, “it’s no Macy’s.” Exactly.
On my walk into work I passed dozens of large Irish flags and bright green lights shining from every light post. The parade kicked off at 10, but the jarring sounds of bagpipes were already blaring through the office when I arrived at 8:30. By 9:30, the drums had kicked up and the poor guys in sales had to yell into their headsets to be heard above the clamor. The whole thing escalated throughout the morning to a dull roar. It fed my excitement, though, and every so often I would glance down 8 floors to watch the groups of Irish merge into formation.
At lunch, I decided to venture out to see some of the parade. The crowd was thick around noon, but I managed to weave through them and gain a decent view. I bored of the lines of Irish after about three minutes and decided to set out for some food. As I maneuvered through the crowd I noticed something strange. Everyone I came in contact with apologized to me. “Sorry.” “Oh! I’m sorry.” The “sorrys” buzzed in my ear like gnats. I didn’t understand at first, but realized later they were probably tourists and not used to constant human contact. It’s just a theory, of course. It might also be that well whiskey makes people exceedingly polite – who knows?
Anyhoo – I tried to make my way to 42nd, but police had blocked it off. I could get out, but I wouldn’t be able to get back. As I made my way past groups of high school students* chanting “USA”** I ran into a woman distributing green flowers. I took one for myself and some for co-workers. She was very sweet and was standing outside an already over-flowing Irish pub. I made my way towards Madison and was affronted by the overwhelming smell of beer. It was as if the entire street had turned into the basement of a frat party. I’m certainly not one to throw stones, but was turned off by the putrid smell of beer – both going in and going out – and did another about-face from the crowd.
I got a quick salad at a deli near the office and almost ran into a girl being held up by a man on either arm. It wasn’t even 1:00 and she literally could not stand up – a classic example of too much of a good thing. As I got back to 5th, an overweight 6’4” man dressed as a giant leprechaun asked me how to get to the parade. I guess maybe there were costumes. I stand corrected.
Throughout the day, people in the office would return from the festivities with stories. Here are some of the gems:
- Marissa, a sweet woman with a big personality and hair to match, claimed she saw a topless woman in an alley doing cartwheels. I was not able to confirm this claim, but even if Marissa was exaggerating, I’ll give her credit for originality.
- Damon, an Irish sales guy who sits directly behind me, said he saw a girl who couldn’t have been more than 15 wearing a shirt that said, “get me drunk” on the front and “enjoy the show” on the back. That’s the thing about St. Patrick’s Day – it lacks the refinement and sophistication of other holidays – like Mardi Gras.
- Alex, a younger woman who works in my department, said she passed a port-a-potty with a man screaming non-stop from within. She was on the phone with her mom at the time and her mom grew very concerned. “Get out of there Alex” she yelled into the phone, “be safe, those people are crazy!”
St. Patrick’s Day does bring out a bit of the crazy in everyone, but that’s part of the fun. By the time work let out and I rode the subway home, the environment felt significantly less frantic. It was a gorgeous day and Riverside Park was crowded with a much more sober crowd. After dinner, I went over to Amsterdam to a nice Irish pub that was doing a good business. I ordered a whiskey and ended up talking mostly to the bartender, the only one (aside from myself) who could actually still speak in full, coherent sentences. These people had been going all day, and there was no way I was going to catch up. I paid for my drink, tipped generously, and made my way home.
All in all, it was a good holiday. I wore my green, listened to enough bagpipes to last me a year, and had a nice smooth Jameson to top off the day. When these Irish eyes shut for the night, they were definitely smiling.
*Is St. Patrick’s Day a school holiday now? The median age in mid-town midday was about 14.
** Did these kids know what this holiday was about? Maybe they needed some more school time and a less school-ditching-beer-drinking time.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
New York State of Mind = Mimosa Buzz?
After an invigorating Broadway jazz dance class and my second failed attempt to find the Brooklyn flea*, I made my way to Nowhere Land, an area of the city not defined with a neighborhood. Manhattan is a city of neighborhoods – some large (Upper East Side, West Village), some small (Nolita, Stuyvesant Town), but all essential to the city. Neighborhoods add the charm to this mass of concrete. They make it liveable…and loveable.
I was heading to Nowhere Land in search of this week’s brunch and found a great spot. Vinyl is a 30-seat, bustling diner with a retro look and hipster soul. I knew I was in the right place when I walked into the delicious smells of coffee and sautéed onions and the delicious sounds of the Scissor Sisters. I sat at the bar and struck up a conversation with a gay couple to my left. One of them was enjoying a hearty plate of eggs Benedict, but the other just sipped on a mimosa. “No breakfast for you,” I asked him.
“This is my breakfast,” he said, “bottomless mimosa.”
This was it. I had found that legendary tale of Manhattan brunches – the bottomless mimosa. For $15 I got myself a Latin Scramble and a champagne flute that never went empty. As soon as I got 2/3rds of the way through my glass, one of the five waiters would come by with a pitcher to top it off. After 90 minutes of slurred conversation with my new BFFs (Brunch Friends For-now), I decided to take a little walk. The rain had mellowed to a Seattle drizzle and I needed the air. I walked to the Hudson and traversed up along the water. The air had been cleansed by the two days of intense run and it almost seemed…fresh. I enjoyed the horizon, something you don’t see much in Manhattan and turned back in towards the city at the meat packing district.
The meat packing district (MPD) is eight square blocks of hipness. The streets are cobblestone, the buildings brick, and the retail expensive. If you’re not a gallery, designer, or buzz-worthy restaurant, well….you’re not here. I was feeling the confidence of 3-ish mimosas and decided to venture into an art gallery. The gallery was showing Warhol-esque pop art featuring legendary personalities like Alf and Pee Wee Herman. In the center was an over-sized bucket of paint, lying on its side with a huge puddle of acrylic red “paint” spilled across the room. The 5-6 people milling about all wore black and peered at the art through thick-rimmed glasses.
It occurred to me that this was a quintessential New York experience – viewing art that created a buzz after catching one at brunch. Dance, art, brunch, and getting lost in Brooklyn….sounds like a great Sunday in New York.
* Side note: The Brooklyn street grid is an intricate maze of angled street and dead ends designed to confused and frustrate the average pedestrian. I’ve not stepped foot in that borough without becoming completely, utterly, and hopelessly lost.
I was heading to Nowhere Land in search of this week’s brunch and found a great spot. Vinyl is a 30-seat, bustling diner with a retro look and hipster soul. I knew I was in the right place when I walked into the delicious smells of coffee and sautéed onions and the delicious sounds of the Scissor Sisters. I sat at the bar and struck up a conversation with a gay couple to my left. One of them was enjoying a hearty plate of eggs Benedict, but the other just sipped on a mimosa. “No breakfast for you,” I asked him.
“This is my breakfast,” he said, “bottomless mimosa.”
This was it. I had found that legendary tale of Manhattan brunches – the bottomless mimosa. For $15 I got myself a Latin Scramble and a champagne flute that never went empty. As soon as I got 2/3rds of the way through my glass, one of the five waiters would come by with a pitcher to top it off. After 90 minutes of slurred conversation with my new BFFs (Brunch Friends For-now), I decided to take a little walk. The rain had mellowed to a Seattle drizzle and I needed the air. I walked to the Hudson and traversed up along the water. The air had been cleansed by the two days of intense run and it almost seemed…fresh. I enjoyed the horizon, something you don’t see much in Manhattan and turned back in towards the city at the meat packing district.
The meat packing district (MPD) is eight square blocks of hipness. The streets are cobblestone, the buildings brick, and the retail expensive. If you’re not a gallery, designer, or buzz-worthy restaurant, well….you’re not here. I was feeling the confidence of 3-ish mimosas and decided to venture into an art gallery. The gallery was showing Warhol-esque pop art featuring legendary personalities like Alf and Pee Wee Herman. In the center was an over-sized bucket of paint, lying on its side with a huge puddle of acrylic red “paint” spilled across the room. The 5-6 people milling about all wore black and peered at the art through thick-rimmed glasses.
It occurred to me that this was a quintessential New York experience – viewing art that created a buzz after catching one at brunch. Dance, art, brunch, and getting lost in Brooklyn….sounds like a great Sunday in New York.
* Side note: The Brooklyn street grid is an intricate maze of angled street and dead ends designed to confused and frustrate the average pedestrian. I’ve not stepped foot in that borough without becoming completely, utterly, and hopelessly lost.
Monday, March 15, 2010
A Chance of Rain
I know I’ve been writing a lot about the weather, but you have to remember, I’ve been living in a constant state of 55-overcast-skies-with-a-70%-chance-of-showers the past seven years. So here we are again, covering the subject of weather. It’s starting to feel like we’re polite co-workers on the elevator.
This weekend, we had a hurricane. I know what you’re thinking. “hm….I don’t remember hearing about a hurricane hitting Manhattan.” Okay. True enough. Perhaps it wasn’t technically a hurricane, but it sure felt like it.
People started talking about the coming rains on Thursday. “Big storm coming this weekend,” I heard more than once at the park. By Friday, people were already planning on how they were going to hunker down. “See you tomorrow,” I said to my friends on my way out of the park Friday morning. “Oh, maybe,” was the response. “You know, rain’s coming tomorrow.” Internally, I rolled my eyes. These were the same people who carried golf umbrellas in the mist – a little rain wasn’t going to faze this Seattleite.
Saturday morning, Taetu and I woke up to a downpour. The rain was heavy, but I had an umbrella and coat and Taetu seemed game, so we headed to Central Park. In the entire Great Lawn area, we only ran into two dogs. Luckily, one of them was Teatu’s friend Clifford, a 90 lb poodle with a huge afro and a goofy, delightful disposition. He and Taetu (all 15 pounds of him) get along great. After an hour, I was pretty wet, but nothing major. I still managed to get to the grocery store, laundry mat, bagel shop, and gym without feeling like this storm was living up to the hype.
When I got back from the gym I grabbed Taetu again to run a few more Aarons. We live on 85th and I had to go as far north as 97th. Those 12 blocks were some of the most harrowing of my life. The wind rushed down the narrow street in small waves and with the heavy, sideways rain, you could actually see the wind coming before it hit you. When it did hit, it was a powerful slap that made pedestrians leaning forward actually take a step back. The question wasn’t if your umbrella would get blown inside out, but how many times that would happen before the wind actually snapped it apart. Corner trash bins were filled with them.
The rain fell with such force it felt like standing under a showerhead – but much colder. When wind gusts would hit back to back, people on the street would actually scream out loud with shock from the force. In these few blocks I saw not one, but two umbrellas flying past, having been picked up by the power of the wind. Taetu, being very close to the ground, wasn’t at risk of flying away, but every few blocks, he would stop and look back at me wearily, clearly not enjoying himself. After our four stops, we were both over the rain. Taetu kept trying to sneak into restaurants and barber shops whose doors had blown open. When I got home, I cancelled plans to head to SOHO in favor of a trip to the local movie theatre a block away. Taetu fell asleep immediately, curling up in his dog bed by the heater.
The storm knocked out power in 400,000 homes in the area and was blamed on three deaths over the weekend. Edison called it the worst storm in decades. So the pre-storm buzz was warranted. And in six weeks, I’ve seen a “hurricane” (all-be-it an unofficial one), a weekend of spring-like beauty, and not one, but two major snow storms. This may be global warming or it may just be the transition of seasons. Whatever it is, here in New York, nothing is dull, not even the weather.
This weekend, we had a hurricane. I know what you’re thinking. “hm….I don’t remember hearing about a hurricane hitting Manhattan.” Okay. True enough. Perhaps it wasn’t technically a hurricane, but it sure felt like it.
People started talking about the coming rains on Thursday. “Big storm coming this weekend,” I heard more than once at the park. By Friday, people were already planning on how they were going to hunker down. “See you tomorrow,” I said to my friends on my way out of the park Friday morning. “Oh, maybe,” was the response. “You know, rain’s coming tomorrow.” Internally, I rolled my eyes. These were the same people who carried golf umbrellas in the mist – a little rain wasn’t going to faze this Seattleite.
Saturday morning, Taetu and I woke up to a downpour. The rain was heavy, but I had an umbrella and coat and Taetu seemed game, so we headed to Central Park. In the entire Great Lawn area, we only ran into two dogs. Luckily, one of them was Teatu’s friend Clifford, a 90 lb poodle with a huge afro and a goofy, delightful disposition. He and Taetu (all 15 pounds of him) get along great. After an hour, I was pretty wet, but nothing major. I still managed to get to the grocery store, laundry mat, bagel shop, and gym without feeling like this storm was living up to the hype.
When I got back from the gym I grabbed Taetu again to run a few more Aarons. We live on 85th and I had to go as far north as 97th. Those 12 blocks were some of the most harrowing of my life. The wind rushed down the narrow street in small waves and with the heavy, sideways rain, you could actually see the wind coming before it hit you. When it did hit, it was a powerful slap that made pedestrians leaning forward actually take a step back. The question wasn’t if your umbrella would get blown inside out, but how many times that would happen before the wind actually snapped it apart. Corner trash bins were filled with them.
The rain fell with such force it felt like standing under a showerhead – but much colder. When wind gusts would hit back to back, people on the street would actually scream out loud with shock from the force. In these few blocks I saw not one, but two umbrellas flying past, having been picked up by the power of the wind. Taetu, being very close to the ground, wasn’t at risk of flying away, but every few blocks, he would stop and look back at me wearily, clearly not enjoying himself. After our four stops, we were both over the rain. Taetu kept trying to sneak into restaurants and barber shops whose doors had blown open. When I got home, I cancelled plans to head to SOHO in favor of a trip to the local movie theatre a block away. Taetu fell asleep immediately, curling up in his dog bed by the heater.
The storm knocked out power in 400,000 homes in the area and was blamed on three deaths over the weekend. Edison called it the worst storm in decades. So the pre-storm buzz was warranted. And in six weeks, I’ve seen a “hurricane” (all-be-it an unofficial one), a weekend of spring-like beauty, and not one, but two major snow storms. This may be global warming or it may just be the transition of seasons. Whatever it is, here in New York, nothing is dull, not even the weather.
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