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.