Underground Fun

I am more than a little disappointed by some of my fellow NYC residents' whinings on the radio over the glass and mosaic installation soon to be unveiled at the South Ferry Subway stop this spring. I know it's expensive, and the MTA is going bankrupt, but we have *really* lost our souls when we stop giving a shit about public art.

My parents were in town this weekend (yay parents! yay culinary adventures!), and I was kind of surprised that they wanted to travel on buses instead of zipping around underneath the busy streets. "But we want to see the city," they insisted, so I sat on the M1, the M5, the M15, and the B38 like a dutiful daughter. All this bus riding, along with the GP Junior kids' investigation of the NYC underground got me thinking about my favorite subterranean spots:

1. The underground mural in the 7/BDFV passageway from 5th to 6th Avenue-- the Joyce quotes mixed with nursery rhymes layered over the gilded mosaic makes even the most jaded commuters glance up and take notice. The first summer I lived in New York, that stretch of tunnel made me proud to be a part of the city.
   
2. The advertising space in the Times Square station between 7th and 8th Avenues-- It's a pretty neat template for creative marketing. It's nothing really special, but this winter it ranked in my favorite places in the city for a few months. HBO, those darn geniuses (genii?) turned it into an interactive space by creating the. coolest. ad. ever. What seemed like innocuous street photos of the city had little microphone jacks with people telling their "secrets" as they went about their ordinary lives. Brilliant. People really did stop, stick in their headphones, and pay attention. Couples shared a set of earphones, people laughed, pointed, talked amongst themselves. I don't care if it made anyone watch the show--it was a fantastic concept. I was pissed that I was late for a meeting, otherwise I would have stayed to linger.
   
3. The Fashion Institute at the Met--You feel so special just having found the damn thing in the midst of sarcophogi, and then it's filled with fashion!
4. Oyster Bar--Old School classic NYC: alternately rude and chatty waiters, oysters from around the globe, made to order stews, dirty martinis. All it's missing is Don Draper in a trench.
   

Sure, the MTA needs to fix up the outer borough trains, get its finances in order and build the mythical 2nd Avenue Subway, but let's give them a break with the art. We need it.

Soft-Shell Sandwich

After finishing William Warner’s magnum opus, Beautiful Swimmers, I’ve had callinectes sapidus on the brain. This is bound to happen at some point in May or June, when spring stretches lazily and turns to summertime. The appearance of blue crabs in the markets heralds the summer party season; there have been many Memorial Day picnics in my childhood filled with Old Bay and paper-covered tables littered with crab shells.

This year, because summer is a little slower to arrive in New York than down on the shores of the Chesapeake, I gave my memories a jump start with some crustacean-themed reading material. Since I started reading I’ve been scouting the fish markets in my neighborhood, in the bowels of Chinatown (probably not the best source of fresh seafood—I was desperate) and on my daily commute for that little creature I equate with the carefree days of summer.

I went out to dinner with a friend last night after reading an interesting in the paper about my demographic: [white] financially stretched mid-twentysomething new professionals recently moved to New York City for a new job and/or life. How very specific, right? We met at a location equidistant from our respective apartments and New York City’s epicenter of trendiness: SoHo.

We wandered the cobbled streets in search of a dining location while contemplating our places in the ebb and flow of the city, settling for no particular reason on an ordinary Italian bistro. It was a perfectly fine dinner with sub-par service. The service was clearly due to the fact that neither of us was wearing diamonds, shoes with more than 4 inch heels, or a fake tan.

Leaving the restaurant I remarked that I don’t usually hang out in the area due to the fact that it’s a little too “ritzy” for me (read: overpriced). We passed a marble-lined hotel on the left. My dear friend of twelve years looked puzzled and laughed that she thought we were “roughing it” merely by being this far downtown—oh, you uptown girl. I immediately chastised her for going soft in her banker’s lifestyle and felt a little self-righteous about my intimate knowledge of New York City’s less ritzy neighborhoods in the outer boroughs.

Upon reflection, I think I made a mistake. We’re both hard and soft in different ways, just like my fried friend that made a delicious sandwich this evening. The blue crab turns from soft to hard in a methodical fashion manner, but the change in a human’s shell is much more subtle.

I’ve been shutting people out lately: not calling my parents, letting myself get down when people stand me up or stop calling, and stopped interacting with the sane people at work (there are but a few). Part of it is that I don’t think my parent’s understand me very well, it sucks when people don’t want to hang out with you, and I work in a cubicle instead of a happy group office. But part of it is also me falling into the mindset that I’m not someone that anyone would want to talk to, or that I’m fairly forgettable.

This is what I did years ago: create a prickly (some have used less-flattering adjectives) exterior to protect a very vulnerable inner core. In case you’ve tried it before, it’s not a very effective manner to make friends. I’d like to think that I’ve grown up a little since the 11th grade. I realize that in order to have normal relationships with people it’s necessary to temper some of the hardness, but there’s a part of me that has a stubborn pride in my armor, calling it strength. An older wiser me now thinks there’s a difference between strength and hardness. Strength gives support and stretches, while hardness gets you boiled in a pot and whacked with a crab mallet.

I finally found fresh soft-shelled crabs this evening on my way home from work, and bought one from the edgy-cute seafood guy at Grand Central. It’s a little sad to purchase a lone soft-shelled crab, but I’m a realist. I don’t cook for anyone other than myself, and I’m not going to try and seem less sad to the fish guy by letting an animal die a slow death in my refrigerator. When I got home I dipped her in egg, dusted her in a little flour and cornmeal, and then watched her change that beautiful bright red as she sizzled in the pan.

Sitting in my non-air-conditioned living room in my work clothing and apron, I ate one of the tastiest things a human being can eat in the summertime: a soft-shell crab sandwich with a twist of lime. It is crunchy, salty, sweet, soft, warm, crusty and tart—just like me (ok, maybe that’s a stretch).

Even though I live in the city, far from the watermen of the Chesapeake and the grey-blue inlets of Tidewater, I can still get a damn good crab sandwich. Maybe I can sluff off this shell and be a little better about letting people in.

That Springtime Feeling

I love that feeling of...

...wait for it...

...anticipation!

There's something magical about that moment in time when something is *about* to happen: when possibilities abound, when beauty and excitement lie dormant, just barely out of sight. It’s the time of year when life is almost ready to begin, when the cold sleepy earth is rolling around in its warm comforter, thinking about throwing off the covers and jumping out of bed. I’ve got to admit that the sensation is infectious, and lately I have found myself buzzing with a vague sense of anticipation, but I can’t quite figure out what I’m waiting for.

It's been several years since I’ve had a complete set of seasons. Since I graduated from college in the spring of 2004, I haven’t had a proper temperate growing cycle. The Wet/Dry seasons of South Florida in no way resembled the “standard” four seasons of the mid-Atlantic; spring manifests itself as a gradual warming followed by flocks of migratory college students in their pale winter hues signaling the 40 day extravaganza on South Beach known as Spring Break. Then last year I just barely missed spring in South America: the weather heated up right after we touched down at EZE.

Winter in New York was pretty mild this year, for which I am eternally grateful, but it was still winter. The endless grays of sky, street, and dirt make for a soporific palette, and the shortened days do not exactly inspire one to leave the shelter of a cozy apartment. Social schedules slow and friends go into hibernation as the winter blahs set in.

After the first nice weekend in the city, I leapt on the chance to get Fiametta out of winter storage. As I froze my ass off driving the wind-blown Manhattan Bridge, I held tight to the handlebars and my mental image of how it’s going to be in a few short weeks when the sun is shining and I won’t need three layers of insulation. It’s so close—I totally didn’t care that I couldn’t feel my hands when I got to work.

Then, inspired by hints of spring popping up around the city: summer concert schedules, leaving work when it’s light outside, early crocuses in miniature brownstone gardens, I became a member of the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. It was just a little too cold to wander through the gardens, but I toughed it out with my camera, giddy over the tiny signs of springtime that are starting to appear in corners of the park. The daffodils are up, sending green spears through the blanket of dry autumn leaves that covers the grounds. One or two early cherries are blushing pink, tentatively putting out buds and preparing for the festival in May. There are some brave clusters of violet crocuses pushing through the cold ground.

The gardens aren’t showy yet, and the irises and tulips are still locked tight in their winter homes. But it’s easy to appreciate cabbage-sized irises and vibrant tulips. It takes a little more time and effort to notice the beauty of a garden that is still in transition; to see in the present the beginnings of beauty and know that in the future something great will come of it. That sense of possibility is almost better than the actual culmination. This place will be stuffed with people when the dramatic bulbs reach their full flower, but I get to have this embryonic garden all to myself. It’s my own secret not-yet-fully-formed place, and my imagination fills the gaps, populates the bare mulch with phantom roses and peonies.

The chill eventually penetrated my extremities, and eventually I had to take refuge in the heated greenhouse among the tropical plants that grew outdoors at my old home in Miami. After a brief respite I was back outside searching for the next sign of spring.

I finally found it in the formal marble courtyard at the north end of the park: walk of magnolias, in full blossom. These fragile blossoms decorated the otherwise bare trees alternately with fuchsia and snowy bursts. Magnolias are special, because you have to catch them early. The satin flowers bruise easily, especially on the deciduous versions with smaller more abundant blooms. If you wait too long, there’s nothing but a browned, smelly mess of petals on the ground, not very picturesque. But if you catch them early, magnolia blossoms are sweeter, more delicate than a rose.

I’ve met some interesting people lately, and kind of enjoy the excitement of first date. There hasn’t been anything life-altering, but I think it’s good to be “out there,” even in my own timid fashion. If nothing else, it makes for funny stories in the office.

I don’t like winter, but like so many things in life, intense feeling and emotion is the product of an interesting juxtaposition. If you only ever have summer, there’s nothing to compare it to, and you take those perfect sunny days for granted. If there were no winter, would we care about spring? Probably not much. You can’t have a spring without going through the dreary cold. It’s mother nature’s reward for sticking it out through the shitty times, and I’m ready to cash in.

Online dating is strange

In a flash of extroversion, and immediately preceded by several disappointing potential romances, I joined Match.com...along with thousands of other single New Yorkers.

I've decided that I deserve someone interesting, engaging, cute, and available--all qualities that I am assured NOT to find in some bar in Manhattan. It's been about a week now but seems like much longer than that: the ups, the downs, the nervousness, the drama! Well, not so much drama I suppose.

One date down, and the search continues.

What am I searching for? That remains unclear.

I continue to send witty emails to intriguing guys, but I haven't quite figured out the protocol for this new world of cyber-flirting. I am not a fan of the "wink," as I see it as basically a cop-out: if you think someone is cute and interesting send them a damn message. That said, I did wink at someone yesterday, and they winked back. What this interaction means, no one knows.

The most bizarre part of this whole deal is the anonymity that it provides, in contrast to the clear expectations of outcome. I had a totally lame date this weekend with a perfectly nice guy. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him, and yet it was just kind of like meeting some acquaintance from college to catch up on superficial stuff. As it was my first date in about 4 years, I didn't really know what to expect, or how to interpret certain interactions. In the end, prodded by well-meaning friends, I sent him a message about meeting up for drinks. Shockingly, he wrote back exactly what I didn't have the courage to say:

"Nice to meet you, but I really didn't feel any spark, so let's just leave it at that."

Okay, so he might not have said those exact words, but you get the point.

Completely honest, and in a city of nearly nine something million people, we'll never run into each other, and it'll never be awkward! How liberating. This whole "directness" thing is strange to me, and will take some getting used to. We were on a date, this was clear. There were expectations of attraction and "chemistry" (whatever the fuck that means), and there really wasn't any. So it didn't work, and we both move on to other options. Then I realized, I don't even know this guy's last name--and what's more, I don't need to! Everything is so factual, cut and dry, with none of the bullshit that goes along with "dating" in college...

...we're hooking up but we're not dating...we're dating, but we're not exclusive...we're hanging out and we're dating, but we're not hooking up...we're studying and I wish we were dating but we're not...

There's none of that here!

It's a crazy world out there, the New York singles scene, but this seems for the moment to be the best way to navigate through uncharted waters without capsizing in an overwhelming sea of uninteresting assholes. I haven't quite gotten my sea-legs yet, but I'll get there eventually.


oh, and P.S. 2008 is shaping up to be the bizarre Japanese connections year. Remind me to tell you about that sometime.

Starry Night

Greetings everyone! I know that it's been quite a while since I've posted anything, and for that I make no excuses other than to say that it's been a little busy lately.

For those of you looking for the conclusion to my South American Odyssey, fear not. I've got several things waiting in the wings and will back-post them so they appear after the current stuff.

As most of you know, I'm now in New York with a new job, and I move into my new apartment in Brooklyn today! I'm ready to have my own digs again and get settled into a routine.

I’ve been reading a lot of modern British fiction lately, mostly on the subway to and from work in Midtown, and am starting to think that I should design a course about it including my recent reading materials: Atonement and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Of course, Virginia Woolf has been on my mind as well, adding another dimension to the turbulent consciousnesses at play in my fictional frame of mind. With this as a caveat, today was a good day.

I haven’t had a good day in a while. Let me qualify that to say that I also haven’t really had a bad day in a while. I’ve been floating, carried along by the tide of my life and its responsibilities, without much of a thought to how I was really doing. The shock of moving to New York is starting to wear off, and the multiple new elements of my current life are becoming familiar with varying speeds. Getting used to being around Rachael and Mandi took nearly no time at all, as was expected. Equilibrating to the subway, life in the big city, and the logistics of life without cars and box stores took a little while, but it was the good kind of adjustment. I finally deposited a paycheck in the bank, for the first time in nearly 12 months, alleviating near financial disaster and credit card debt.

Then today, I finally got comfortable at work. Not only do I feel more confident in meetings and have started to express my opinion, I've had some real conversations that made me feel more connected to the people at the office, and I bonded with the interns about traveling and Harry Potter. I’m in this bizarre age no mans’s land at work: the interns are all several years younger and still in college, but most of the staff is 30+. Makes it a little harder to find immediate common ground, so when something does come along it feels good.

And I can tell you it feels pretty fucking good to have an apartment.

It’s small, and my bedroom is even smaller (no really, it’s tiny), but it’s freshly remodeled with a phat phridge and high-btu gas range. That almost makes up for the galley-sized kitchen and the room that I’m not even sure will fit a full bed. It’s small, but it’s mine, and I found it thanks to weeks of grueling searching. I discovered it with my own brain and judgment amidst the swirling chaos-filled vortex of the New York City housing market, designed to suck the soul and money out of anyone who dares approach.

Last night, I felt the excitement building as I drove north through Brooklyn from my current “home” near Prospect Park. I passed Grand Army Plaza for the first time and had a (nearly) subconscious flashback of Harry and Sally standing in front of the huge archway after their marathon drive to the Big Apple. Brooklyn seemed to welcome me, and then it smacked me around a little for being wide-eyed and enthusiastic, like any good New Yorker would. Due to nighttime driving and me not being quite aggressive enough in a minivan at traffic circles, what should have been a 10-15 minute drive turned into 25 as I zig-zagged my way towards what I hoped was my apartment. Eventually I honed in on Clinton and Dekalb, snagging a parking space directly in front of my new front door. I sped up the five flights of rickety stairs (not yet remodeled, unlike our spanking new apartment) and found to my delight that not only the electricity and gas were on (I have no idea who has been paying the utility bills), but all the ceiling fans have cute little remote controls on the walls. Throwing open the windows to the cool night air, the first non-rainy non-sauna-like evening that we’ve had in a few weeks, I did a giddy little dance in the living room before taking a couple of loads of my stuff out of the van. The thought of my things in the back of the car sitting on the street in New York had been in the corner of my mind all week, and there was a part of me that kind of expected to come back every evening and see a window smashed and all my stuff gone. Now, that little corner of my mind is free again!

Once I had satisfied my need to fill the blank canvas of the new apartment, I decided that not only would hauling stuff up the stairs be more pleasant on this refreshing summer night, but that being on the roof would be too. I turned out the lights in the apartment, went into the stuffy hallway to make sure that all the locks worked, closed the door and climbed the 1/2 flight of stairs leading to the roof. Pushing tentatively on the door to see how it opened, I swung it wide open once I discovered it had no locking mechanism that might trap me out of the building. Then, I stepped out onto the spongy surface, not sure if I was allowed to be there, or if the old roof would support my weight. I walked over the ceiling of our apartment to compare the view from my bedroom window (not much different than what I see from one floor below), then walked around the stairwell’s skylight and faced south.

The lights of downtown Brooklyn sparkled at me through the clear dry air and I turned slowly to get the panoramic view: the diffuse aura of Manhattan rising mauve up from behind the nearest buildings’ silhouettes, the Chrysler building glowing at me from an alley, and the stars desperately competing with the mass of luminosity produced by this city to sustain its nearly 18 million inhabitants. Then, and only then, did I truly understand that I was now one of them. I live in New York. I whipped back around to take it all in, watched the polka-dots of the Brooklyn Bridge disappear into layers of offices, condos, brownstones, windows, and signs, and then my vision blurred a little as I realized that I was crying.

Dozens of emotions converged in me in that moment when I turned around in circles on the roof of 290 Clinton Street looking at the sky, my new home below, and the boroughs around me. The burden of searching for a home was gone, I was free to begin my daily life. Energized, excited, elated, and exhausted I let myself take a moment to think about all that I’ve accomplished in the past month since I left New York in May, in the wake of a surreal and interview-laden visit. A bit of pride poked its way into my consciousness, followed by relief, anticipation for the future, and a thread of pure joy. And then, as the cool air passed over my tired body, I truly felt the emptiness that I had been waiting for since I left New Hampshire.

Thus far, I have been remarkably successful in staving off that emptiness, keeping it away from my conscious mind with daily tasks, immediate practical concerns, reestablishing connections with old friends, partying in the city, and expressing myself creatively. But when I get tired, stop thinking or stop doing, I fall into old thought patterns worn into my synapses by several years of constant repetition. There on the roof, in the midst of this incredible moment, the feeling of what I have lost became almost as acute as what I have gained. I say almost because that little vacuum of loss is not enough to induce regret or any kind of remorse. I still think that the major decisions that I’ve made recently are the right ones for me, those which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness (thanks Jane). Yet within all that self-satisfaction had almost forgotten that it hurts to have someone that you thought you would be with forever tell you that they just don’t ever see that happening. When that feeling gets to you, it makes you catch your breath a little, like someone punched you in the chest. I know how lucky I am to have other, more pleasant emotions fighting to take the place of that emptiness, but nothingness is a little hard to get rid of.

In the meantime, I've been working on having something to take the place of that emptiness, and the attempt has not been entirely unsuccessful. I've been trying to be responsible, to act like the adult that that I am, pay the bills and make sure the electricity stays on. But in the midst of all that, I need moments like last night on the roof. Life is made for moments like that, and if you haven't had one in a while, then maybe you should think about why.

Things are not perfect, and it will still take some time for me to fully adjust to my new social and geographical context. I'm liking New York, and I love my friends. So right now, I'm here and I'm finding my place in the bustling city. I am here, and yes, Mrs. Ramsay, it is enough. It is enough!

Big Apple

I love NYC, just wish it weren't so damn expensive. Once again, fantastic times were had in Manhattan with the other 2/3 of the fantastic Cape Henry alumna trio. Two guys, independent of each other asked if we were "Charlie's Angels, or something" when we went out together on Saturday night. It's good stuff.

Top 10 moments of the weekend

10. Naked man on 3rd Avenue trapped inside a laundromat, yelling and pounding on the door at 1:30 am

9. Walking through "The Strand" bookstore in the Village and finding a 1975 hardbound copy of Don Juan for just $15. I [heart] Lord Byron

8. Being treated to dinner by Rachael's freshman year roomate and her parents at a restaurant called "Don Quijote." Troubadors serenaded us with 'Guantanamera;' I was having a hard time keeping a straight face.

7. Mandi and Me threatening to pretend to be lesbian lovers during aforementioned dinner. Hey, we *were* in Chelsea after all.

6. Large latino guy next to me in the subway on his way to the Bronx carrrying vintage Mary Poppins record album and 1960's Candyland game, and extolling collectable boardgames

5. Listening in to super-anal fashion designer tell friend at lunch about his interviews with European fashion houses in Paris and Milan, while eating challah french toast in 2nd Avenue Deli

4. Sipping merlot and debating museum sociology in the Asian pottery wing on the 2nd floor of the Met, post fashion exhibit

3. Seeing Pirates of the Caribbean in digital projection after the best cheesecake ever. I love Orlando Bloom, just for the record.

2. Clubbing at GO, 8th Avenue, and getting the VIP treatment (private table in the corner, free champagne, me entering sans ID), even though we were clearly only VIPs because Mandi knows the manager

1. The "I'm OK, you're OK Dinner" with Mandi, remeniscing with only a slight amount of nostalgia about high school, with black truffle gnocchi and tiramisu, AND mom calling to tell me that Italy is indeed a go.

Now that I'm back at the beach, it's time to do all that stuff that i've got on my list of summer projects, even though the summer is quickly winding down. Fellowships, yardwork, kicking my butt back into shape, super quick review of Italian grammar, and all that good stuff. Got caught out in a thunderstorm again when I went running today-I love rain and lightning =).