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.
If, on a winter's night a traveler outside the town of Malbork, leaning from a steep slope without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down into the gathering shadow...on the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon around an empty grave, what story there awaits its end? -italo calvino
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Not feelin' it.
There was a lot of fluffy goodness growing this March, and my chirpy spring spirit turned more to a growl once the results of spring’s “anticipation” came in.
I went to the Cherry Blossom Festival, alone. This surprises no one, as I do many things alone now: museums, movies, cultural events, neighborhood exploring. But dammit, even the scary harajuku kids dressed up as manga characters had someone to hang out with at the festival.
I took lots of beautiful pictures, and documented all kinds of people having fun in the gardens, and then went home to process my pictures. Also, to add insult to injury, I ran into one of the six people that I know in Brooklyn, a city of over 2 million inhabitants. Of course I see my old crush after six months dressed in my red hoodie and jeans, not having showered since the day before, and having been rained on at the festival. Superb. Very spring-like and inspiring.
I’m ready for work to be normal again, for people to act like they’re still my friends, pick up the damn phone, or answer a freaking email.
Screw this “spring” thing.
I went to the Cherry Blossom Festival, alone. This surprises no one, as I do many things alone now: museums, movies, cultural events, neighborhood exploring. But dammit, even the scary harajuku kids dressed up as manga characters had someone to hang out with at the festival.
I took lots of beautiful pictures, and documented all kinds of people having fun in the gardens, and then went home to process my pictures. Also, to add insult to injury, I ran into one of the six people that I know in Brooklyn, a city of over 2 million inhabitants. Of course I see my old crush after six months dressed in my red hoodie and jeans, not having showered since the day before, and having been rained on at the festival. Superb. Very spring-like and inspiring.
I’m ready for work to be normal again, for people to act like they’re still my friends, pick up the damn phone, or answer a freaking email.
Screw this “spring” thing.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Updated Travel Stuff
For those loyal readers of last year's odyssey (good lord, it really has been a year!), there is a new one:
"Heart of America" in January '07 is online for your reading pleasure. More to come soon, I hope!
-Siempre,
Thea
"Heart of America" in January '07 is online for your reading pleasure. More to come soon, I hope!
-Siempre,
Thea
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
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.
...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.
Monday, March 10, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Oh, February.
Traditionally February is a harsh month for me. Though G. denies it, I have never had a good Valentine's day regardless of my relationship status, and I was expecting more of the same this year. The ominous weather earlier in the week seemed to indicate as much, and I prepped a somber all-black outfit suited to my funereal mood.
I threw open the door to my apartment building Thursday morning with a confrontational shove, and dared February 14th to get the better of me. I must have scared something off, because I had a completely uneventful day at work relatively devoid of irritating references to romance and love. The only concession to the holiday spirit was a perusal of the NYT editorial page, full of archaic lists of what it takes to be in love. That made me smile.
Armed in ebon garb with eyes ringed in kohl, I dared anyone clad in rosy hues to even hint at valentines festivities...and it worked! One of the girls at work even mentioned that my makeup looked nice. Ha.
So Valentine's Day passed much like any other, with a low amarga quotient. When I got home I had a few beers, turned on some loud music and completely scoured the bathroom. My parents were coming to town that weekend, and I figured that I might as well do a chore that puts me in a bad mood on a day that puts me in a bad mood, killing two birds with one stone.
The very next day I decided that I was in the mood for a feel-good movie, and called up "Waitress" on my queue from Netflix. I surprisingly enjoyed the movie and its non-formulaic take on romantic relationships. It's fun to see a movie that's truly non run of the mill, that's written with a sense of humor and thoughtfulness. Kerri Russell really stole the show, and although I can't say that I agree with a lot of the value judgments about women in the movie, it was highly entertaining. It also contained one of the best lines I've heard in a while:
I like that.
Like Ms. Russell's character, I enjoy event-specific recipe names, christening this evening's meal "Achoo, I'm Getting a Head-cold Lentil Soup." I'm really hoping that my valiant immune system is up to the challenge of doing battle with whatever cold viruses are floating around inside, making the soup moniker oxymoronic.
Apart from some mild sniffles and me missing by Vespa (and the cute boys at the bike shop), winter hasn't been nearly as harsh as I'd expected. Dark, yes. Chilly, yes. Monumentally depressing and soul-crushing? No.
February, you've been remarkably humane thus far, please keep it that way.
I threw open the door to my apartment building Thursday morning with a confrontational shove, and dared February 14th to get the better of me. I must have scared something off, because I had a completely uneventful day at work relatively devoid of irritating references to romance and love. The only concession to the holiday spirit was a perusal of the NYT editorial page, full of archaic lists of what it takes to be in love. That made me smile.
Armed in ebon garb with eyes ringed in kohl, I dared anyone clad in rosy hues to even hint at valentines festivities...and it worked! One of the girls at work even mentioned that my makeup looked nice. Ha.
So Valentine's Day passed much like any other, with a low amarga quotient. When I got home I had a few beers, turned on some loud music and completely scoured the bathroom. My parents were coming to town that weekend, and I figured that I might as well do a chore that puts me in a bad mood on a day that puts me in a bad mood, killing two birds with one stone.
The very next day I decided that I was in the mood for a feel-good movie, and called up "Waitress" on my queue from Netflix. I surprisingly enjoyed the movie and its non-formulaic take on romantic relationships. It's fun to see a movie that's truly non run of the mill, that's written with a sense of humor and thoughtfulness. Kerri Russell really stole the show, and although I can't say that I agree with a lot of the value judgments about women in the movie, it was highly entertaining. It also contained one of the best lines I've heard in a while:
I hope someday somebody wants to hold you for 20 minutes straight and that's all they do. They don't pull away. They don't look at your face. They don't try to kiss you. All they do is wrap you up in their arms and hold on tight, without an ounce of selfishness in it.
I like that.
Like Ms. Russell's character, I enjoy event-specific recipe names, christening this evening's meal "Achoo, I'm Getting a Head-cold Lentil Soup." I'm really hoping that my valiant immune system is up to the challenge of doing battle with whatever cold viruses are floating around inside, making the soup moniker oxymoronic.
Apart from some mild sniffles and me missing by Vespa (and the cute boys at the bike shop), winter hasn't been nearly as harsh as I'd expected. Dark, yes. Chilly, yes. Monumentally depressing and soul-crushing? No.
February, you've been remarkably humane thus far, please keep it that way.
Monday, February 04, 2008
It has recently come to my attention...
...that I have sorely neglected my dearest of blogs. My unfinished South American writings languish on my hard drive, waiting for a polish, some cleaning up and a place for display.
Now that the beautiful new "machine" as my family would call it is fully functional, I've performed a long-needed upgrade on Amarga and given her a new coat of paint, not unlike a certain Dodge Caravan from days of old.
I haven't wanted to be too personal lately, and that's okay. Let it suffice to say that I'm doing pretty well still, discovering hidden corners of New York City and of Brooklyn, and trying to make this borough more of my home.
Perhaps I'll send out a round of emails when I've got my travel essays ready, or maybe write something about my photography, if I can think of anything coherent to say. In the meantime, I think I will take a cue from my new roommate and just get back into the habit of writing again.
Now that the beautiful new "machine" as my family would call it is fully functional, I've performed a long-needed upgrade on Amarga and given her a new coat of paint, not unlike a certain Dodge Caravan from days of old.
I haven't wanted to be too personal lately, and that's okay. Let it suffice to say that I'm doing pretty well still, discovering hidden corners of New York City and of Brooklyn, and trying to make this borough more of my home.
Perhaps I'll send out a round of emails when I've got my travel essays ready, or maybe write something about my photography, if I can think of anything coherent to say. In the meantime, I think I will take a cue from my new roommate and just get back into the habit of writing again.
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