I had the pleasure of working for a week in Los Angeles and as I explored, it was only natural to try to make observations about my surroundings and life in that fair city. My hotel was in Studio City, near Universal Studios. The location was nice and not far from Hollywood.
Los Angeles is very different from NYC, of course. My favorite difference is the subway system. It is sparkling clean, the cars are new and it costs $3/day to ride as much as you want. Also, no one uses it. I rode it a couple of times and it was a constant pleasure to ride.
Of course, the MTA trains are nothing like this. Crowded, noisy, rats on the tracks, two bucks per ride (or $7 per day), trash everywhere and liquids on the platform in the most unexpected places... All that aside, it is far more useful than LA's system. It takes you more places and is far more flexible.
If you didn't know, the past three days have been subway-free, thanks to our Mayor, MTA Employees and a general lack of civility on this earth. The issues aren't really that important to me to discuss. It was a general mess of historic proportions.
Of course, I am ever the optimist. My wife and I met up after she finished work yesterday and we walked around our neighborhood in Brooklyn. What did I discover? It is a short walk to places that take twenty minutes to get to on the subway! Target is a ten minute walk. The gym? About the same. Also, we can get to Fulton Street Mall, downtown Brooklyn, and if we pushed it a bit, Brooklyn Heights! For a city that felt so enormous, It really isn't as bad as you think. Thanks, MTA, for showing me the truth!
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Sunday, December 11, 2005
INCONCEIVABLE!
"Ha ha-- you fool! You just fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The first is: Never get involved in a land war in Asia. Only slightly less known is this: Never go against a Sicilian when DEATH is on the line! Ha Ha Ha, Ha Ha Ha, Ha ha HUH!"
My career is rather boring. I try my best to avoid it in this blog, but every once in awhile it will rear its ugly head. In this case, it has to do with celebrities. In New York, celebrities are everywhere. My wife is known to go to the Meatpacking District, if only to catch glimpse of the Olsen Twins or Lindsay Lohan. It's a hobby to try to see them around.
As an opera singer, I meet people who are famous in my little world, but not much more than that. All that changed this Friday when I took an audition for an Off-Broadway play. They needed some opera singers to fill out the cast. Apparently the show had some sort of "opera within the play" and they were specifically looking for tenors in their 30s. I sent them my audition package that morning via email and they asked me to come in that afternoon. It was an exciting offer and I showed up to find that it was the call-backs. Typically, one sings for a casting agent, but when I walked into the room, there were about ten people there including The Celebrity. I've given ample hints as to who it was. The quotes that I gave were from a certain, wonderful family movie starring little Fred Savage. Ok, enough of dropping names. For those of you who knew me back in High School, this film had a huge impact on my formative years. It was all I could do to not start shouting out movie quotes in the rests between my singing!
It was my only my second brush with celebrity since moving here and it was pretty thrilling. I did sing rather well, but on the way out the monitor said that they were looking for someone either ten years older or ten years younger. So goes the show business.
My career is rather boring. I try my best to avoid it in this blog, but every once in awhile it will rear its ugly head. In this case, it has to do with celebrities. In New York, celebrities are everywhere. My wife is known to go to the Meatpacking District, if only to catch glimpse of the Olsen Twins or Lindsay Lohan. It's a hobby to try to see them around.
As an opera singer, I meet people who are famous in my little world, but not much more than that. All that changed this Friday when I took an audition for an Off-Broadway play. They needed some opera singers to fill out the cast. Apparently the show had some sort of "opera within the play" and they were specifically looking for tenors in their 30s. I sent them my audition package that morning via email and they asked me to come in that afternoon. It was an exciting offer and I showed up to find that it was the call-backs. Typically, one sings for a casting agent, but when I walked into the room, there were about ten people there including The Celebrity. I've given ample hints as to who it was. The quotes that I gave were from a certain, wonderful family movie starring little Fred Savage. Ok, enough of dropping names. For those of you who knew me back in High School, this film had a huge impact on my formative years. It was all I could do to not start shouting out movie quotes in the rests between my singing!
It was my only my second brush with celebrity since moving here and it was pretty thrilling. I did sing rather well, but on the way out the monitor said that they were looking for someone either ten years older or ten years younger. So goes the show business.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
My Life, the Carousel (You may want to look at a subway map)
Hop on the G-Train heading towards Queens. Ride the subway to the end. At Long Island City, Change to the E/V line. The "music" kicks up. It's a woman screaming obscenities at no one in particular. People quicken their pace to move past. I'm sure that there are moments when we all wish we could scream like that.
Pop onto the E/V Train and take it one stop to 51st Street. Walk up 5 flights of stairs. It is good for your heart. I could take the escalator but I fear that it ascends so high that I'll end up looking at St. Peter as I walk off. Better the devil you know, and so I take the stairs two at a time.
Walk north to 58th Street, where I go to my office job. Spend the day there, listening to the music of a Scottsman and a Brit teasing each other as they pick out $300/yard fabric.
At 5 p.m., walk back down to 51st street, Catch the E-train to 14th Street in Chelsea. Sing an opera with a small company. The music there? Amahl and the night visitors. Walk back down to 14th street, Grab the C-train to Brooklyn, transfer to the G at Hoyt-Schermerhorn and ascend the stairs to our home.
This is the New York equivalent of a perfect circle. The ups and downs are the variations that I see as I do this same loop day in and day out. The music changes as I go from station to station. I hear steel drum melodies, people playing Christmas Carols on their electric keyboards, jazz trios, and subway dancers who do flips off of the poles in the subway cars as hip-hop blares.
It is a fun ride. Hang on!
Pop onto the E/V Train and take it one stop to 51st Street. Walk up 5 flights of stairs. It is good for your heart. I could take the escalator but I fear that it ascends so high that I'll end up looking at St. Peter as I walk off. Better the devil you know, and so I take the stairs two at a time.
Walk north to 58th Street, where I go to my office job. Spend the day there, listening to the music of a Scottsman and a Brit teasing each other as they pick out $300/yard fabric.
At 5 p.m., walk back down to 51st street, Catch the E-train to 14th Street in Chelsea. Sing an opera with a small company. The music there? Amahl and the night visitors. Walk back down to 14th street, Grab the C-train to Brooklyn, transfer to the G at Hoyt-Schermerhorn and ascend the stairs to our home.
This is the New York equivalent of a perfect circle. The ups and downs are the variations that I see as I do this same loop day in and day out. The music changes as I go from station to station. I hear steel drum melodies, people playing Christmas Carols on their electric keyboards, jazz trios, and subway dancers who do flips off of the poles in the subway cars as hip-hop blares.
It is a fun ride. Hang on!
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
The other side of the tracks?
"Why do you need a coat check in the lobby of an apartment building?" my wife asked.
I'll apologize for this posting in advance. It is both exciting, interesting and a little bit vulgar, but it is entirely honest.
Let's start at the beginning. Tonight was a cocktail party where my employer had a book signing for his new book, a retrospective on his career. We were literally right across the river from our apartment. While we live in Brooklyn, looking at Manhattan, tonight we were at 1st avenue and 49th street, on the 12th floor looking up at the Chrysler building and the blue glow of the Empire State Building. Looking down, you can see the Secretariat Building.
The view was gorgeous. Breathtaking, in fact. But the interior design was opulent beyond words. I've been temping in a design firm that has worked with numerous famous clients and this was one of my boss' favorite homes. An apartment at UN Plaza that overlooks the East Side of Manhattan. His client? She collects Japanese art from the 18th Century that is framed in formal, yet fun, shades of green, red, and pink. There are streiee, mouldings, hand-painted columns and custom-quilted day beds to flesh out the home. It sounds like something inappropriate, but believe me, it is a work of art. The project began as a small (3 bedroom) apartment, but the clients then bought the next door flat, tore down a wall and redid the whole darn things. Not being appreciative of the intricacies of interior design, I have learned that their are details and touches of true art that can touch a home and bring it to an almost sublime level. I've worn two types of plaid simultaneously, so I think I'm learning a lot!
This apartment could have cost upwards of seven million for just the real estate. The decoration alone was worth at least a million. To see it and share in it was an unbelievable experience.
And then there were the guests. They varied from the eccentric to the fun, yet unapproachably rich. My colleague, The Dancer, my wife and I were roaming the rooms of this apartment meeting guests of unimagined wealth who all enjoyed homes designed by my boss. Let's call my boss, The Scottsman. The Scottsman is a (somewhat crotchety) man of his mid-seventies. He has designed for people who you would know from history class, the society papers and people who very quietly control most of the wealth of the nation.
The party began with waiters in tuxedos circulating around with wine and taking cocktail orders. When my wife and I asked for a red, we were politely informed that nothing more than "off -white " was being served. Insert foot in mouth.
Circulating around the apartment, we met a range of people who had all enjoyed working with The Scottsman over the years. My wife and I had switched to white wine by then and our glasses were never less than half full.
At the end of the night, we were in the process of saying goodbye to the Scottsman, Chippy (his wife) and The Host and Hostess. The Host was an older man who remained seated for the party. He had a slight tremor in his left hand and the devil in his eye. My wife was chatting with him while I was speaking to The Hostess across the room.
As she leaned over to hear him a little better, she felt something brush against her backside. She wasn't quite sure what it was, but then she felt it brush by the the other cheek, where it remained. As she described it, time started to slow down. All of a sudden he said, "Do you mind it when people touch your bottom while they talk to you?"
Her only response was, "MR. HOST, BEHAVE." As she took a step away from him, he gave her a devilish grin.
I'll apologize for this posting in advance. It is both exciting, interesting and a little bit vulgar, but it is entirely honest.
Let's start at the beginning. Tonight was a cocktail party where my employer had a book signing for his new book, a retrospective on his career. We were literally right across the river from our apartment. While we live in Brooklyn, looking at Manhattan, tonight we were at 1st avenue and 49th street, on the 12th floor looking up at the Chrysler building and the blue glow of the Empire State Building. Looking down, you can see the Secretariat Building.
The view was gorgeous. Breathtaking, in fact. But the interior design was opulent beyond words. I've been temping in a design firm that has worked with numerous famous clients and this was one of my boss' favorite homes. An apartment at UN Plaza that overlooks the East Side of Manhattan. His client? She collects Japanese art from the 18th Century that is framed in formal, yet fun, shades of green, red, and pink. There are streiee, mouldings, hand-painted columns and custom-quilted day beds to flesh out the home. It sounds like something inappropriate, but believe me, it is a work of art. The project began as a small (3 bedroom) apartment, but the clients then bought the next door flat, tore down a wall and redid the whole darn things. Not being appreciative of the intricacies of interior design, I have learned that their are details and touches of true art that can touch a home and bring it to an almost sublime level. I've worn two types of plaid simultaneously, so I think I'm learning a lot!
This apartment could have cost upwards of seven million for just the real estate. The decoration alone was worth at least a million. To see it and share in it was an unbelievable experience.
And then there were the guests. They varied from the eccentric to the fun, yet unapproachably rich. My colleague, The Dancer, my wife and I were roaming the rooms of this apartment meeting guests of unimagined wealth who all enjoyed homes designed by my boss. Let's call my boss, The Scottsman. The Scottsman is a (somewhat crotchety) man of his mid-seventies. He has designed for people who you would know from history class, the society papers and people who very quietly control most of the wealth of the nation.
The party began with waiters in tuxedos circulating around with wine and taking cocktail orders. When my wife and I asked for a red, we were politely informed that nothing more than "off -white " was being served. Insert foot in mouth.
Circulating around the apartment, we met a range of people who had all enjoyed working with The Scottsman over the years. My wife and I had switched to white wine by then and our glasses were never less than half full.
At the end of the night, we were in the process of saying goodbye to the Scottsman, Chippy (his wife) and The Host and Hostess. The Host was an older man who remained seated for the party. He had a slight tremor in his left hand and the devil in his eye. My wife was chatting with him while I was speaking to The Hostess across the room.
As she leaned over to hear him a little better, she felt something brush against her backside. She wasn't quite sure what it was, but then she felt it brush by the the other cheek, where it remained. As she described it, time started to slow down. All of a sudden he said, "Do you mind it when people touch your bottom while they talk to you?"
Her only response was, "MR. HOST, BEHAVE." As she took a step away from him, he gave her a devilish grin.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
The Bear comes to New York City
Yesterday morning I discovered a voice-mail on my cell from my brother-in-law, The Bear. It began with our favorite Beastie Boys anthem, "No Sleep 'till Brooklyn" and after he yelled that out we heard, "What are you doing for dinner tonight? Call me!"
Having visitors in New York is a nice thing. Obviously, it is a good bit nicer when The Bear's employer is picking up the cab fare and the hotel at Times Square.
All this brings me to the point of this entry. Times Squre. It is the heart of our city yet it is not a place that many locals go to voluntarily. Crowded with people who generally look up, rather than where they are going, it generally takes a Broadway show to entice a New Yorker to its bright lights. I've never had a friend say, "Oh, there is this great cafe at Times Square, why don't you meet me there at 7 p.m. on Friday night." -- (7 p.m. is when the theater rush begins.)
In our effort to blend in as true city folk, my wife and I avoid Times Square like the plague, deride it in conversations with aquaintances and, when forced to go there, hurry past with our eyes glued to the ground.
The Bear's arrival threw that all off, though. He was staying at the Marriott, a hotel so grand that there is has a Broadway show running in the theater on the ground floor. This being his first trip to the city, my wife took him to his hotel and I met them their after rehearsal for a late dinner.
Besides the great pleasure we took in seeing the Bear outside of his natural environments, his visit also gave us a chance to actually see and take in a small portion of Times Square and the Theater District. It was great to just take a moment or two to stop and let him absorb the massive scale of the place and to see the Picasso-smear of lights and colors. The place is vibrant and even on a Tuesay night, it is chock full of interesting people to look at. People who, like The Bear, seemed stunned by the excitement of it all.
Having visitors in the city is a great way for us to be reminded of what a cool place we are living in. It also gives us a chance to do things that we would not normally do, simply because we live here. So, come on and visit us! We have a pull-out in the living room and we are dying to take the "Sex in the City" Bus Tour, the Circle Line Boat Ride around Manhattan, and grab a cocktail at the Rainbow Room (Straight up AND on the Rocks). More importantly, we want to do it with you!
Having visitors in New York is a nice thing. Obviously, it is a good bit nicer when The Bear's employer is picking up the cab fare and the hotel at Times Square.
All this brings me to the point of this entry. Times Squre. It is the heart of our city yet it is not a place that many locals go to voluntarily. Crowded with people who generally look up, rather than where they are going, it generally takes a Broadway show to entice a New Yorker to its bright lights. I've never had a friend say, "Oh, there is this great cafe at Times Square, why don't you meet me there at 7 p.m. on Friday night." -- (7 p.m. is when the theater rush begins.)
In our effort to blend in as true city folk, my wife and I avoid Times Square like the plague, deride it in conversations with aquaintances and, when forced to go there, hurry past with our eyes glued to the ground.
The Bear's arrival threw that all off, though. He was staying at the Marriott, a hotel so grand that there is has a Broadway show running in the theater on the ground floor. This being his first trip to the city, my wife took him to his hotel and I met them their after rehearsal for a late dinner.
Besides the great pleasure we took in seeing the Bear outside of his natural environments, his visit also gave us a chance to actually see and take in a small portion of Times Square and the Theater District. It was great to just take a moment or two to stop and let him absorb the massive scale of the place and to see the Picasso-smear of lights and colors. The place is vibrant and even on a Tuesay night, it is chock full of interesting people to look at. People who, like The Bear, seemed stunned by the excitement of it all.
Having visitors in the city is a great way for us to be reminded of what a cool place we are living in. It also gives us a chance to do things that we would not normally do, simply because we live here. So, come on and visit us! We have a pull-out in the living room and we are dying to take the "Sex in the City" Bus Tour, the Circle Line Boat Ride around Manhattan, and grab a cocktail at the Rainbow Room (Straight up AND on the Rocks). More importantly, we want to do it with you!
Sunday, November 06, 2005
It's the day of the race, y'all!
There is a party right in front of my apartment building and 40,000 people were invited. Today is the day of the New York City Marathon. I'll probably get in trouble for not mentioning it was sponsored by ING. Ah well, such is life.
My wife and I have participated in races before, the largest being the Bolder Boulder 10k. For those of you who don't attend races, there are some very specific cultural idiosyncracies. First off, it isn't just people running. There are bands along the raceway playing all types of music. There are vendors at the end of the race giving away free samples of everything from the latest carbohydrate racing goop to ice cream bars to keychains to visors. The world of road races are as commercial as anything else.
My experience with the Bolder Boulder included all these things. Like my experience at Halloween, though, New York City takes things to the logical extreme. While the BB featured belly dancers, garage bands, Elvis impersonators and a mix of music, the NYC Marathon (sponsored by ING) is a slick setup with some incredibly professional bands with back-up singers, choreography and full-stages set up along the route. Checking out the website, in addition to the requisite vendors giving away freebies, there is a full buffet at Tavern on the Green at Central Park for race participants and families.
Please be assured, I do not mean that the Bolder Boulder is in any way a lesser event. Rather, this city seems to have an obsession with being the biggest, brassiest, and boldest of them all. I wouldn't trade either for the world.
Now I have to figure out how to get my car off the one-way street where it is parked so that I can get to my show this afternoon. Does anyone know any way to distract cops who guard the race path?
My wife and I have participated in races before, the largest being the Bolder Boulder 10k. For those of you who don't attend races, there are some very specific cultural idiosyncracies. First off, it isn't just people running. There are bands along the raceway playing all types of music. There are vendors at the end of the race giving away free samples of everything from the latest carbohydrate racing goop to ice cream bars to keychains to visors. The world of road races are as commercial as anything else.
My experience with the Bolder Boulder included all these things. Like my experience at Halloween, though, New York City takes things to the logical extreme. While the BB featured belly dancers, garage bands, Elvis impersonators and a mix of music, the NYC Marathon (sponsored by ING) is a slick setup with some incredibly professional bands with back-up singers, choreography and full-stages set up along the route. Checking out the website, in addition to the requisite vendors giving away freebies, there is a full buffet at Tavern on the Green at Central Park for race participants and families.
Please be assured, I do not mean that the Bolder Boulder is in any way a lesser event. Rather, this city seems to have an obsession with being the biggest, brassiest, and boldest of them all. I wouldn't trade either for the world.
Now I have to figure out how to get my car off the one-way street where it is parked so that I can get to my show this afternoon. Does anyone know any way to distract cops who guard the race path?
Monday, October 31, 2005
Halloween in the Village
My wife and I met in Greenwich Village this evening for an outing to the annual Halloween parade. This event is the highest attended Halloween event in the country (and possibly the world). My wife, who has a real nose for a bargain, recommended we try Mamoun's Falafel. We got a baba ganoush and felafel for $2 each and it was probably the most filling, low-budget meal I've ever had. Not to mention, delicious.
We found a spot near the police barrier at Avenue of the Americas and Bleeker. It was a great location and we soon found ourselves pressed up by the crowd behind us. Our spot was in a small cul-de-sac and shortly after we arrived, the police decided to move the barrier forward so that we could better see the parade. At this point, the couple next to us decided to take the opportunity to push past us and elbow their way to the front. The woman made it up to the barricade but I blocked the man. I could hear him grumble because he wasn't with the woman who was obviously a guest from out of town. She kept offering for him to come up and join her in front and I managed to position myself to keep him from getting by me. It was a very satisfying experience to irritate them in such a way. The real corker? A young woman tried to elbow her way to the front and the guy said to her, "What are you trying to do? We've been waiting here for a long time and now you want to just cut in? Go somewhere else! You should have got here earlier!" My wife and I could have throttled the man. It really cast a shadow on the evening.
Soon, the pararde started going by. It began with giant skeletons that were about 15 feet tall. There was a person at the base of the marionette controlling it. The skeleton would walk down the street and shake hands with people. 25 feet dragons came flying by, being held up by a row of people. They were a highlight for us. After that, we noticed that, for the most part, the parade was a bunch of everyday folk with costumes on. There were the occasional marching band, but it seemed like most people were just walking along with the parade. Only the occasional inspired costume made a real impression.
My mind inevitably compared the evening to a wonderfully freaky event called the Pumpkin Festival in a rural part of New York. At that event, there was an assortment of odd-balls that only come out for the big events in small towns. In this case, the Village Parade felt very similar only bigger and flashier. It was one of those moments where I thought that, in a way, New York City is the world's biggest "small town." It isn't exactly what I thought it would be, yet I found that rather comforting.
We found a spot near the police barrier at Avenue of the Americas and Bleeker. It was a great location and we soon found ourselves pressed up by the crowd behind us. Our spot was in a small cul-de-sac and shortly after we arrived, the police decided to move the barrier forward so that we could better see the parade. At this point, the couple next to us decided to take the opportunity to push past us and elbow their way to the front. The woman made it up to the barricade but I blocked the man. I could hear him grumble because he wasn't with the woman who was obviously a guest from out of town. She kept offering for him to come up and join her in front and I managed to position myself to keep him from getting by me. It was a very satisfying experience to irritate them in such a way. The real corker? A young woman tried to elbow her way to the front and the guy said to her, "What are you trying to do? We've been waiting here for a long time and now you want to just cut in? Go somewhere else! You should have got here earlier!" My wife and I could have throttled the man. It really cast a shadow on the evening.
Soon, the pararde started going by. It began with giant skeletons that were about 15 feet tall. There was a person at the base of the marionette controlling it. The skeleton would walk down the street and shake hands with people. 25 feet dragons came flying by, being held up by a row of people. They were a highlight for us. After that, we noticed that, for the most part, the parade was a bunch of everyday folk with costumes on. There were the occasional marching band, but it seemed like most people were just walking along with the parade. Only the occasional inspired costume made a real impression.
My mind inevitably compared the evening to a wonderfully freaky event called the Pumpkin Festival in a rural part of New York. At that event, there was an assortment of odd-balls that only come out for the big events in small towns. In this case, the Village Parade felt very similar only bigger and flashier. It was one of those moments where I thought that, in a way, New York City is the world's biggest "small town." It isn't exactly what I thought it would be, yet I found that rather comforting.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Little Italy loves the Baby Jesus
After work today, I met my wife down in Chinatown. After "Taste of Chinatown" last weekend, we were excited to dig in and explore without the masses of crowds.
A hint to all prospective visitors. Do not walk down Canal Street. It is insanely crowded and the centerpiece (as such) is a behemoth store called, "The Great Wall of China Mall." A building, trimmed in gold that is filled with small stalls on the ground level and overpriced merchandise on the upper ones. Though the upstairs is lovely, the real action is elsewhere.
Mott Street bends around off of the general grid of streets that makes up the area. As we headed south, we found some restaurants and checked out the menus. We were on a mission, though, to find some good supplies for the kitchen. Now was not the time to eat.
Off next to first grocery shop. Filled with food supplies that are completely unknown to me, it was incredible to see the variety of food that was available. Also, once you get off Canal Street, the prices drop by 30% at least.
The overall experience feels as chaotic as any grocery store in the city. People with carts that are as wide as the narrow aisles. People bumping into you and difficulty communicating with the staff. The layout would make more sense if they had let small, agile monkeys stock the shelves. Soy Sauce? Aisle 4, by the toothbrushes.
After shopping for supplies for our home-cooked dinner, my wife and I started to discuss picking up a pastry for dessert. "Shall we try one of these Asian bakeries?" she asked. "Isn't Little Italy right around here? Why not get a cannoli?" I responded.
Brilliant move.
Now, how do you find Little Italy when you are in the heart of Chinatown? Look slightly above eye-level as you walk north. Soon you will see the lighted wreathes, candy-canes and other Christmas decorations strung up on the light poles. On October 20th. I expect that the shop owners are truly keeping the Spirit of Christmas year-round. The only thing missing was the carols. Instead it seems that each restaurant had a man standing by the stoop yelling, "Get-ta some pas-tah! Get-tah some vi-no! Its-ah the best food in-a tha City!"
Heading north, we found a charming and stylish bakery with some amazing looking cannolis. After browsing, we thought we might look for something a little more authentic. This felt too mainstream.
We found a small dive and picked up a chocolate cannoli to share. After dinner that night we tried it. It was ok but a little drier than we expected. Sure enough, when my wife asked around at work, we were told that the only cannolis to have in Little Italy were at that sleek place. Sigh. So much for the "authentic" experience. I guess the little hole-in-the-wall places are not always the best.
A hint to all prospective visitors. Do not walk down Canal Street. It is insanely crowded and the centerpiece (as such) is a behemoth store called, "The Great Wall of China Mall." A building, trimmed in gold that is filled with small stalls on the ground level and overpriced merchandise on the upper ones. Though the upstairs is lovely, the real action is elsewhere.
Mott Street bends around off of the general grid of streets that makes up the area. As we headed south, we found some restaurants and checked out the menus. We were on a mission, though, to find some good supplies for the kitchen. Now was not the time to eat.
Off next to first grocery shop. Filled with food supplies that are completely unknown to me, it was incredible to see the variety of food that was available. Also, once you get off Canal Street, the prices drop by 30% at least.
The overall experience feels as chaotic as any grocery store in the city. People with carts that are as wide as the narrow aisles. People bumping into you and difficulty communicating with the staff. The layout would make more sense if they had let small, agile monkeys stock the shelves. Soy Sauce? Aisle 4, by the toothbrushes.
After shopping for supplies for our home-cooked dinner, my wife and I started to discuss picking up a pastry for dessert. "Shall we try one of these Asian bakeries?" she asked. "Isn't Little Italy right around here? Why not get a cannoli?" I responded.
Brilliant move.
Now, how do you find Little Italy when you are in the heart of Chinatown? Look slightly above eye-level as you walk north. Soon you will see the lighted wreathes, candy-canes and other Christmas decorations strung up on the light poles. On October 20th. I expect that the shop owners are truly keeping the Spirit of Christmas year-round. The only thing missing was the carols. Instead it seems that each restaurant had a man standing by the stoop yelling, "Get-ta some pas-tah! Get-tah some vi-no! Its-ah the best food in-a tha City!"
Heading north, we found a charming and stylish bakery with some amazing looking cannolis. After browsing, we thought we might look for something a little more authentic. This felt too mainstream.
We found a small dive and picked up a chocolate cannoli to share. After dinner that night we tried it. It was ok but a little drier than we expected. Sure enough, when my wife asked around at work, we were told that the only cannolis to have in Little Italy were at that sleek place. Sigh. So much for the "authentic" experience. I guess the little hole-in-the-wall places are not always the best.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
A moment of Silence, please.
As I got off the A train yesterday to transfer to the 4, I got stuck behind a mass slow people on the stairs. I heard the A train move to the next station behind me and the sound was replaced by a woman singing spirituals.
On most days, she is somewhere at the Broadway/Nassau station. She sings, hands out pamphlets and talks to people about Jesus. As this huge group of people walked up the steps, and continued down the hall, her voice still could be heard. I walked up two ramps, her voice getting louder as I approached, until I finally caught up with her.
It took me a good five minutes on the 4-train before I realized what just happened. Outside of her singing, the passengers were absolutely silent. I don't throw around the word, "absolutely" lightly. No one was speaking. There was a quiet shuffle and click of shoes and only that voice.
On most days, she is somewhere at the Broadway/Nassau station. She sings, hands out pamphlets and talks to people about Jesus. As this huge group of people walked up the steps, and continued down the hall, her voice still could be heard. I walked up two ramps, her voice getting louder as I approached, until I finally caught up with her.
It took me a good five minutes on the 4-train before I realized what just happened. Outside of her singing, the passengers were absolutely silent. I don't throw around the word, "absolutely" lightly. No one was speaking. There was a quiet shuffle and click of shoes and only that voice.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Signs of Optimism
As I spend more time here in the big city, I realize that there are signs of optimism all around me. Initially I thought that the city would be a cynical place where I must be rough and tough to survive.
On instant it struck me as I walked to work from the subway. I watched a doorman spraying off the sidewalk in front of his building on a sunny morning. In half an hour, that portion of the street would be filthy again with cigarette butts and trash. Even though the man was just doing his job, it seemed to flaunt the cynical edge that I had come to expect.
"I expect I will offer more instances of this in the future," says the Optimist.
On instant it struck me as I walked to work from the subway. I watched a doorman spraying off the sidewalk in front of his building on a sunny morning. In half an hour, that portion of the street would be filthy again with cigarette butts and trash. Even though the man was just doing his job, it seemed to flaunt the cynical edge that I had come to expect.
"I expect I will offer more instances of this in the future," says the Optimist.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Pending entries
Hi Everyone,
I'm stuck without internet until Saturday. Rest assured, gentle readers, I am working off-line and I'll post as soon as Time-Warner gets to the house and installs our cable.
Upcoming subjects:
Found: One small nation. In the vicinity of Canal Street.
X-Games, sponsored by Mountain Dew
Running for your Life
I'm stuck without internet until Saturday. Rest assured, gentle readers, I am working off-line and I'll post as soon as Time-Warner gets to the house and installs our cable.
Upcoming subjects:
Found: One small nation. In the vicinity of Canal Street.
X-Games, sponsored by Mountain Dew
Running for your Life
Friday, September 16, 2005
Comment Spam
Ah, the internet. If there is something fun (for me, this blog), someone will find a way to muddy the waters by trying to sell you some c-r-a-p.
I've turned on the word verification feature on the comments section of the blog. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it seems some evil genius has found a way to drop advertisements into the comments field using an automation program. Curse them. If you have any comments, please feel free to post!
I have a couple more blog entries on the way. I've found that it helps to have my wife proofread them before I put them up.
I've turned on the word verification feature on the comments section of the blog. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it seems some evil genius has found a way to drop advertisements into the comments field using an automation program. Curse them. If you have any comments, please feel free to post!
I have a couple more blog entries on the way. I've found that it helps to have my wife proofread them before I put them up.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
ESPN presents the X-Games
Some of you may not know this, but I recently participated in the 2005 ESPN X-Games, sponsored by Mountain Dew. My wife, the occupational therapist, pushed me into it when she introduced me to the concept of Energy Conservation. This is the OT concept where you find small ways to rest when you are doing an exerting task so that you have enough energy to complete said task. It may seem a bit silly but we have found ourselves stuck walking to the subway on hot days while carrying bags of heavy groceries. At that point we are both grumpy and tired and we usually joke that we needed to be better at energy conservation. Of course, only I would have the brilliant idea to make it “X-TREME!”
CW: He got lucky that the eye doctor's office was as air-conditioned as Hannibal Lechter's meat locker.
TP: Opera Guy made some good decisions by not giving up his seat on the subway for the group of orphans and their 80-year old chaperone... a nun!
CW: The judges have to be impressed that the passengers only shot him dirty looks. I'm not sure how he manages to look so cool and comfortable while those children are sobbing, pressed up against the glass. Wait... did that nun just faint? He really is a master of X-TREME Energy Conservation!
TP: Sorry to interrupt, Chuck, but he just transferred to an Express 4 and he scored a seat big enough to put his feet up! This could give him the edge he needs to really take this competition to the next level!
CW: You know, Opera Guy has really adapted well to this mass-transit system. It is a tribute to his ability to sit still and look at maps for hours on end. I'd be interested to see how he did in, say... Japan... would he look this cool and collected? I don't think so.
TP: We have to cut to a commercial. By the time we get back, he should be nearing Grand Central and facing the walk pass his favorite Starbuck's.
CW: Let's hope he can avoid the temptation of an extra-hot, non-fat, mocha!
---Cut to commercial---
Read on for a transcription of the ESPN commentary by Chuck Wonder and Travis Pastrana. For myself, I will use the nickname, “Opera Guy.”
CW: Well, Travis, Opera Guy started off well with his choice of a wool-blend, navy-blue suit and dessert shoes on an 80-degree day. Talk about setting yourself up for a challenge! The judges must take this kind of commitment into account when they score him at the end of this grueling first day of competition. With an eye doctor appointment in Brooklyn Heights, a temp interview in mid-town, and an audition on the upper west side, this guy could be the craziest athlete I've ever seen!
CW: He got lucky that the eye doctor's office was as air-conditioned as Hannibal Lechter's meat locker.
TP: Opera Guy made some good decisions by not giving up his seat on the subway for the group of orphans and their 80-year old chaperone... a nun!
CW: The judges have to be impressed that the passengers only shot him dirty looks. I'm not sure how he manages to look so cool and comfortable while those children are sobbing, pressed up against the glass. Wait... did that nun just faint? He really is a master of X-TREME Energy Conservation!
TP: Sorry to interrupt, Chuck, but he just transferred to an Express 4 and he scored a seat big enough to put his feet up! This could give him the edge he needs to really take this competition to the next level!
CW: You know, Opera Guy has really adapted well to this mass-transit system. It is a tribute to his ability to sit still and look at maps for hours on end. I'd be interested to see how he did in, say... Japan... would he look this cool and collected? I don't think so.
TP: We have to cut to a commercial. By the time we get back, he should be nearing Grand Central and facing the walk pass his favorite Starbuck's.
CW: Let's hope he can avoid the temptation of an extra-hot, non-fat, mocha!
---Cut to commercial---
Big Fish and a Big World
Tonight I sat down and watched Tim Burton's “Big Fish.” Watching the film is a meditation for me. It makes me think of fathers and memories and my need for fables and legends, rather than facts and figures. I felt inspired to write a valentine and tall-tale to my father. I suppose there might be some truth to this sketch, but not a whole lot.
My father was born during the Second World War in Germany. His childhood was difficult but he found solace in the world of molecules and chemical interactions. As a young man, he knew that the small villages where his family had raised him were not big enough for him and so, like many young men, he set out on his great adventure. He went to Munich.
School in Munich was challenging. He had done reasonable well in his tests leading to the university and his chosen career of Chemistry appealed to his desire to grow and experience life in the big city. The city was full of people, interacting like covalent bonds, sharing electrons and moving in magnetic packs. He had a small circle of friends, but it was this larger world that excited him.
His work in the lab paralleled his observations of the people in the city and he felt that his work should reflect one singular human condition. His mind wandered as he fiddled with his chemicals and he thought about how large objects attracted other smaller objects nearer to this. Now, technically, this is not a chemical process, but he was never one to quibble with such details.
My father worked day and night in the lab. His friends rarely saw him and he poured over large tomes of chemical wisdom from the library as he ate his pretzels and drank his beer at the taverns. Eventually, inspiration struck and he found he had invented a solution that, when drunk, would make him larger than a normal man. He would grow and grow and grow and then, the physics of the situation would kick in and he would find himself as a new sun, orbited by many people.
On the morning that he chose to drink his potion, my father looked around his laboratory and stopped to look out the window. The sun was shining on pavement outside and the world was starting to wake up. The streets were being swept and stores were opening up. My father saw an old bookstore owner as he extended an awning over the front door of his store. The bookseller saw him through the window and waved. My father drank his solution.
No one was more surprised as he at what happened next. Nothing. Nothing at all. My father wracked his brains at what might have gone wrong with his formula but he could think of nothing. He was interrupted as his colleagues arrived at the laboratory, he acknowledged them and felt disappointed that months of hard work had gone for naught.
The day lingered on and since no dramatic changes occurred, my father felt obliged to pick up his abandoned studies and work towards a stable career. He was not going to dwell on his failure and besides, who needed such a product besides himself? As he went from class to class, my father learned about the ways crystals form in the natural world and how chemicals could affect them. This became his new passion and he studied it with all the vigor that he once put into his failed growth formula.
His studies began to wind down and my father started to feel that the streets of Munich were no longer a right fit. He would sit with his friends at the bars and laugh and talk but he felt pinched. My father was reminded of the shoes he had when he was growing up. Money was tight after the war and he could not always have the right sizes. The streets of Munich that he rode on his bicycle every day had become so well known to him that he felt trapped.
So he did what any young man with an eye for big things would do. He moved to Texas. That was a place where a man could make his fortune. A chemist would not be far from people who needed him. It was a place of industry and a place of adventure. There were men who still wore guns on their belts when he stepped off the plane in Dallas. My father knew that a post-doctorate degree in Chemistry might not be the wildest frontier in the west, but like most men, it was a land that he felt he could tame. A land that he could settle on and build a home and a family. Best of all, he didn't need to speak the language very well. Those frontier men didn't really speak English all that well themselves.
He did all these things. He had become larger than life. My father had moved from a small village and found himself in America. He found himself with a job and a wife and a daughter and a son.
My father was still a giant when I was born. In one of my first memories, he took me to Burger King for a Whopper sandwich. “Whoppers are better than Big Macs, Eapen,” he said through his thick, Bavarian accent. “They just taste fresher.” We stood in line and I looked around the store. I grabbed his leg and looked up to see a strange man looking down at me. I started to cry, wondering where my father had gone. A few steps away, I saw him and I ran to him and this time wrapped myself around the right leg. His leg was huge and he laughed as he saw what had happened and he lifted me up into his giant arms to comfort me.
And then, instantly, his potion stopped working. As the time went on, he didn't exactly shrink, but he stayed the same. The years went by and I started to think I was just as tall as him. I certainly was not. He was still that gentle giant, come over from distant lands. When I saw him last, we were the same height. I was moving to the big city and I looked him in the eye as we said goodbye to each other. I got in the car with my wife and started off to the big city where I could begin my family and my adventures.
From my window at the top of Clinton Hill, at the top of a high-rise apartment building, I look out over a vast city. It is as wide as my window and the Empire State Building seems to be at eye level. I feel as giant as my father after he drank his mysterious potion and left for that larger world. A world where my father found adventure and excitement, a family and his future.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Leaving the Chocolate Room and starting out
For now, let us consider that our episode in the Chocolate Room is over. We moved out of it a week ago and have been staying in Washington Heights. The apartment we were at was beautiful and had a lovely view of New Jersey. That may seem like an oxymoron, but there is a certain splendour to the skyline and the sight of the sun setting on the buildings.
And now a new chapter in our adventure begins. As I write, I am looking out on the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Skyline. I'll send a picture of the view as soon as we find a way to take pictures again.
We have mostly moved our belongings into the apartment. My friend, Rockstar, is still storing several boxes of winter clothes for us. The fall is starting here and the overwhelming heat of summer that was with us when we arrived has broken. The days are cool and refreshing. The apartment is in an old building that was built to house the workers at the Brooklyn Navy Shipyards. Almost immediately after the housing was built, the yard closed down and soon after that, this became a co-op. Break out your maps, kids! For those of you with NYC Subway maps, we are at the Clinton/Washington stop on the G-train. We are also a short walk from the A and C Trains, which are slightly more useful. Some might say that we live in Ft. Greene. Some might say Clinton Hill. What you call it directly depends on your tax bracket and how much you hope you will get for your apartment.
Though my wife will never say it herself, she is doing exceedingly well with her job interviews. With 8 million people in this city, you might be surprised at the profound need for Occupational Therapists. Jobs seem plentiful and interviews keep popping up. Not only that, she is batting 1,000 for job offers.
As for me, I'm doing a temp interview tomorrow morning. I'm also in contact with Barnard College, my employer when I lived in NYC in 1997/8 and I've placed applications at Columbia University. The locations are far from where I am, but a little commute doesn't hurt anyone.
I can hear kids yelling on the playground right below our window. Looking away from the skyline, there are trees all over our neighborhood. There are brownstones and churches and it reminds me of parts of Cherry Creek or Seattle, only perhaps a few decibels louder.
As we explore more parts of our neighborhood, we will let you know about the state of nightlife, dining, shopping and some of the more mundane aspects of life in Brooklyn.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Goat in the City
My wife's friend, Peace Corps, was in town for Labor Day and invited us to check out a little parade in the heart of Brooklyn. It was great to catch up with her and we tracked them down to a nice little neighborhood near Grand Army Plaza. Peace Corps' friend SuperDave picked us up from the subway and after a second breakfast of fried eggs and plantains, we headed off on the bus.
Complete Chaos. On the Sunday of Labor Day Weekend, the entire West African population of New York City meet for a little party. We missed the early morning party that started at 4 a.m., but it was still raging at 3 p.m. The parade consisted of a semi-tractor trailer for each of the respective countries. These trailers were laden with bands, speakers and dancers in costume. The trucks moved in a circle around the blocks and were surrounded by thousands and thousands of dancing locals. The bass pounds into your chest as you dance and you can feel every organ in your body vibrate separately. I now know the precise location of my spleen and why it is differently shaped than the liver.
The floats were all decorated by country and the grand prize winners should definitely be Jamaica. Those guys parked themselves in front of us for at least 10 minutes and nobody could stop dancing. We were sad to see them go.
For a late lunch, Peace Corps recommended a roti. Being an adventurous fellow, we found ourselves a tent and I got a large paper-thin flatbread filled with curried goat (bones in). It was delicious but my wife was more than a little freaked out by it.
Some of you might know this but at any point during the day or night in New York City, one can purchase dvds of the current round of new releases for $5 on the street. My wife and I were intrigued and we decided to go out on a limb and get a copy of “Wedding Crashers.” When we popped it in, we discovered that the picture was rather grainy and the sound was awful. Also, you could hear people laughing in the theater and occasionally someone would walk in front of the camera that recorded it. All in all, it was pretty lame. After a short discussion, we decided to classify the expense as “Education” rather than “Entertainment” in Quicken.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Wine-tastings, snacks and lovely, inappropriate people
When you are poor and living in New York City, one tries to find fun things to do on a budget. As some of you might know, my wife has a nose for finding bargains, deals, and most importantly, Free Samples. If you put her in a Costco, she can sense them like Spidey senses danger. She can also bat her eyes and score samples from unsuspecting vendors of produce, groceries and baked good.
A rock-star friend of ours recommended we check out the free wine tasting at a small boutique in the heart of downtown. He gave a great warning, "Be careful, some people who attend are socially inadequate."
We found the place rather easily and the sign outside advertised an afternoon of wine-tasting. Walking into the store, there was a bewitching aroma in the store but my wife and I could not quite tell what it was.
There was a line of about thirty people in the store that went up a flight of stairs to a balcony where the tasting was to take place. As we walked in, the line surged forward and we went right up and started to crowd in with everyone. As we moved forward to sample the whites, we were cut off by four short, stout women. Armed with their wine glasses, they parked themselves in front of the white wine taster and proceeded to drink, and drink, and drink. After about four tastings (big ones) each and as their voices got louder and louder, the sommelier recommended that they move forward in line and try some reds.
Moving forward through the sea of people, we made it to the reds table. At this point, we chose to park ourselves and drink, and drink, and drink. Of course we chose to keep our voices down and be the picture of decorum.
The wine tasting was put on by Coppolla Vineyards and we especially enjoyed the Claret. Of course, when it's free, everything is pretty good.
After about three or four glasses, necessary to identify all of the variables that separate the Claret from the Shiraz, my wife and I noticed people had plates of food. There was a small kitchen in the back of the balcony and what was cooking? B.L.T sandwiches. Not just any B.L.T.s, but rather, the "Best B.L.T. in the City." Twice smoked Bacon, organic lettuce and tomatoes from the farmer's market in the square outside of the store, with mayo on bread. Limit one per person. Of course, the three Fates have moved on from the red wine table where we were all parked and have managed to put down three or four each by the time we finally get to the table.
To quote my wife, "Nothing says wine-tasting, like B.L.T. Sandwiches."
The nice thing was that I didn't expect to have a free wine tasting in the middle of the city. One would think that with the enormous wealth of the city there would be no reason to give it away. It turned out to be a lovely store with incredibly helpful staff and we are looking forward to our next trip.
A rock-star friend of ours recommended we check out the free wine tasting at a small boutique in the heart of downtown. He gave a great warning, "Be careful, some people who attend are socially inadequate."
We found the place rather easily and the sign outside advertised an afternoon of wine-tasting. Walking into the store, there was a bewitching aroma in the store but my wife and I could not quite tell what it was.
There was a line of about thirty people in the store that went up a flight of stairs to a balcony where the tasting was to take place. As we walked in, the line surged forward and we went right up and started to crowd in with everyone. As we moved forward to sample the whites, we were cut off by four short, stout women. Armed with their wine glasses, they parked themselves in front of the white wine taster and proceeded to drink, and drink, and drink. After about four tastings (big ones) each and as their voices got louder and louder, the sommelier recommended that they move forward in line and try some reds.
Moving forward through the sea of people, we made it to the reds table. At this point, we chose to park ourselves and drink, and drink, and drink. Of course we chose to keep our voices down and be the picture of decorum.
The wine tasting was put on by Coppolla Vineyards and we especially enjoyed the Claret. Of course, when it's free, everything is pretty good.
After about three or four glasses, necessary to identify all of the variables that separate the Claret from the Shiraz, my wife and I noticed people had plates of food. There was a small kitchen in the back of the balcony and what was cooking? B.L.T sandwiches. Not just any B.L.T.s, but rather, the "Best B.L.T. in the City." Twice smoked Bacon, organic lettuce and tomatoes from the farmer's market in the square outside of the store, with mayo on bread. Limit one per person. Of course, the three Fates have moved on from the red wine table where we were all parked and have managed to put down three or four each by the time we finally get to the table.
To quote my wife, "Nothing says wine-tasting, like B.L.T. Sandwiches."
The nice thing was that I didn't expect to have a free wine tasting in the middle of the city. One would think that with the enormous wealth of the city there would be no reason to give it away. It turned out to be a lovely store with incredibly helpful staff and we are looking forward to our next trip.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Big thoughts at the Met
Today was an "easy" day. No interviews for my wife. The day started with an easy commute to the upper east side and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. After making a small donation, we took a guided tour with a volunteer. He was an elderly gentleman who was once a banker and now does this for fun. (Fun for him includes one year of training and lectures with the curators at the Museum.)
He chose one piece each from seven different galleries and described them in length. He did not ask too many questions but rather treated it like a lecture and gave us information that we then could use later as we looked at other pieces in the galleries.
The range of works was staggering. We saw statues from ancient Greece to air-brushed comic book-like pictures and everything in between.
Some of our interesting conversations that came up during our tour were:
When Claude Monet passed away, what was the initial response from the newspapers and media of the day? Was it a small note or had he achieved that monumental success that would, today, garner the front page of Time Magazine?
Matisse painted odalisques. They seem to be partially clothed women, but what is the real definition of the word?
Madonna and Child, ca 1300, by Duccio di Buonisegna, was purchased recently for $42 Million. Take a look at it at their website. It's an interesting work because it is one of the early transitional pieces from two-dimensional iconography to religious paintings with perspective.
One of the highlights of the show was a collection of paintings and cuttings by Matisse and the collection of pieces of cloth and clothing that inspired the works. It is a fascinating look at an unconventional inspiration for art and how it changed the work of Matisse and helped focus his style.
Finally, both my wife and I agreed that our favorite painting was "The Storm" by Pierre-August Cot (1837-1883). (http://www.art.com/asp/sp-asp/_/PD--10284491/The_Storm.htm?sOrig=SCH&ui=435D63D77DD442B4B96534EBB4BB1CFA#)
It is a lot like "The Ravishment of Psyche" by Adolphe Bouguereau, which is another family fave.
He chose one piece each from seven different galleries and described them in length. He did not ask too many questions but rather treated it like a lecture and gave us information that we then could use later as we looked at other pieces in the galleries.
The range of works was staggering. We saw statues from ancient Greece to air-brushed comic book-like pictures and everything in between.
Some of our interesting conversations that came up during our tour were:
When Claude Monet passed away, what was the initial response from the newspapers and media of the day? Was it a small note or had he achieved that monumental success that would, today, garner the front page of Time Magazine?
Matisse painted odalisques. They seem to be partially clothed women, but what is the real definition of the word?
Madonna and Child, ca 1300, by Duccio di Buonisegna, was purchased recently for $42 Million. Take a look at it at their website. It's an interesting work because it is one of the early transitional pieces from two-dimensional iconography to religious paintings with perspective.
One of the highlights of the show was a collection of paintings and cuttings by Matisse and the collection of pieces of cloth and clothing that inspired the works. It is a fascinating look at an unconventional inspiration for art and how it changed the work of Matisse and helped focus his style.
Finally, both my wife and I agreed that our favorite painting was "The Storm" by Pierre-August Cot (1837-1883). (http://www.art.com/asp/sp-asp/_/PD--10284491/The_Storm.htm?sOrig=SCH&ui=435D63D77DD442B4B96534EBB4BB1CFA#)
It is a lot like "The Ravishment of Psyche" by Adolphe Bouguereau, which is another family fave.
International Fervor
After our interviews were finished for the day, my wife and I visited the U.N. Our tour group included people from Israel, Ireland, Germany, Spain, Norway, Canada, and an absolutely charming couple from the United States.
For those of you coming to visit us in the future, you might enjoy the trip. Our tour guide (from Camaroon) was marvellous. The tour was surprising as it highlighted the limitations of the U.N. as well as the successes.
I don't have any faux-witty comments about this trip. It was just an inspiring and intellectually challenging experience.
For those of you coming to visit us in the future, you might enjoy the trip. Our tour guide (from Camaroon) was marvellous. The tour was surprising as it highlighted the limitations of the U.N. as well as the successes.
I don't have any faux-witty comments about this trip. It was just an inspiring and intellectually challenging experience.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
It's not the heat
I realize that my last post might sound a bit like I'm complaining or criticizing. I really do love this city and my first few days here. This is just a way to tell about some funny things. I'm actually sort of an optimist. Another disclaimer, my wife actually asked me to write this story for the blog. Some family members and friends will truly appreciate this one...
That being said, I'd like to step back in time for a minute to Monday morning. It is our first morning in the city and my wife has an interview in Brooklyn. The morning is warm but not unbearable and so we decide to walk the 10 blocks or so from the B&B to the subway. As we are walking, I look over at her. I notice my wife is looking a little, well... hot. This is not atypical but then I notice a bead of sweat going down her face. Knowing that this is the day of the first interview, I begin to worry. Eight blocks to go.
Step one, take her bag and carry it. Another bead of sweat. Keep in mind, it isn't particularly hot. Six blocks to go.
Step two, slow the pace slightly. No good. Her face starts to glisten a bit. Four blocks to go.
At this point, I'd like to introduce you to a term that originated in my wife's family: Slap. Sweatin' like a pig. We don't pull this term out unless it is a serious situation.
We keep walking. It's getting worse. I now have instructions from my wife, "Do not even look at me. It will only make it worse." Her shirt looks kind of damp. At this point, I'm not just in crisis mode, I'm panicking...
Oh, crud. What now? Pass the water bottle. Three more blocks to go.
I mention that the cars on the subway have A.C. We start to relax at that thought, but I see another drop of sweat... then two... then three... It's a veritable torrent... We climb the steps of the subway platform.
The subway arrives after five minutes on the most crowded platform you've ever seen. We pack into the car. I'm now forbidden to look, speak or even acknowledge my wife. The combination of nerves and humidity (it's not the heat) have pushed her over the edge... sub-saharan nations could use her as a water source... Coloradans could stop xeriscaping... she's dripping like a faucet... you get the idea. The air conditioned car doesn't help a bit.
By the time we hit Brooklyn, we are both dripping and out of sorts. As we climb out of the subway, I notice a diner above the station. Disco. "Let's grab breakfast and use the restroom to dry off..." Crisis averted. After a nice 45 minutes of sitting and relaxing in the A.C., we are both ready to face the world. And breakfast wasn't bad either.
That being said, I'd like to step back in time for a minute to Monday morning. It is our first morning in the city and my wife has an interview in Brooklyn. The morning is warm but not unbearable and so we decide to walk the 10 blocks or so from the B&B to the subway. As we are walking, I look over at her. I notice my wife is looking a little, well... hot. This is not atypical but then I notice a bead of sweat going down her face. Knowing that this is the day of the first interview, I begin to worry. Eight blocks to go.
Step one, take her bag and carry it. Another bead of sweat. Keep in mind, it isn't particularly hot. Six blocks to go.
Step two, slow the pace slightly. No good. Her face starts to glisten a bit. Four blocks to go.
At this point, I'd like to introduce you to a term that originated in my wife's family: Slap. Sweatin' like a pig. We don't pull this term out unless it is a serious situation.
We keep walking. It's getting worse. I now have instructions from my wife, "Do not even look at me. It will only make it worse." Her shirt looks kind of damp. At this point, I'm not just in crisis mode, I'm panicking...
Oh, crud. What now? Pass the water bottle. Three more blocks to go.
I mention that the cars on the subway have A.C. We start to relax at that thought, but I see another drop of sweat... then two... then three... It's a veritable torrent... We climb the steps of the subway platform.
The subway arrives after five minutes on the most crowded platform you've ever seen. We pack into the car. I'm now forbidden to look, speak or even acknowledge my wife. The combination of nerves and humidity (it's not the heat) have pushed her over the edge... sub-saharan nations could use her as a water source... Coloradans could stop xeriscaping... she's dripping like a faucet... you get the idea. The air conditioned car doesn't help a bit.
By the time we hit Brooklyn, we are both dripping and out of sorts. As we climb out of the subway, I notice a diner above the station. Disco. "Let's grab breakfast and use the restroom to dry off..." Crisis averted. After a nice 45 minutes of sitting and relaxing in the A.C., we are both ready to face the world. And breakfast wasn't bad either.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Turkish Coffee, Money Laundering and the Place where Carnivals go to Die.
Today there was a job interview in Sheepshead Bay. Get out your maps of NYC and your calculators, kids! If your intrepid duo are at the top of Queens in Astoria and they need to get to the bottom of Brooklyn, how long does it take on the subway, assuming you get every express train you can and the train moves at 15 mph. That's right. 1 hour and 45 minutes. Not to mention the fact that you end up in Sheepshead Bay.
Luckily, we left ourselves plenty of time.
After leaving my wife to her interview, I sat down in the Turkish Cafe that was on the ground floor of the office building and ordered, well... a turkish coffee. The coffee was terrific. Strong enough to instantly grow chest hair yet sweet enough that it probably wouldn't hurt too much if it did.
Sitting in the atrium of the building and looking at maps, I noticed the owner and his business partner sitting with a loud, somewhat obnoxious older guy. He handed them a stack of cash, asked for a check and told them to make "Damn sure there is money in the account. I don't want to find out that it F*&$#-ing bounced." He stands and walks out.
I sit and savor the coffee.
Next, in walks two plainclothes NYPD. How do I know? They wear their shields on their chests on thin metal chains. The guy is far better looking than Sipowitz and the woman as well. My turkish host tells them about a guy who stole a table and chair from out of the atrium. It was at 3:15 a.m. on Sunday. You see, his coffee shop was open because sometimes customers come in for late night coffees on Sunday. In his words, "A black guy comes in and starts moving around a table and chair.... Then it's just gone..." When asked by the good Inspector and Hercule about a description, he says, " You know... a black guy."
At this point a turkish comedian comes on the radio that is blaring and starts cracking jokes. Sentance. Sentence. Sentence. Laughter. Sentence. Sentence. Laughter.
Nice counterpoint.
After the interview, we decided, "Since we are about two stops away, why not check out CONEY ISLAND!!!" I've added the caps and explanation points for editorial purposes. If you have not been to Coney Island lately, I highly recommend you keep it that way. It's dirty, depressing and while we were on the board walk I think I saw the film shoot for the crappy dialogue in the middle of a porn flick. At least they were enthusiastic about their lines.
It makes me think that when Carnivals go bad, they really end up bad. Rides need paint jobs, sidewalks need sweeping, and there really is no place in this world anymore for "Sink the Creep." They almost got me to shell out three bucks to dump this guy. Basically, it is the typical game where a guy sits on a chair above water and you fling baseballs at a target to see if you can dump him in. As a special bonus, they blasted a pre-recorded tirade of the most racist, demeaning crap I've lately had the pleasure to listen to.
Kids love it there. I think I saw some crying quietly and rocking themselves in their strollers as they left.
Luckily, we left ourselves plenty of time.
After leaving my wife to her interview, I sat down in the Turkish Cafe that was on the ground floor of the office building and ordered, well... a turkish coffee. The coffee was terrific. Strong enough to instantly grow chest hair yet sweet enough that it probably wouldn't hurt too much if it did.
Sitting in the atrium of the building and looking at maps, I noticed the owner and his business partner sitting with a loud, somewhat obnoxious older guy. He handed them a stack of cash, asked for a check and told them to make "Damn sure there is money in the account. I don't want to find out that it F*&$#-ing bounced." He stands and walks out.
I sit and savor the coffee.
Next, in walks two plainclothes NYPD. How do I know? They wear their shields on their chests on thin metal chains. The guy is far better looking than Sipowitz and the woman as well. My turkish host tells them about a guy who stole a table and chair from out of the atrium. It was at 3:15 a.m. on Sunday. You see, his coffee shop was open because sometimes customers come in for late night coffees on Sunday. In his words, "A black guy comes in and starts moving around a table and chair.... Then it's just gone..." When asked by the good Inspector and Hercule about a description, he says, " You know... a black guy."
At this point a turkish comedian comes on the radio that is blaring and starts cracking jokes. Sentance. Sentence. Sentence. Laughter. Sentence. Sentence. Laughter.
Nice counterpoint.
After the interview, we decided, "Since we are about two stops away, why not check out CONEY ISLAND!!!" I've added the caps and explanation points for editorial purposes. If you have not been to Coney Island lately, I highly recommend you keep it that way. It's dirty, depressing and while we were on the board walk I think I saw the film shoot for the crappy dialogue in the middle of a porn flick. At least they were enthusiastic about their lines.
It makes me think that when Carnivals go bad, they really end up bad. Rides need paint jobs, sidewalks need sweeping, and there really is no place in this world anymore for "Sink the Creep." They almost got me to shell out three bucks to dump this guy. Basically, it is the typical game where a guy sits on a chair above water and you fling baseballs at a target to see if you can dump him in. As a special bonus, they blasted a pre-recorded tirade of the most racist, demeaning crap I've lately had the pleasure to listen to.
Kids love it there. I think I saw some crying quietly and rocking themselves in their strollers as they left.
The drive in.
We arrived on Sunday and I drove into Manhattan for the second time in my life. Luckily, it was Sunday. Traffic wasn't bad and my fear factor was at about 6. We found our way to my friends house in Harlem where we spent an hour or so unloading the car and storing our boxes in the basement. It turns out that condensing our already condensed belongings was a brilliant idea because the Chocolate room is about the size of our bed. This isn't a bad thing, just a thing.
Now thoroughly condensed, we drove across Harlem on 125th and picked up the Tri-Borough Bridge. So far, so good. The next 25 minutes were spent weaving through Astoria trying to figure out how to get under (or over) the Cross-Island Parkway. Fear Factor: 8. This is surprising.
We made it to the Chocolate Room by 9 p.m. Not too shabby. My wife is a great co-pilot and we made it through the stress with nary a harsh word. This is not surprising.
Now thoroughly condensed, we drove across Harlem on 125th and picked up the Tri-Borough Bridge. So far, so good. The next 25 minutes were spent weaving through Astoria trying to figure out how to get under (or over) the Cross-Island Parkway. Fear Factor: 8. This is surprising.
We made it to the Chocolate Room by 9 p.m. Not too shabby. My wife is a great co-pilot and we made it through the stress with nary a harsh word. This is not surprising.
Welcome to the Chocolate Room!
Why the chocolate room? Because right now, my wife and I are staying at a Bed & Breakfast in New York City. The name of the room we are renting is... The Chocolate Room. Of course, it helps that my wife is a chocoholic and that was the final selling point for her.
We just arrived two days ago and we are on the beginning of our big adventure. Since we are just starting out, I thought this would be a good way to tell my family and friends some of the stories of our trials and tribulations as we adjust to city life.
I'll post more soon!
We just arrived two days ago and we are on the beginning of our big adventure. Since we are just starting out, I thought this would be a good way to tell my family and friends some of the stories of our trials and tribulations as we adjust to city life.
I'll post more soon!
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