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.

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.

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.

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!