A City of Contrasts

Something that’s starting to become one of my favorite things about New York is its role as a city of contrasts. On any given day, you’ll come across innumerable scenarios that seem paradoxical but somehow end up making perfect sense. Because it is so big, I find New York allows me to see the beauty in the everyday, the mundane and the contradictory, almost like a landscape photograph of a beach that upon closer examination is made entirely of fruit.

This past weekend was filled with such contradictions. First, as I was walking to Central Park to see JA, HS, and HH (I will henceforth refer to the group as The British Ladies), I walked past the new Ralph Lauren store on Madison Avenue. Soon to have its grand opening, the store was still under some phases of construction. Workers in dingy navy t-shirts and jeans heaved wood from the sidewalk in front of the building, wiping sweat from their brows with canvas-gloved hands. Supervising the activity was the one man in a baseball cap, who sat inside a window display with a chicly attired female mannequin as if he was instead keeping the lady company. Ralph Lauren, known for his classic American leisure style, has probably never worn a dingy navy t-shirt in his life, and he certainly hasn’t heaved wood off of a sidewalk in a while. Nevertheless, men who might be unlike him in many ways slowly gave life to his new store, painting the inside displays, cleaning the windows and cleaning up the entrance to the premises. Sometimes what happens behind the scenes is more important than what happens in front of them.

Then, walking along the oh-so-posh Fifth Avenue, cluttered with quiet mansions and apartment buildings of traditional gray stone and concrete, I stumbled upon the National Hispanic Day parade. The parade was an explosion of color and sound, with each Hispanic country represented, its New York transplants delightfully waving flags down the avenue. People young and old in sparkling traditional dress waltzed along the street waving happily to watchers. As they exited the parade route, however, their smiles dissipated and they bent down to loosen their Nikes or Converse sneakers just a little bit to let their feet breathe. A man in full regalia ate a sandwich and sipped a beverage from a brown paper bag. Tattoos peeked out from behind a fallen shoulder of a dress. The costumed paraders almost instantly became human again when they were out of the public eye, perhaps as most people do. It’s almost like catching Mickey Mouse drinking a beer on the other side of the Disney fences (but definitely not upsetting).

 

Maybe the biggest contrast of the weekend, though, was Central Park itself. Wandering through the seemingly endless green space with The British Ladies, I had a new appreciation for the park. I had been in it a couple of times, to the zoo, to the Obelisk and whatnot, but never an extended walk as this time. Grass laid over small twisting hills and curves, a path following its curves to anywhere you could possibly want to go. We found ourselves discovering many statues and landmarks along the way, from fountains, ponds and boathouses to oversized sculptures of Hans Christian Andersen and depictions of Alice in Wonderland. October’s early sunset slowly eased orange into the sky as we made our way to a castle overlooking much of New York’s East Side. Central Park is a gift to New Yorkers, who every day make their way through or underneath the concrete jungle. It is a taste of nature available at any moment. The park is almost overwhelmingly large—inside it feels like there’s no way you could possibly ever see all of it. Maybe it’s better that you don’t, though. New Yorkers have a tendency to be very “been there, done that” about some things, but Central Park is one place in a city of perpetual display that will always retain a sense of mystery. I don’t know if there’s a better contrast one could ask for.

The Commute

At 8 a.m., RuPaul wakes me up. It’s going to be a good day. But I decide to put my head back down on the pillow for a few more minutes.

At 8:30, Nirvana is pissed that I’m still sleeping, so they throw a little “Mexican Seafood” at me and zap me to life. I have to leave by 9:15.

“Okay, okay,” I say, wiping sleep from my eyes as I sit up and look around my room. It’s a mess, probably. Handbags thrown left and right, yesterday’s rejected outfits piling up on my chair. I hobble into the bathroom and ask my roommate the weather report. Rain? Ugh. Sunshine? Sweetness. I start compiling my outfit in my head. Light colors, tan handbag; dark colors, black handbag. What heels? Boots? What color tights? 8:40 a.m.

I turn on my desk lamp and apply my makeup in the mirror that I sit on top of my pencils. Concealer to cover the number of minutes I should have already been sleeping the night before (30-60). Eyeshadow painted on in spritely strokes. Eyeliner glided smoothly across my lids. Mascara in thick Bettie-Page like swipes. 9:02 a.m. I always think I am going to be late, but that has only happened twice.

Then the clothes, the hair (down unless it’s greasy). I throw together a lunch—one day I brought a whole cucumber with me then cut it in the office and ate it with some hummus; it requires zero effort and it’s healthy—and grab a yogurt which I will then eat with a fork because I can’t seem to remind myself to go buy plastic spoons.

I run my fingers through my hair on my way to the bus stop, and the garbage man tells me “Your hair looks fine!” and smiles. The teamsters on the corner say, “Hey miss, how you doin’ this mornin’?” I smile and keep walking, stepping over the questionable substances on the ground because chances are great they were left by a dog.

As I keep walking, I see nannies taking their child charges to nursery school. The children stretch their hands upwards to hold onto Nanny as their Batman or Dora the Explorer backpacks thump happily on their backs.

The woman with the corgi walks her dog along the gates in front of the apartment building near the bus stop. It is the happiest dog, with its tongue hanging out of its mouth and its bright brown eyes. It always makes me smile, even when I am the most tired.

The bus will arrive 2-8 minutes late, which usually makes for an interesting morning. Especially in the rain when the bus is nearly exploding with people and the bus driver has to actually reject some passengers. But by 9:21 I am on the bus with the dental hygienist who never tucks in her shirt; the older woman with a bright auburn pixie haircut, red lipstick and purple eyeshadow who sits elegantly in her wheelchair as if she was on a sightseeing tour at Disney World; men in their early fifties who still wear pinstripe suits to work; younger men in slick tan trenchcoats; fashionista girls who read Women’s Wear Daily; and many an elderly person with whitish hair and glasses.

If we are not yet on Lexington Avenue by 9:40, I start to worry, but that has only happened twice. I sit and watch all the different people interchange stops—some bolt out of the bus as if they’re on fire, others solemnly press forward as if they’re about to slog through another day. I greet Seventh Avenue with a pulse in my step as I catch the walk sign and make my way toward 54th Street.

Tourists crowd the area, wearing fanny packs and sneakers and “I Heart NY” shirts, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to read their guidebooks. I brush past them as I head to my building, past the old Chinese Restaurant that now holds a For Sale sign.

Inside the building, I step up the white marble stairs and head to the elevator. The operator presses the button for me, which is a luxury I will never truly get over. I press the button for the eighth floor and change into my heels as the elevator creeps higher to my destination. As the doors ding open, my shoes are on and I trot a few steps to my office. It’s five minutes to ten. My boss is not in yet, so I unlock the door, turn on the lights, and start my day.

Ain’t Nothin’ Wrong With A Little Bump and Grind

Standing for an hour in front of B.B. King’s in Times Square, my roommate and I hoped against hope we’d get in. The line was bursting with ticket holders, including but not limited to fishnetted, tattooed ladies in glittery, glamorous updos and dapper gents in pinstriped pants with suspenders. We so wanted to be inside with them later on. As we waited some more, we heard all tickets were sold out. But we waited anyway, since we would have been happy to even stand in the back of the New York Burlesque Festival’s Saturday Night Spectacular. And eventually we got in, standing room only, right behind the spotlight for a fantastic view of the stage.

Now in its eighth year, the NYBF was literally bursting at the corsets for three days with over 120 performances by some of burlesque’s greatest artists the world over. The Saturday Night Spectacular, the biggest show of the NYBF weekend, was no different. Luscious performers done up with red lips, eyelashes out to the moon and garter belts galore took the stage at B.B. King’s in all shapes and sizes, sensually shimmying, bumping, grinding and twirling with a wink and a smile.

Burlesque hearkens back to the days of vaudeville, when a striptease act was performed in between comedy, dance, or musical acts. Originally, to “burlesque” something meant to make fun of it, “to tease and lampoon it with theatrical flair,” and the stripteases that came out of burlesque also became parodies, sometimes done with a “gimmick,” a “something special” that made each performance different from the last.

Though the ladies in the clip above describe their performance as “strippin’”, that term isn’t really correct. Though, yes, they do remove their clothing, it’s a more of an art form than that—the sexy removal of a glove or the teasing release of a garter belt is something that comes with practice. Details like these characterize modern American Burlesque performances, also called ‘Burlesque Striptease,’ performances where, according to the Ministry of Burlesque, “humor or pastiche is combined with the classic (non-nude) striptease.” And everyone gathers at the New York Burlesque Festival for a little bit of this cheeky, sexy (and sometimes raunchy) humor.

The event was hosted by famed emcee and drag king Murray Hill, who performs in the style of a 1960s lounge lizard. Hill spares no detail, decked out in a pink ruffled shirt, bow tie, and thick black-framed glasses. His hair is slicked cleanly to the side and large, square shiny rings grasp his substantial fingers. A thick brown line mustachioes his upper lip as he happily bullshits the audience in some jovial combination of Don Rickles and Sammy Davis, Jr.

Hill introduced each sensual performer with a hearty “Holy Shit!” and “Jesus, wait’ll you see our next act.” But Jesus had nothing to do with these performances.

Each artist, girl or boy (as in “boylesque”), puts on a five-minute, original performance—some are elegant, political, sexual, or even animalistic, but always creative. The lively audience—male and female, straight and gay—hoot and holler as each performer’s clothing leaves their bodies, extra applause for a happily twirling set of pasties.

Marilyn Monroe-lookalike Kitten Deville played a Hollywood starlet disrobing for an invisible Hollywood producer, eventually landing a contract after a spirited bumping session.

Sweet lotus blossom Amber Ray sat on a slowly spinning flower as piece after piece of her handmade pink rhinestone flower ensemble made its way to the floor.

Sporting a shiny hot pink wig, Miss Saturn removed her clothes while revolving upwards of 20 hula hoops around her body.

My favorite performance of the night, though, was Ms. Tickle’s “Living Doll”, in which she mimicked the objectification of women while wearing an almost robot-like pink latex body suit and blank face mask. She eventually disrobed down to a g-string (all performers are required to wear a g-string and pasties by law, though there were some occasional slips), out of which she pulled a tube of lipstick she then used to write “For Sale” on her stomach. It was a pleasant surprise, especially since I thought most of the performances that evening would be just erotic humor. But I learned that while being sexy, burlesque also has the power to make one think, just as with any art form.

Many of these burlesque performers are celebrities in their own right, such as Dirty Martini who has appeared in films that have shown at Cannes; World Famous *BOB* who has been photographed by David LaChapelle; and New York School of Burlesque Headmistress Jo “Boobs” Weldon who has appeared on CBS Sunday Morning and Gossip Girl.

Amidst all the glitter, makeup and, well, boobs, these burlesque ladies and gentlemen truly know how to put on a show. Burlesque is sexy, funny, and smart—performers know that sometimes a tickle and a tease is all you need. That, and a really good set of pasties.

Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli

I remember the first thing my father said I had to do when I got to New York was go to the Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy. I figured it would be like festivals usually are in Florida—one long row of vendors, some treats here and there, things like that. But in New York, it’s a little different. Like “Go Big or Go Home” different.

The Feast of San Gennaro runs the length of Mulberry Street, throughout all of Little Italy. It stretches from Canal Street up north to Houston Street, which is six short city blocks, and from Baxter Street to Mott Street, which is two long city blocks. In reality, this isn’t a grand space—it’s only a quarter mile long. But the streets are jam-packed with any kind of Italian food and/or novelty item you can imagine.

My mother initially laughed at me on the phone when I asked her before I went, “Oh, so there’s food there?” I thought by ‘Feast’ they meant festival, I guess.

“Uh, YEAH, ‘there’s food there.’ Are you kidding? There’s practically only food there!”

It is, literally, a feast.

 Cannolis, braciole, sausage and peppers, rice balls, gelato, lasagna—the list of foods simply goes on forever. And the vendors are thick, brawny men with dark hair and names like Vinny or Gino who all shout out at you in thick New York accents—“GETCHA CANNOLIS HERE! WHO WANTS A CANNOLI? YOU WANT A CANNOLI? COME HAVE A CANNOLI!” They smile and gesture wildly, like children on a playground trying to show their parents a really cool rock.

But it is all really cool. The Feast of San Gennaro is actually an annual celebration of the Patron Saint of Naples, started in New York by Italian immigrants carrying over the celebration from the homeland. Originally the Feast was only one day, but now in New York it’s 11 days, and draws usually around one million visitors during the entire span of the event. The Feast has now been a New York tradition for 84 years, beginning with the first saint’s day celebration on September 19, 1926.

The streets are decorated in every kind of red, green, and white decoration imaginable, from tinsel tto crepe paper streamers, cellophane fringe, and more. All of the Italian restaurants up and Mulberry Street put special tables outside and decorate with curtains of Christmas lights in the colors of the Italian flag. Restaurant entertainers play Italian-American standards while women over fifty merrily dance and spin white cloth napkins over their heads like helicopters in time with the music. There are bounce houses and carnival games for kids, Pina Colada stands for adults, and karaoke for those somewhere in between. People walk in endless streams and down the streets, carrying their street food dinner in their hands up and down the length and width of the festival.

At the southernmost end of the event is the Franciscan church, where followers can pray in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary or the Holy Cross, both twinkling with Christmas lights. The festival involves a parade and religious services at the Most Precious Blood Church on Mulberry Street, which holds the National Shrine of San Gennaro.

But even for those without religious background, the festival is a sight and an experience to behold. It’s really just another thing I love about New York—people from whatever backgrounds come together to celebrate holidays just because it’s fun. And probably also because of the cannolis.

Friends, Music, Taco Joints

“Are you in love?” Julia asks me.

Light of heart and free of spirit, this question was quintessential Julia, who always wants people to be loved. Julia Easterlin is an incredibly talented musician and dear friend who reappeared in my life on Wednesday courtesy of Facebook and the Lower East Side (again, normally I don’t use names, but I want you to know hers and listen to her music!). I hadn’t seen her in a little over five years and we were both intent on catching up on each others’ lives.

At 9:30 that morning, I checked Facebook and was delighted to see Miss Easterlin had invited me to a performance that night in my fair Manhattan. I instantly made plans to see her. “HOLY MOLY I AM SOOOOOO EXCITEEEEEEEEEEED. OMGOMGYAAAAAAA” she said.

That’s what I love about New York—everyone comes to visit. Somehow, even if it’s been years, you sit, you have a drink, you talk, and the years fall away.

Julia and I sat at a little brown table in Googie’s, a small music venue awash in blue light where she was playing a show that evening. Googie’s sits quietly atop the famed Living Room bar and concert venue on 154 Ludlow Street, and waitresses will climb 32 stairs to bring you a beverage. There are six of these little brown tables in Googie’s, with the occasional couch, bench, or futon close by. On the small stage, there is a glossy baby grand piano that must be yellow in real life because looks sea green in the blue light. Dark curtains dotted with white Christmas lights hang in the back over the windows. It is a sweet, intimate little venue.

Julia spilled about her life, her music, her travels, and I was so excited to hear all of it. I was also excited to hear her sing again. When we were 15, Julia gave me her demo, a soulful collection of songs she sang accompanied by a guitar. And if she was that good when we were 15, I thought she would be even more fantastic now. I wasn’t wrong.

Julia got on stage and sang even more beautifully than I remembered in a soul-y, folk-y, jazz-y voice as rich as dark hot chocolate. This time, though, instead of accompanying herself on guitar, she accompanied herself with…herself. Julia used a looper pedal, which allows a musician to instantly record and replay parts of a song, to record her own hand claps, snaps, and vocal beats. She then replayed them and sang over them. Then she recorded that part of the song, replayed it and harmonized with herself. In the best way possible, my brain went “Whaaaaat is happening??? This bitch is fierce.” It was literally like watching (and listening to) magic happen. Listen for yourself at www.myspace.com/juliaeasterlin.

Julia was in Googie’s and in New York that night courtesy of Monkey Rock, a weekly singer-songwriter show produced by musician and Berklee grad Tommy Bohlen. Monkey Rock began in Boston as a “community comprised of artists and friends from all over the world who support each other by promoting and performing as a group.” Now, though, there’s a Monkey Rock show in New York, every Wednesday from 9-11:30pm. Talented musicians, like Julia and fellow musician Nathan Reich (www.myspace.com/nathanreich), make beautiful sounds with guitars, pianos, looper pedals and much more, so if you’re in the mood for a (free!) relaxed evening and you like good music, check out the Monkey Rock show www.monkeyrocknyc.blogspot.com/.

After a fantastic show, we were feeling snacky so we drifted a block over to a brightly colored hole-in-the-wall taco joint called Snack Dragon. Open til 4am most nights, Snack Dragon offers inexpensive Mexican-style yummies like chorizo tacos and nachos. It is also home to the delicious Slayed Dragon, which is made with shredded marinated pork and not actual dragon. We sat outside at a lovely little blue picnic table underneath a ginkgo tree wrapped in red Christmas lights and ate our inexpensive, delicious treats. Julia and I poked at our plates until every last black bean was gone and the tortillas holding them were merely a memory. Though tasty sober, I imagine it is also amazing, amazing drunk food.

I decided all Wednesdays should be filled with good friends, good music and taco joints. But then I wondered...why just Wednesdays?

In Women We Trust

There are few reasons to get out of bed before 6am: catching a plane to somewhere fabulous, a small fire in your home, a hurricane.

And Donna Karan.

At 6:45 a.m, I slid into my black trench dress, pearls and heels. I fluffed my hair and looked in the mirror. Ready? Go.

I checked in to the Women: Inspiration and Enterprise Symposium at 7:30 am. The symposium itself was created to gather creative women in hopes of letting them meet and work together to influence societal change and inspire further generations of women. The WIE Symposium was also partnered with the White Ribbon Alliance, which raises awareness of the 600,000 women who die each year due to pregnancy-related complications around the world. It was genuinely an honor just to be there among women who were really making a difference across the globe like Christy Turlington and Queen Rania of Jordan. I am so glad I was able to be there, even for a few hours.

I was there as a guest of the founders of Her Campus.com, the online college women’s magazine for which I am Style Editor. Fabulously enough, the founders of Her Campus.com had been chosen to speak on a Young Innovators panel that day, and had invited me to attend the conference with them (another major win for living in New York!).

When we were getting our tote bags filled with endless amounts of goodies, though, I saw her. She was very darkly tanned and was wearing a thick coat of foundation. Eyes were smudged black with eyeshadow and reddish-chocolate hair curled on the side of her face. She was wearing all black, black tights into black boots and a black dress with a black cardigan and a string of thick black leather beads. I had just written about how much I loved her Spring 2011 collection and there she was. Donna Karan. I knew she was going to be there because she was a host of the event, but I didn’t think I’d actually be standing there meeting her, breathing the same air as her.

But then we Her Campus girls introduced ourselves and I heard the most amazing words, delivered by Her Campus’s publisher:

“This is our Style Editor, Elyssa.”

I have heard these words before, but they have never sounded so beautiful as they did when I shook hands with Donna Karan. I, Style Editor of Her Campus.com and recent college graduate, was shaking hands with one of the great divas of American fashion. Was this my life? Was this real? Would I suddenly wake up at 6 a.m. wondering why the crap I had woken up then fall back asleep for another three hours like I normally would have? No.

I smiled and politely said hello, though my brain was actually lodged inside a giant bounce house going “DONNA KARAN DONNA KARAN DONNA KARAN OH MY GOD” over and over again. I swear, I could have left at that instant and been happy, even though I spoke to her for all of five seconds and rode in an elevator with her for all of two minutes.

But later, inside the green room, some of the world’s most powerful women were walking past us every second as we sat and waited for the conference to begin. I realized meeting Donna Karan would not be the only highlight of the day. The three hosts of the event were Sarah Brown, wife of former UK Prime Minister Gordon Brown and the Chairwoman of the WIE Symposium; Arianna Huffington, of The Huffington Post; and the aforementioned fashion icon. The three ladies spoke about the power of women, what it means to be a female leader today, and how we as women can make a difference in the lives of other women (note: there were no men allowed at the conference except press).

One thing I distinctly remember is Pat Mitchell talking about the news world when she first started in the 1970s. There were almost no news stories about women anywhere on television. But today, stories about women are still only about 16% of everything aired. Can you imagine, still only 16% some thirty- or forty-odd years later? It’s unsettling, because usually we think we’ve come so far—but things like this remind us that there’s still a huge gender gap.

Additionally, Arianna Huffington talked about “self-expression as the new entertainment,” where we’re actually producing something and sharing it with the world instead of just sitting on our butts watching television for nine hours. It made me feel less vain for having a blog and a part of something bigger. Especially when BlogHer founder Lisa Stone said that even in areas where it’s very difficult to get internet access, women still outnumber men as bloggers. Food for thought (and food for blog).  For me, the WIE Symposium reached its goal—it was definitely inspiring. It made me think more about what I want my life to be not just as a person in the workforce, but as a woman in the workforce. What can I do to inspire generations of women, too?

And of course it was nice to see the Her Campus girls go forth and be awesome in their own panel, speaking eloquently and elegantly (in true Her Campus fashion) about what it’s like to start a magazine in the changing face of media. I was even more proud than usual to be a part of the team. It’s crazy to think that a year ago it was this tiny website, but is now gaining more and more national recognition every day. Way to go, ladies! And thank you again for an incredible day.

The Ladies

My second week in New York, a woman in a straw hat sat down next to me on the bus. Her black suit was neatly tailored and a string of pearls hung delicately around her neck. Blonde hair the color of popcorn swirled around her ears and loosely wrinkled face. She sat with her hands in her lap, on top of a black leather handbag. She chatted with me in an accent that at one time must have been distinctly Southern but had faded to a mere wisp on every other breath. She talked moving to the big city, like I told her I had just done, and I hoped on some level that I would be like her when I was her age. Elegant and poised, a well-mannered, well-dressed lady to the core.

These women are on the bus all the time. Southern women, New York women, but always ladies. These are the ladies who don their finest whenever they leave the house, whether they go to Bergdorf Goodman, one of the finest department stores in the world, or to get flowers from the local market. They wear hats, suits and pearls, or elegant little dresses or cigarette pants with delicate colorful wraps and scarves. They know what it means to go out, to leave one’s place of residence, be it mansion or studio apartment, and look like you own the world.

The ladies in New York are not like the women in South Florida. The women in South Florida get their hair backlit and updone into oblivion, with hair combed in globes so thin you can see through them to the other side. They wear polyester pantsuits with and smear their lips with hot pink lipstick, begging to pinch your cheeks with their long red fake nails.

But in New York, the ladies are so much more youthful. Secretly gray or white hair is dyed chocolate brown into smart, blunt bobs or blasted red into shoulder length curls. The ladies in New York make no case about pretending they don’t dye their hair—rather, they own it, as if to say yes, it’s dyed. And your point? Ladies in New York have hair of all different colors, not just the same thin blondish-white of the women in South Florida. Well, all the women except my grandmother Amy, may she rest in peace, whose hair was Black Cherry until the day she died. But she was from New York, too.

What’s nice, though, is that these ladies are not aging relics from a generation gone by. Yes, maybe women don’t wear suits every day anymore, but here in New York, ladies of any age get dressed when they leave their homes. None of this sweatpants business. In fact, they wouldn’t be caught dead leaving their homes in such attire. They go out every day with their list of things to do, be it the post office or the matinee of some show or lunch at Bloomingdale’s, and simply live in their world and look fabulous doing it.

One day I too will bury a husband, dye my hair and wear pearls on the bus. Later than sooner, if all goes as planned. Thank you to the ladies of New York for showing me how to do it in style.