The greyness in New York feels like cold silk. It slides on the body unexpectedly, like a shirt left in front of the air conditioning all night. Imagine getting up in the morning, warm from a bed layered in blankets and pillows, only to experience only the slightest chill. The past three days have been this way, punctuated with tantrums of rain.
Sunday evening was the most beautiful, walking in Chinatown as the rain fell out of the sky in endless solid streams. The streetlights made the rain red, green, and gold like fireworks as I stepped off the sidewalk to avoid a puddle—nay, a river—that would cover my feet and maybe my ankles. The rain was friendly, though, a canopy to dance under at a beach wedding. Shielded by my little black umbrella, I was happy to step lively down E. Houston Street, cold water sweeping over my red boots. I could almost see Gene Kelly swinging on the streetlamps. Even in the midst of what some would call a torrential downpour, New York is still beautiful.
After the rain, the air is damp but cold, lovely to stand outside in and see the city. Even from a rooftop in Chinatown only six stories up, I can see the whole city. The top of the Empire State Building hides coyly in the clouds, playing hide and seek with us, but we let it win. Because 5’2” is much different than 5’11”, I can only see so much, but I can feel the city around me. There are times when I actually cannot believe I am here, and even if the sky opened up right now and soaked me to the bone, I would still be endlessly in love. As far as I’m concerned, any view of the city is a good one. But I am not yet a jaded New Yorker.
Sometimes I wonder if New Yorkers even see New York. Everyone rushes past, thinking about what they have to do next, where they have to be and they barely see what’s in front of them.
Today I waited in Rockefeller Plaza for my roommate to leave work. On my way there, young but tired-looking businessmen loosened their ties from their collars and thudded toward the subway station. They didn’t notice the giant dandelion-like fountains spraying water in a perfect sphere; they didn’t notice the candy-colored lights of Radio City Music Hall; they couldn’t see the shining doors on the UBS building.
I saw it, though. I saw how Rockefeller Plaza was filled with people marveling at the brilliantly gold art-deco frieze above one of the building’s main entrances; I saw people sitting and eating lunch in the space where there’s an ice skating rink in the winter. I saw people just staring up at this building which to so many New Yorkers is just another skyscraper, but to the people visiting it is shiny and wonderful and new. I leaned on a railing while a flock of flags waved above me and I stared up at the buildings in amazement too. It really is just incredible--so tall, so many windows. I wonder how many New Yorkers have really ever looked at it. I hope I can always look at New York this way, whether I am on a rooftop in Chinatown or a would-be ice skating rink in the center of the city. Sometimes, yes, it is important to get where you’re going, but other times it’s more important to see what’s on the way.
Step 1: Move to New York. Step 2: Have experiences.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Post-Grad Culinary School of the Arts
In my mother’s house, there is: paprika, cinnamon sugar, frozen yogurt, flour, baking soda, sugar, nutmeg, ground beef, cherry jelly, Muenster cheese, 90,000 things to mix with other things and, of course, water.
In my house, there is water.
Such a situation makes every day in what my roommate and I have dubbed the Post-Grad Culinary School of the Arts (or PGCSA) a cooking (mis)adventure. A lack of ingredients makes the brain work wonders in the kitchen because, as we all know, necessity is the mother of invention.
It is for this reason that one night for dinner we had the culinary extravaganza of Stouffer’s Mac & Cheese, spiced hot dogs, and toast with Smart Balance, the anorexic cousin of butter. That, I have to admit, was our lowest point and we have progressively gotten better and certainly more interesting.
For example, the other night we concocted a stir-fry of epic proportions—because, really, what is a Post-Grad Culinary School without a wok?—including but not limited to: pea pods, chicken which we perhaps questionably defrosted in the microwave (“Can we do that?” “I don’t know, just put it in the micro til it’s not frozen anymore. That should work, right?”), scallions, scrambled eggs, leftover frozen green beans, which we always seem to have leftover because I make too much. To the leftover vegetable, my awestruck roommate usually cries, “BEANS!” and we laugh like the idiot savant, degree-holding university graduates that we are. Then, while reaching for some oil in the kitchen to stir-fry it all up with, I came across a Raspberry Vinaigrette I had yet to use. What if we mixed it with the Soy Sauce we were already using and created a fruity, salty stir-fry? OKAY! LET’S DO IT! And it was awesome.
The primary focus of the PGCSA is to teach cooking improvisation, the art of throwing a bunch of random crap together and making something remotely edible. For this reason, students at the PGCSA are encouraged to visit Costco before classes begin. This way, students can stock up on seemingly random and otherwise worthless ingredients they will somehow later throw together into a culinary masterpiece. Creamed spinach? Perfect. Goat cheese? A must. Special K? Don’t leave without it!
There are no rules in the Post-Grad Culinary School of the Arts. Students are asked to test the boundaries of their refrigerators and their stomachs, leaving no spice un-shaken, no bacon un-fried, and no cheese un-melted. Pita pizzas feature goat cheese, bacon, olive oil, tomatoes, and olives. A traditional pasta dish involves tortellini, canned crab meat and, yet again, goat cheese. And chocolate chip cookies sans chocolate chips are the order of the day. “Don’t knock it til you try it” seems to be the unwritten motto of the Post-Grad Culinary School of the Arts, and we are proud to be two of its most loyal students.
Part of our loyalty comes from the fact that we are po’. Yes, friends, po’. So po’ we cannot afford to purchase the last two letters of the word. New York is a foodie dreamland, a mecca of culinary delights, and we are happy to be able to eat in one of these divine restaurants once every, oh, month or so. But in the meantime, we are devoted students of the PGCSA. Our mealtimes usually go like this:
“What’s in the fridge?”
“Eggs. Goat Cheese. Tomatoes. Dijon Mustard. Bread.”
“GOAT CHEESE AND TOMATO OMELET SANDWICHES! DONE!”
*eating ensues*
“Ohmahgah roommate, we’ve done it again. How is it fair that this is so awesome?”
“I don’t know, roommate. I just don’t know.”
And then we’ll smile at each other and thank the PGCSA for giving us such a worthwhile education, the kind of education that no university can offer. Thank you, PGCSA, and New York, for helping us not die of starvation.
In my house, there is water.
Such a situation makes every day in what my roommate and I have dubbed the Post-Grad Culinary School of the Arts (or PGCSA) a cooking (mis)adventure. A lack of ingredients makes the brain work wonders in the kitchen because, as we all know, necessity is the mother of invention.
It is for this reason that one night for dinner we had the culinary extravaganza of Stouffer’s Mac & Cheese, spiced hot dogs, and toast with Smart Balance, the anorexic cousin of butter. That, I have to admit, was our lowest point and we have progressively gotten better and certainly more interesting.
For example, the other night we concocted a stir-fry of epic proportions—because, really, what is a Post-Grad Culinary School without a wok?—including but not limited to: pea pods, chicken which we perhaps questionably defrosted in the microwave (“Can we do that?” “I don’t know, just put it in the micro til it’s not frozen anymore. That should work, right?”), scallions, scrambled eggs, leftover frozen green beans, which we always seem to have leftover because I make too much. To the leftover vegetable, my awestruck roommate usually cries, “BEANS!” and we laugh like the idiot savant, degree-holding university graduates that we are. Then, while reaching for some oil in the kitchen to stir-fry it all up with, I came across a Raspberry Vinaigrette I had yet to use. What if we mixed it with the Soy Sauce we were already using and created a fruity, salty stir-fry? OKAY! LET’S DO IT! And it was awesome.
The primary focus of the PGCSA is to teach cooking improvisation, the art of throwing a bunch of random crap together and making something remotely edible. For this reason, students at the PGCSA are encouraged to visit Costco before classes begin. This way, students can stock up on seemingly random and otherwise worthless ingredients they will somehow later throw together into a culinary masterpiece. Creamed spinach? Perfect. Goat cheese? A must. Special K? Don’t leave without it!
There are no rules in the Post-Grad Culinary School of the Arts. Students are asked to test the boundaries of their refrigerators and their stomachs, leaving no spice un-shaken, no bacon un-fried, and no cheese un-melted. Pita pizzas feature goat cheese, bacon, olive oil, tomatoes, and olives. A traditional pasta dish involves tortellini, canned crab meat and, yet again, goat cheese. And chocolate chip cookies sans chocolate chips are the order of the day. “Don’t knock it til you try it” seems to be the unwritten motto of the Post-Grad Culinary School of the Arts, and we are proud to be two of its most loyal students.
Part of our loyalty comes from the fact that we are po’. Yes, friends, po’. So po’ we cannot afford to purchase the last two letters of the word. New York is a foodie dreamland, a mecca of culinary delights, and we are happy to be able to eat in one of these divine restaurants once every, oh, month or so. But in the meantime, we are devoted students of the PGCSA. Our mealtimes usually go like this:
“What’s in the fridge?”
“Eggs. Goat Cheese. Tomatoes. Dijon Mustard. Bread.”
“GOAT CHEESE AND TOMATO OMELET SANDWICHES! DONE!”
*eating ensues*
“Ohmahgah roommate, we’ve done it again. How is it fair that this is so awesome?”
“I don’t know, roommate. I just don’t know.”
And then we’ll smile at each other and thank the PGCSA for giving us such a worthwhile education, the kind of education that no university can offer. Thank you, PGCSA, and New York, for helping us not die of starvation.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
The Sunburnt Calf
When we arrived at Gus and Gabriel’s, it was closed. Permanently. Technically in transition to another location, but regardless it was not in the place it was supposed to be on, 79th and Broadway.
Disappointed, we walked back to the corner. But first we paused in front of a window display with a big plastic calf encased in a box of red light. Above it, perhaps ironically, beamed the red neon words “The Sunburnt Calf.” We peered into the tiny doorway. A set of four small stairs led down to a shiny, dark-wooded bar filled with orange light, and a line of chrome chairs. It looked pretty neat, but what was the menu like?
The Sunburnt Calf was an Australian restaurant, we learned, where we could actually get kangaroo if we wanted to (none of us did, but still). But we could also get chicken, lamb, pork, and burgers, which were perhaps more our style, for a very reasonable price. Okay, why not.
We went inside and were promptly greeted with a delicious shot at the bar, before we were shown to our table by the Aussie bartender (accent and all). Clear and peach-colored, it tasted like strawberries. I’m pretty sure vodka was involved in what turned out to be a refreshing and sweet little concoction. Off to a good start!
The dining room was also lit in this orange light, and the backdrop of the room was a giant panorama of the famous geographical Australian landmark Ayers Rock. We were by no means the only people there, but it also wasn’t too packed with people the way many little restaurants in New York can be.
We consulted the menu, which had some more gourmet takes on traditional foods (burgers with fried eggs, beets, and pineapples for one). I wound up ordering the 5-Spiced Lamb Salad. Truth be known I am notorious for ordering strange foods, but I usually only order them if they sound good to me, and this one certainly did. It was tossed with wax beans, daikon radish and cilantro, and served with a watermelon salad covered with a wasabi cream dressing. Yes, it definitely sounded strange, but it also sounded delicious. But I wasn’t the only one that night who was thinking a little outside of the box. For appetizers, we ordered the Balinese Spiced Chicken Sticks with Coconut Yogurt and the Calamari OZ Style, with kiwi and jalapeno salsa. TL ordered the aforementioned burger, NP ordered Steak Diane, and EL ordered Shark Pesto Rigatoni.
I was excited, and I hadn’t been properly excited about a meal in a long time. I think food should be an experience, not just something you shove down your throat. It’s so wonderful to go out to a restaurant and be delighted by good food and good company. The experience doesn’t happen as often as I think it should, but tonight it did.
The appetizers were gone as soon as they arrived. The calamari was absolutely unreal, probably the best I think I’ve ever had. It wasn’t covered in thick heaps of batter like it is in most restaurants, but rather thinly coated in an almost panko-like crust. It was light and smooth, complimented with the sweet but subtle kick of the kiwi-jalapeno salsa. The chicken skewers were also yummy, sweet and salty. Their taste was almost Indian and according to my Indian roommate NP, “they taste brown!” The best was yet to come, however.
Served in a deep, white, square dish (almost a bowl), the lamb salad looked strange when it arrived. One corner of the dish featured the shredded lamb, radish, and beans, and the other held the watermelon salad. I plunged my fork into the lamb and was surprised to find that it was soft. And upon tasting it I almost died. In a good way.
It was sweet, salty and, dare I say it, succulent. I am by no means a foodie so I cannot tell you what the flavors were, but my god was it delicious. It floated in my mouth, and the crunch of the radish and wax beans only made it that much better.
And then there was the watermelon salad. I have never almost cried in a restaurant because the food was so good, but upon popping a watermelon cube covered in wasabi cream dressing into my mouth, I swear I was near tears. It was so simple—cold, light, and sweet blended with creamy, tangy, spicy—and it was so beautiful.
I slowly, slowly made my way through my dinner, pausing to chew and think and really taste my food. I didn’t want it to end. I picked up a forkful of the lamb salad, then some watermelon, then some lamb again. At one point TL said to me, “I feel like you’re having a relationship with your food right now.” He was completely right. We were both there to make the other happy and enjoy the other’s company. We really appreciated each other. It was the best date in the history of dates.
Then, at the end when I thought I had finished everything, I was honestly a little bit sad. There were two pieces of bread left, and I lifted them up to find: another morsel of watermelon! Another morsel of lamb! I smiled and gasped enthusiastically, “Oh, look, there’s more!! I’m so happy!” Strange, but true. True, but delicious.
What was nice is that all of my friends enjoyed their meals that evening. For a while, all you could hear at the table was the sound of forks and knives on dishes, punctuated with an “Mmmm,” and “Oh man, that’s good.” You would’ve thought we were…doing something else.
I couldn’t believe it. This completely random restaurant had turned out to be a culinary goldmine and a fantastic evening out. The restaurant had only been open since April, and I hope it stays open for a long time, avoiding the fate of many small New York restaurants that close before they can get anywhere. But The Sunburnt Calf is one of three restaurants owned by the New York-based MooLife restaurant group (the other two being Bondi Road and The Sunburnt Cow) so hopefully it will last a while. I know I will certainly be back. If you’re in New York, I highly recommend it. No matter how adventurous your palate might be, your tastebuds will definitely thank you.
Disappointed, we walked back to the corner. But first we paused in front of a window display with a big plastic calf encased in a box of red light. Above it, perhaps ironically, beamed the red neon words “The Sunburnt Calf.” We peered into the tiny doorway. A set of four small stairs led down to a shiny, dark-wooded bar filled with orange light, and a line of chrome chairs. It looked pretty neat, but what was the menu like?
The Sunburnt Calf was an Australian restaurant, we learned, where we could actually get kangaroo if we wanted to (none of us did, but still). But we could also get chicken, lamb, pork, and burgers, which were perhaps more our style, for a very reasonable price. Okay, why not.
We went inside and were promptly greeted with a delicious shot at the bar, before we were shown to our table by the Aussie bartender (accent and all). Clear and peach-colored, it tasted like strawberries. I’m pretty sure vodka was involved in what turned out to be a refreshing and sweet little concoction. Off to a good start!
The dining room was also lit in this orange light, and the backdrop of the room was a giant panorama of the famous geographical Australian landmark Ayers Rock. We were by no means the only people there, but it also wasn’t too packed with people the way many little restaurants in New York can be.
We consulted the menu, which had some more gourmet takes on traditional foods (burgers with fried eggs, beets, and pineapples for one). I wound up ordering the 5-Spiced Lamb Salad. Truth be known I am notorious for ordering strange foods, but I usually only order them if they sound good to me, and this one certainly did. It was tossed with wax beans, daikon radish and cilantro, and served with a watermelon salad covered with a wasabi cream dressing. Yes, it definitely sounded strange, but it also sounded delicious. But I wasn’t the only one that night who was thinking a little outside of the box. For appetizers, we ordered the Balinese Spiced Chicken Sticks with Coconut Yogurt and the Calamari OZ Style, with kiwi and jalapeno salsa. TL ordered the aforementioned burger, NP ordered Steak Diane, and EL ordered Shark Pesto Rigatoni.
I was excited, and I hadn’t been properly excited about a meal in a long time. I think food should be an experience, not just something you shove down your throat. It’s so wonderful to go out to a restaurant and be delighted by good food and good company. The experience doesn’t happen as often as I think it should, but tonight it did.
The appetizers were gone as soon as they arrived. The calamari was absolutely unreal, probably the best I think I’ve ever had. It wasn’t covered in thick heaps of batter like it is in most restaurants, but rather thinly coated in an almost panko-like crust. It was light and smooth, complimented with the sweet but subtle kick of the kiwi-jalapeno salsa. The chicken skewers were also yummy, sweet and salty. Their taste was almost Indian and according to my Indian roommate NP, “they taste brown!” The best was yet to come, however.
Served in a deep, white, square dish (almost a bowl), the lamb salad looked strange when it arrived. One corner of the dish featured the shredded lamb, radish, and beans, and the other held the watermelon salad. I plunged my fork into the lamb and was surprised to find that it was soft. And upon tasting it I almost died. In a good way.
It was sweet, salty and, dare I say it, succulent. I am by no means a foodie so I cannot tell you what the flavors were, but my god was it delicious. It floated in my mouth, and the crunch of the radish and wax beans only made it that much better.
And then there was the watermelon salad. I have never almost cried in a restaurant because the food was so good, but upon popping a watermelon cube covered in wasabi cream dressing into my mouth, I swear I was near tears. It was so simple—cold, light, and sweet blended with creamy, tangy, spicy—and it was so beautiful.
I slowly, slowly made my way through my dinner, pausing to chew and think and really taste my food. I didn’t want it to end. I picked up a forkful of the lamb salad, then some watermelon, then some lamb again. At one point TL said to me, “I feel like you’re having a relationship with your food right now.” He was completely right. We were both there to make the other happy and enjoy the other’s company. We really appreciated each other. It was the best date in the history of dates.
Then, at the end when I thought I had finished everything, I was honestly a little bit sad. There were two pieces of bread left, and I lifted them up to find: another morsel of watermelon! Another morsel of lamb! I smiled and gasped enthusiastically, “Oh, look, there’s more!! I’m so happy!” Strange, but true. True, but delicious.
What was nice is that all of my friends enjoyed their meals that evening. For a while, all you could hear at the table was the sound of forks and knives on dishes, punctuated with an “Mmmm,” and “Oh man, that’s good.” You would’ve thought we were…doing something else.
I couldn’t believe it. This completely random restaurant had turned out to be a culinary goldmine and a fantastic evening out. The restaurant had only been open since April, and I hope it stays open for a long time, avoiding the fate of many small New York restaurants that close before they can get anywhere. But The Sunburnt Calf is one of three restaurants owned by the New York-based MooLife restaurant group (the other two being Bondi Road and The Sunburnt Cow) so hopefully it will last a while. I know I will certainly be back. If you’re in New York, I highly recommend it. No matter how adventurous your palate might be, your tastebuds will definitely thank you.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Sparkle Plenty
I knew it was love when I saw the wigs in the windows. Wigs from the 1960s—short, long, blonde, brown, black—sat atop mannequin heads painted with thick, cat-like eyeliner and pale pink lips like Twiggy and Jean Shrimpton. Around them lay vintage hair products in faded, frayed Crayola-colored boxes, paying homage to the place’s former glory.
The place is Beauty Bar, located at 231 E. 14th Street, and I firmly believe it is what I would look like if I were a bar. Originally a hair salon, the black-and-white tiled floors are graced on the left with a long row of metal hair dryer chairs, a silvery space-age salute to the early 1960s and the beehives that likely once sat under them. The walls are painted white and seafoam green, lacquered over with layers upon layers of silver glitter. Pictures of early '60s girls with teased out helmets of hair and crazy updos smile, pageant-like, from the walls. Cutesy plastic chandeliers hang from the ceiling and profiles of ladies with updos line the mirror over the bar. Being here felt like the grown-up equivalent of playing dress-up and having a tea party, except with martinis (dirty, with three olives for Mr. Bear, and a Cosmo for Barbie, please).
I originally found Beauty Bar online at the end of May. During this time, I probably should have been looking for an apartment instead of looking at all the different bars in New York Magazine’s restaurant section, but as soon as I found Beauty Bar, I forgot what I was supposed to be doing. The place was a vintage-inspired girly fairyland that gave martinis free with a $10 manicure. Beauty Bar became a place I had to get to when I got to New York (Incidentally, if you’re not in New York, there are nine other Beauty Bars around the country, so find the one that works for you!).
Luckily, on my divine roommate’s birthday, she was in the mood for a manicure. The hours for Martinis and Manicures are Monday through Friday from 6pm to 11pm and Saturday & Sunday 7pm-11pm, so we hopped on the 6 train fairly early, arrived at the bar and purchased our manicure tickets (be sure not to lose it or you won’t get your nails done!), sipped our cocktails got our nails did. Oh heyyy.
Not everyone goes to get their nails done, of course. A mostly hipster clientele, ironic platinum blonde mullets, pinup girl tattoos and all, sit at the bar perhaps in deep discussion of Kafka’s most influential works. If they are doing that, I don’t know how it’s possible because the bar is practically the love child of Jayne Mansfield and Elton John. I prefer to just sit and laugh and slowly make my way through my martini, one olive at a time. Why would you want to take yourself so seriously when you’re sitting in a pile of glitter, anyway? All you can do is sparkle plenty.
The place is Beauty Bar, located at 231 E. 14th Street, and I firmly believe it is what I would look like if I were a bar. Originally a hair salon, the black-and-white tiled floors are graced on the left with a long row of metal hair dryer chairs, a silvery space-age salute to the early 1960s and the beehives that likely once sat under them. The walls are painted white and seafoam green, lacquered over with layers upon layers of silver glitter. Pictures of early '60s girls with teased out helmets of hair and crazy updos smile, pageant-like, from the walls. Cutesy plastic chandeliers hang from the ceiling and profiles of ladies with updos line the mirror over the bar. Being here felt like the grown-up equivalent of playing dress-up and having a tea party, except with martinis (dirty, with three olives for Mr. Bear, and a Cosmo for Barbie, please).
I originally found Beauty Bar online at the end of May. During this time, I probably should have been looking for an apartment instead of looking at all the different bars in New York Magazine’s restaurant section, but as soon as I found Beauty Bar, I forgot what I was supposed to be doing. The place was a vintage-inspired girly fairyland that gave martinis free with a $10 manicure. Beauty Bar became a place I had to get to when I got to New York (Incidentally, if you’re not in New York, there are nine other Beauty Bars around the country, so find the one that works for you!).
Luckily, on my divine roommate’s birthday, she was in the mood for a manicure. The hours for Martinis and Manicures are Monday through Friday from 6pm to 11pm and Saturday & Sunday 7pm-11pm, so we hopped on the 6 train fairly early, arrived at the bar and purchased our manicure tickets (be sure not to lose it or you won’t get your nails done!), sipped our cocktails got our nails did. Oh heyyy.
Not everyone goes to get their nails done, of course. A mostly hipster clientele, ironic platinum blonde mullets, pinup girl tattoos and all, sit at the bar perhaps in deep discussion of Kafka’s most influential works. If they are doing that, I don’t know how it’s possible because the bar is practically the love child of Jayne Mansfield and Elton John. I prefer to just sit and laugh and slowly make my way through my martini, one olive at a time. Why would you want to take yourself so seriously when you’re sitting in a pile of glitter, anyway? All you can do is sparkle plenty.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Cucumbers and the East River: Or, A New York State of Silence
I remember once being inside this church in the Pittsburgh neighborhood of East Liberty, at around 1pm on a Thursday, of all times. A friend and I went inside to check out the architecture and it was completely empty. Even in the daylight hours, the room was entirely gray. Textured concrete underfoot absorbed the shuffle of our feet as we just looked up into the building and heard nothing. Silence so thick you felt it on your arms, like you could possibly cut through it with a knife if you really wanted to.
Until recently, I had yet to experience so profound a silence, a silence you can somehow hear echoing around you as if you were caught in the middle of a parade of ambulances and had suddenly gone deaf. But I heard this brand of silence again the other night, here in New York, the very last place I expected to hear it.
My roommate was out of town for the weekend and I was sitting having a snack of sliced cucumbers in our living room. It was around seven o’clock in the evening. I sat down on the futon and started snacking and thinking about life. All of a sudden I heard the crunch of each bite of cucumber echoing in my ears, as if it was in surround sound or something equally ridiculous. It was only when I heard the green vegetable’s cool crunch that I realized how thick the silence in the apartment was, and as I kept crunching I felt that much more aware of it. The crunch tore through the apartment like a chainsaw and I realized how empty it was.
I heard on more than one occasion that New York can be such a lonely place, but I never really believed it until that moment. But I wasn’t lonely, per se; I was just especially aware of the fact that I was alone.
I wonder if these moments are the rare ones in New York, where there is always some kind of noise that is a part of what I will call “the New York Silence.” “The New York Silence” is the complete quietness of everyone inside the subway train while the outside shakes and rattles and bumps and thumps on the outside. It is this kind of subway silence where people find themselves able to read or even balance their checkbooks, but it’s really not silence in a true sense of the word at all. Even so, I find it quite beautiful and something so expressly New York. The noise gives me a feeling of safety, as if when you don’t hear anything is the time you should maybe begin to worry.
I experienced another kind of “New York Silence” this weekend when my friend EH came to visit me. After a rather raucous evening out, we woke up Sunday morning/afternoon and went for a walk along the East River, a body of water snuggled (nay, spooned) closely by FDR Drive and Queens (down by where we walked, anyway).
The gray-green water splashed and crashed on this semi-windy day. Bikers and runners and walkers like us made their way up or down the path by the river, which itself was sandwiched between FDR Drive and the river. A busy, highway-esque thoroughfare a la South Florida’s State Road 84, FDR Drive is no quiet place. When you sit down on a bench on this path by the East River, cars are whooshing and zooming almost literally behind your head as you stare over the serene, crashing waters which, anywhere else would be surrounded by silence. But in New York, you are always repeatedly sandwiched between noise and silence—it all depends what you’re willing to hear.
Tonight, after a rather lovely and inspiring conversation with MS over the most enormous slices of pizza I’ve ever seen in my entire life (Koronet Pizza in Morningside Heights—go. It’s delicious.), I’ve been enlightened of a way to live in New York. A dilemma New Yorkers face, MS says, is how to balance the 90,000,000+ things to do in the city with achieving their personal goals. It’s so easy to get distracted that we have to keep ourselves centered. Sometimes we have to seek out the silence, as difficult as it may seem. We have to crunch the cucumbers in an empty room, no matter how scary the prospect of doing so might be. Because of this, I would venture to say, we are not only growing into New Yorkers, but into adults.
Until recently, I had yet to experience so profound a silence, a silence you can somehow hear echoing around you as if you were caught in the middle of a parade of ambulances and had suddenly gone deaf. But I heard this brand of silence again the other night, here in New York, the very last place I expected to hear it.
My roommate was out of town for the weekend and I was sitting having a snack of sliced cucumbers in our living room. It was around seven o’clock in the evening. I sat down on the futon and started snacking and thinking about life. All of a sudden I heard the crunch of each bite of cucumber echoing in my ears, as if it was in surround sound or something equally ridiculous. It was only when I heard the green vegetable’s cool crunch that I realized how thick the silence in the apartment was, and as I kept crunching I felt that much more aware of it. The crunch tore through the apartment like a chainsaw and I realized how empty it was.
I heard on more than one occasion that New York can be such a lonely place, but I never really believed it until that moment. But I wasn’t lonely, per se; I was just especially aware of the fact that I was alone.
I wonder if these moments are the rare ones in New York, where there is always some kind of noise that is a part of what I will call “the New York Silence.” “The New York Silence” is the complete quietness of everyone inside the subway train while the outside shakes and rattles and bumps and thumps on the outside. It is this kind of subway silence where people find themselves able to read or even balance their checkbooks, but it’s really not silence in a true sense of the word at all. Even so, I find it quite beautiful and something so expressly New York. The noise gives me a feeling of safety, as if when you don’t hear anything is the time you should maybe begin to worry.
I experienced another kind of “New York Silence” this weekend when my friend EH came to visit me. After a rather raucous evening out, we woke up Sunday morning/afternoon and went for a walk along the East River, a body of water snuggled (nay, spooned) closely by FDR Drive and Queens (down by where we walked, anyway).
The gray-green water splashed and crashed on this semi-windy day. Bikers and runners and walkers like us made their way up or down the path by the river, which itself was sandwiched between FDR Drive and the river. A busy, highway-esque thoroughfare a la South Florida’s State Road 84, FDR Drive is no quiet place. When you sit down on a bench on this path by the East River, cars are whooshing and zooming almost literally behind your head as you stare over the serene, crashing waters which, anywhere else would be surrounded by silence. But in New York, you are always repeatedly sandwiched between noise and silence—it all depends what you’re willing to hear.
Tonight, after a rather lovely and inspiring conversation with MS over the most enormous slices of pizza I’ve ever seen in my entire life (Koronet Pizza in Morningside Heights—go. It’s delicious.), I’ve been enlightened of a way to live in New York. A dilemma New Yorkers face, MS says, is how to balance the 90,000,000+ things to do in the city with achieving their personal goals. It’s so easy to get distracted that we have to keep ourselves centered. Sometimes we have to seek out the silence, as difficult as it may seem. We have to crunch the cucumbers in an empty room, no matter how scary the prospect of doing so might be. Because of this, I would venture to say, we are not only growing into New Yorkers, but into adults.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The Dream
On a weekend trip to New York in October 2008, my plane slowly descended into LaGuardia airport, first encircling the shimmering lights of Manhattan like a terrible tease. Just shy of 19, I was convinced that New York City was made of glitter--that it shook loose on the sidewalks and poured into everything. The subways, the buses, the sidewalks, the skyscrapers, everything. Not actual glitter, of course, but that certain "it" factor that makes New York better than practically any other place in the world. And as we landed at LaGuardia and the tarmac began to twinkle silver under the giant lights of the airport, tears swelled in my eyes knowing that in just three days I would have to leave New York again.
To me, New York was that lover you see only occasionally. You spend a passionate weekend together every couple of months or even years, then you're off to your separate lives because there's really no other way your relationship can work. I fell in love with New York before I fell in love with any man. The mere idea of living here made my heart beat faster but also made it ache--would I ever really be able to live that dream?
And now I have. I have moved to New York to be a writer, maybe a photographer, maybe a jane of all trades. I have the apartment and I have a job and now, like all other New Yorkers (if I can even truly call myself that yet, having only been here 15 days), I am going to make it work. The "it" in question being the rest of the equation, whatever the next dream is.
In the meantime, though, I will pay homage to my new city the best way I know how: in words and pictures. This blog will be filled with scenes from a life in the city, snapshots (figurative and literal) of adventures and experiences throughout the brilliant five boroughs, and maybe even beyond. Stay tuned for more...
To me, New York was that lover you see only occasionally. You spend a passionate weekend together every couple of months or even years, then you're off to your separate lives because there's really no other way your relationship can work. I fell in love with New York before I fell in love with any man. The mere idea of living here made my heart beat faster but also made it ache--would I ever really be able to live that dream?
And now I have. I have moved to New York to be a writer, maybe a photographer, maybe a jane of all trades. I have the apartment and I have a job and now, like all other New Yorkers (if I can even truly call myself that yet, having only been here 15 days), I am going to make it work. The "it" in question being the rest of the equation, whatever the next dream is.
In the meantime, though, I will pay homage to my new city the best way I know how: in words and pictures. This blog will be filled with scenes from a life in the city, snapshots (figurative and literal) of adventures and experiences throughout the brilliant five boroughs, and maybe even beyond. Stay tuned for more...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)