Crumpled and Uncrumpled

Some days I finish work feeling like a crumpled up ball of paper, crunchy and squished. It’s on days like these when I especially love going to yoga because I know it will smooth me out again.

I got hooked on the practice in high school, loving it because it kicked my butt without kicking my butt—I feel the burn without punishing myself or dripping in sweat. As I continued through college I noticed yoga would not only smooth me out, but give me something else to focus on when papers and tests were clogging my brain and sometimes my pores.

I knew when I came to New York I wanted to continue doing yoga, but I didn’t start until I had been here for four months, when it started to turn cold. Before that I had been running or walking up and down the East River, but as I began to lose feeling in my hands and my nose come November, I realized it was time for a change. In Florida I had done yoga at a gym, so I thought maybe I would try a gym out here. Little did I know I was soon to become the Goldilocks of gyms.

I started with a gym just a block west of my house. It was an intimidating metallic and glass structure with grey walls, had a waiting area with velour-upholstered armchairs and a coffee table upon which rested copies of magazines like Details and Vogue. I went up to the front desk, which held computers encased in glass, and was notified that a “membership specialist” (or something of that nature) would be right with me. A handsome man soon entered the room and introduced himself to me as said specialist. I instantly had visions of that episode of Friends where Chandler wants to quit the gym. The gym says okay, but how about first you take a tour of our facility with this obscenely hot chick in only a leotard? I braced myself. No handsome man would sway my decision-making!

He asked me, would I mind coming into his office and answering a few questions about my exercise habits before he gave me a tour and they may or may not invite me to become a member? I made a mental note of this phrase—as if somehow joining this gym was a privilege when really if you threw money at them they wouldn’t say no, of course. But my exercise habits were questioned, and I found myself bending the truth and making up answers about my routine to somehow appear more fit or active than I actually was (I now wonder if he knew/thought I was lying). I didn’t like this about myself, and made another mental note of this for later. Would I feel like I had to look or act a certain way if I came to this gym? I didn’t want that—I only wanted to look like crap, get my gym or yoga on, and get out. If I couldn’t do that, then the gym was not for me.

We took a tour of the gym and I began to notice something really upsetting about the entire environment. It wasn’t just clean, it was sterile. Devoid of warmth and personality, it was an unwelcoming environment that almost exactly suited the purpose of focusing hard on feeling the burn and dripping yourself with sweat. I suddenly realized where I was—I was in the evil gym from Dodgeball, Globo Gym, where over-muscled jocks and yuppies came to get pumped up: “Here at Globo Gym, we understand that "Ugliness" and "Fatness" are genetic disorders, much like baldness or necrophilia, and it's only your fault if you don't hate yourself enough to do something about it.”

The only thing I wanted to do was leave, but I had to sit through another short meeting with the handsome membership specialist. He asked me what exorbitant gym membership interested me and when I might like to join. I said I’d have to think about it. “What’s to think about?” he said, as if joining any other gym except this one would be a supreme joke. It made me hate the gym even more. We finished our meeting and I left, mumbling “Yeah fucking right,” to myself as I walked through the door.

The next gym I visited because a free three-day trial came for it in the mail. It was a couple blocks north of my house, so I went. The people signing me in were a lot more chill. There was no activity questionnaire, there were no special meetings, just a tour of the smaller facility with a pretty winding staircase. That was fine with me, I didn’t need a lot of bells and whistles—just a place to do some yoga and maybe some cardio. But I didn’t realize how small the gym really was until I was practically exercising in an old man’s armpit as I attempted a cardio workout. He was far too close to me for comfort, and it wasn’t his fault—the treadmills and ellipticals had to be smashed closer together so more could fit, more people could work out at once, more people could join the gym, etc. Though my normal cardio routine involved the elliptical for 30 minutes, then a series of stretches, crunches and weights, I only stayed for the elliptical portion because if I stayed longer I would actually vomit.

It was the first time I felt homesick since moving to New York. I know it’s a silly thing to trigger homesickness, but in Florida everything is spread out, there’s lots of room between exercise equipment, and it doesn’t get cold so you can run anywhere any time of the year (you have to be careful in the summer, but that’s another story). I was sad. All I wanted to do was exercise! And gym memberships in New York were not at all the same as in Florida, where they were five times less expensive. I didn’t have a lot of money to spare, and I just wanted to enjoy myself while working out. Was it so much to ask?

I gave up looking for a week or so, then I had a stressful day at work and all I wanted was some yoga. No gym, just plain yoga. So I found a studio near my house and resolved to go that evening. More than 10 blocks north, it was a little bit of a hike, but I didn’t mind because hey, walking is exercise too.

New York Yoga is a small studio, but it doesn’t matter. Classes are limited to 20. The walls are softly paneled in welcoming colors. The receptionist is always sweet, no matter who it is. There’s original artwork on the walls. Yoga mats and good-smelling candles are for sale in the back. There’s a plush carpet in the locker room that you can mush your toes into (no shoes are allowed beyond the tile in the front part of the studio so it stays clean). And the class I took was awesome. The teacher lit candles and played soft music, rubbed massage oils into our necks and spritzed our faces with lovely scented water during shavasana. The class challenged me and kicked my butt in that awesome I-don’t-hate-myself-and-want-to-die way, and it made me feel refreshed. It was what I was looking for all along—it wasn’t too big or too small, it was just right. I was a real-life Goldilocks…or should I say Yogilocks?

Nobody sat me down and questioned whether or not I wanted to join, nobody judged my exercise habits to see if I was a good fit. There was no smelly man’s armpit to extract myself from. On the contrary, I wanted to feel refreshed like this all the time. And, for a not-exorbitant price, I now do. I look forward to the yoga classes I go to usually twice a week and to that feeling of uncrumpled-ness that I know will come with it. I always knew that fitness could be happiness, but I didn’t know how until New York Yoga.

City Canvas

With each click of my shutter on the streets of Manhattan, I fall a little more in love. There is just something about a New York City sidewalk that has so much life that when you shoot a model walking down the street, it’s almost like a double portrait.

Mere minutes ago I finished my second fashion editorial for Her Campus.com, the national online college women’s magazine for which I am Style Editor. I had my models posing in my stairwell, on my fire escape, and ultimately outside in 40 degree weather where they put up with my zaniness in sleeveless dresses. What? They’ve had to do far worse on Top Model.

But when we were outside, the photographs had a certain vibrancy that I think was entirely due to the streets. Cars whizzing past, people shuffling in the crosswalk as I tried to shoot my models before the ‘Walk’ sign changed (pure hilarity—I’m glad my models were such good sports).

What really was the crowning moment was hailing a cab, telling the driver I would pay the fare if my models could pose with the car. He smiled and said “Yeah, sure.” That was all I needed. In an instant I posed the girls in front of the cab, on the hood of the car, inside it. And the driver ended up charging me nothing at all, just saying “Forget it,” with a smile and he drove off. We may have made his night!

When I was shooting outside, I understood the reason why so many movies have been shot here, so many books take place here, so much art is produced here in general. There’s something about the speed of the city, the grime, the flashing lights and the noise that inspires. I can’t say what it is for sure, but I know there’s an extra electricity pulsing in my veins that I haven’t felt in any other location.

I love how lights on cabs look in photographs as they rush past, solid beams of colored light implying movement. I love how the sky is the clearest, most solid color—like a white wall painted blue—on really beautiful days, and how that sky somehow brightens even the tallest skyscrapers or the lowest subway entrances. There is beauty, sometimes unconventional, everywhere. This city is not passive—it’s a living, breathing being. It has a heart and a soul, and on nights like tonight I can really feel it.

I hope to be in the category one day of famous artists who have used the city as their canvas, but for now I am content to have New York as my muse.

Models in the crosswalk

Miss Manhattan Takes Fashion Week

On Thursday, February 10th, something incredible happened. I walked through the brisk, late winter air swirling around Lincoln Center, past Avery Fisher Hall, past the famous fountain, past the Metropolitan Opera, past the security guards dressed in black and directly into the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week tent. I was invited, after all.

 As I mentioned previously, I was hired by New York street style blog Style Defined to snap some oh-so-fabulous looks during Fashion Week, write some runway reviews, and tweet about various fashion week happenings. Being in the tent all day was my job. I had to occasionally repeat those words to myself because sometimes I would be in a state of disbelief. I hoped the sound of my voice wouldn’t suddenly jar me awake from a far-too-real dream.

Sure, it’s easy to sneak into the tents if you really want to—just look fierce, throw on your sunglasses, name a designer and walk past the guards like you own the place while yelling into your cell phone. But it’s the invitation, the spot you have waiting for you at a specific show that really matters. Because you’re not just inside the tent—you’re an insider.

With my camera hanging around my neck, notebook and pen poised and ready to take down names of the superior street stylish, I would be in the tent for hours talking to people from all over the fashion industry—bloggers, editors, writers, stylists, models, you name it. “Excuse me, hi, I’m with Style Defined and I really love your look. May I take a picture of you?” Snaps from the camera, followed by Style Defined business cards, a friendly smile and handshake, and I was off to the next stylish person. While working in the tent and at off-site shows and parties, I even managed to snag designer Richie Rich and well-known blogger Susie Bubble.

If I was feeling peckish, a quick, free, low-calorie bottled Frappuccino from the Starbucks counter set up in the tent soothed my hunger. Other than that, I lived on mini Fiji water bottles and skinny cans of Diet Pepsi. Both had booths in the tent, along with Maybelline (free lipstick), Kim Crawford (free wine), DHL (free…something. I still don’t know what they were giving out), Essie (free manicures), and others in and out throughout the week. Caffeine happily chugged away in my veins, but for the most part I was electric with pure adrenaline.

Christian Siriano

When it was time to tweet or write, I found a spot in AOL’s media box in the center of the tent, a space which could hold I think 30 equally caffeinated photo editors, bloggers, writers, and so on at one time. The spots filled up quickly and I had to move fast to nab a spot, but fortunately it never came to blows.

Christian Siriano

And when I wasn’t in the tent doing street style or social media, I was seeing shows. The first one I saw was Christian Siriano. What always amazes me about Siriano is the maturity in his designs, even though he just turned 25. Many of the designs this time around were genuinely classics, though on-trend for the upcoming season--wide-leg pants, little black dresses, high-glam ballgowns. For the first part of the collection, Siriano used a lot of black, but made it interesting with a variety of textures. Then came a forest/olive green and a pinkish mauve. The designs were smart, wearable, and high-fashion which I think we can always have more of.

Toni Francesc

The other shows I liked in the tents were Mik Cire, whose leather jackets, though menswear, made me swoon with delight; Carlos Miele, who made hot pink palazzo pants for fall; Toni Francesc, whose silver and gold jumpsuits gave me delusions of grandeur; and Anna Sui, whose smart pattern-fur-coat combinations always give sassy rock and roll vibes. The Alice + Olivia presentation at The Plaza was also delightful, with beautiful 1920s-meets-1970s sparkles on the models and Veuve Cliquot champagne for guests.

Alice + Olivia

If I wasn’t in the tents, I was at shows in galleries all over Chelsea. Especially fantastic were the Jeremy Laing, Kimberly Ovitz and Juan Carlos Obando presentations. Jeremy Laing’s pieces were inspired by celestial bodies, with the surface of the moon and even eclipses making appearances in his collection. Kimberly Ovitz smartly blended minimalist design with neutrals and wild colors like grey with neon yellow, and royal blue with black. Juan Carlos Obando upped the glam factor with floaty, almost Grecian evening gowns and fierce suits.  


Jeremy Laing



Juan Carlos Obando











  



    

Kimberly Ovitz

Every day my schedule was different, and I was hopping back and forth usually between Chelsea galleries and the tents. Some days were longer than others, like those punctuated at the end by the oh-so-important afterparties. I wound up attending four, two at the posh Empire Rooftop (which, I’m told by my roommate, is another place often featured on Gossip Girl), one at Griffin in the Meatpacking District, and another at the Tribeca Grand Hotel. I met amazing and interesting people everywhere I went, from drag queens to photographers, young social media hotshots to face jewelry designers and everyone in between.

It made me feel alive to have something to do every second—down time was only reserved for my post-midnight arrival at my apartment, when I would then sit down and work some more on selecting photos and typing up my notes for the day. It sounds like a lot, but it was absolutely the best feeling I could possibly ask for. I was flying, still in disbelief that yes, this was my job, the very thing I came to New York to do.

There’s always a disconnect when you realize you’re finally living your dream. For so many years, the only thing I wanted was to go to the shows at Fashion Week, to cover them and write about them and take pictures. Then, because of some crazy twist of fate and Style Defined, there I was, doing it. Here’s to the next Fashion Week! May it be as incredible as the last.

Juan Carlos Obando



Miss Manhattan Takes Fashion Week: An Intro

Hello, my loves!

This is just a quick update as to what's happening with Miss M. I didn't want to leave you wondering where I've gone!

This week I am shooting fashion shows and writing runway reviews for Style Defined, an awesome New York street style blog. If you haven't checked it out already, please give us a visit! We feature the sassy, smart, quirky styles of New York's fabulous young people. You can follow me tweeting for Style Defined at @MissManhattanNY, as well!

I'll be sure to regale you with stories once I surface from Fashion Week, so stay tuned! In the meantime, here is a photo I took at the Christian Siriano show to keep you sated.

Best wishes,

Miss M

The Tribeca Venture

I think it’s unhealthy to hate on something you know nothing about, so I ventured down to Tribeca to see it for myself during the daylight. My distaste for the neighborhood came from what I believed to be its super-far removed location, its general desolateness at night, and the nouveau riche celebrities who live there because all the more fabulous parts of town are already filled. I had been there only twice, both times at night, so I decided to check it out during the day and see if my opinions really held any weight.

I got off at the 6 train’s second-to-last stop, Canal Street. Canal is one of the main thoroughfares of Chinatown, packed thick with stores selling Prado handbags and perfume I once read should be as fresh “as the day it was bottled in 1985.” I ambled down the street, avoiding the shouts of “Louis Vuitton!” and “Sterling Silver!” making a left on Broadway at the enormous yet snazzy old concrete Post Office and finding myself instantaneously in Tribeca. It wasn’t actually too difficult to get to.

Tribeca, or ‘TriBeCa’ as it’s sometimes written, is the neighborhood between Canal Street to Vesey Street north and south, and Broadway to Hudson east and west. It stands for “Triangle Below Canal Street.” I found that the neighborhood lives up to its name. Like many places below 14^th Street, Tribeca doesn’t exactly follow the grid system. Short little streets start and end at random intervals all through downtown areas, but in Tribeca they actually form triangles. Buildings built along streets lean into points on more than one occasion, making every intersection a possible geometry lesson.

The buildings themselves have a romantic-Paris-bohemian- New Orleans-brothel vibe about them, some covered with gilded art deco frontispieces, some with red brick that’s a little bit dirty in a sexy, industrial kind of way with wiry black fire escapes. It’s almost as if the Upper West Side dropped out of Columbia, moved downtown and went to art school.

Tribeca is currently Manhattan’s most wealthy neighborhood, with even a measly studio apartment clocking in at almost $4,500 a month. Many celebrities have lived in the area, including but certainly not limited to Jon Stewart, Kevin Spacey and Meryl Streep. So that part, at least, I was kind of right about.

What I did find, though, is that Tribeca is filled with some delightful and unexpected little places. A Belgian bakery and brunch spot that serves its homeland’s famed waffles; a “Synagogue for the Arts” civic center; a pretty sweet balloon store in a brick building covered in iron stars; a restaurant called “Macao,” whose menu is a salute to the locale’s history as a popular European trading post in 19^th century Asia; the craziest bike rack/benches I’ve seen in a while, if ever; factory buildings converted into apartment buildings, and much more. The streets were kind of empty for a Sunday, but it wasn’t especially desolate, but it’s different at night when the rest of posh Manhattan goes out to play in areas like the Meatpacking District.

Overall, I’d say Tribeca is pretty, but it takes more effort than I’m used to to find cool stuff.  My favorite areas like SoHo, NoHo and NoLIta are almost bursting at the seams, but Tribeca is more residential, I found. Even so, it’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. I need people milling about, stores open, loud noises—otherwise it just doesn’t feel like home. To each his own, I guess. One more part of the city down, however many more to go.

Synagogue for the Arts!

One of many triangular streetcorners (see the cars are driving on a diagonal?)



Crazy bench/bike rack combos!



Old factory converted into an apartment building



More triangular streetcorners!

Get Lost in Butter

NP wanted to cancel our reservation, but I couldn’t let her. At that point, our dinner reservation was all that was holding me together. It had been a harrowing week for the both of us and it was only Tuesday.

Without going into further detail, I will just say that we had some maintenance issues in our apartment. It would be days, maybe weeks until our apartment was back to normal. But because of the wonderful thing that is New York Restaurant Week, we would be able to escape it for a few hours and regain our sanity just for a little while.

New York Restaurant Week is run by a NYC and Company, self-proclaimed “The Official Guide” to New York on their website nycgo.com, and sponsored by American Express. During these two weeks (January 24 to February6), some of the finest restaurants in New York offer a special menu for a $24.07 lunch and a $35 dinner (plus tax and tip). The menu is prix fixe for a three course dinner, and there are usually a nice amount of choices for each course (or, in my opinion there should be). After spending literally hours online trying to figure out which menu we were most interested in, we eventually chose to have dinner at Butter, a restaurant near Astor Place. Because reservations for Restaurant Week fill up fast, we wound up with a 9pm reservation but we didn’t mind—supper is oh-so-chic and all the rage these days, don’t you know (heehee).



Butter Restaurant, Photo Courtesy of nycgo.com



I knew I had heard the restaurant name before, but I didn’t know exactly where. I remembered later that I had seen it on the Food Network, on The Best Thing I Ever Ate, right next to the face of Food Network host Alex Guarnaschelli. She is Butter’s head chef. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised. I knew many of the Food Network chefs had their own restaurants, but I had never actually been to any of them. And, as NP tells me, it’s kind of a big deal because it’s been mentioned on Gossip Girl a few times.

Butter opened in March 2002 and is owned by Scott Sartiano and Richie Akiva. According to the restaurant, its cuisine is “French in style and technique, but all-American when it comes to the ingredients.” Many of the ingredients are from New York’s Greenmarket, a market whose mission is to promote local agriculture and give New Yorkers access to locally grown food. The menu looked delicious. I was excited.

That night, we initially missed the restaurant completely. Two glass doors lead out to the street, but appeared dark because of the initial coat check area. Once inside, though, we passed through those doors and entered into a beautiful cavern of honey-toned wood and modern furniture. A bit early for our reservation, we stepped up into one of the restaurant’s two dining areas and sat at the curved wooden bar. An image of birch trees lit from behind enveloped the back wall, mimicking the feeling of eating in a forest during the day. Young and young-ish looking people smiled and happily conversed in curved beige booths sparkling with the occasional cluster of white Christmas lights. It was really a pleasure to just look at it.

At 9pm we descended to the stairs to the other dining room, which looked similar but had dark tones instead of light ones and a wall of tree branches curved over the walls and ceiling. From the menu we ordered all at once our appetizers (Mussels in White Wine with Smoked Trout and Roasted Garlic for NP, Butternut Squash Soup for myself), our entrees (Braised Creekstone Farms Short Ribs with Crispy Hominy, Chopped Olives and Fresh Parsley for both of us), and our desserts (Dark Chocolate Torte with Whipped Sour Cream for NP, Empire and Braeburn Apple Crisp with Bourbon Pecan Ice Cream for myself). One by one, each course came and delighted our tastebuds. The Butternut Squash Soup was softly sweet and creamy, the Short Ribs tender, tangy and juicy, the Apple Crisp crunchy and candy-like.

As much as I enjoyed dinner, I would have to say my favorite part of the evening was the experience of being far away from our problems. It was nice to spoil ourselves a little and to really enjoy the evening out. I think that’s something really easy to do in New York for me because everywhere I go is like a little adventure, a little vacation. I’m not sure I really even know what “normalcy” is here—there’s none of this come-home-from-work, sit-and-do-nothing- because-you’re-so tired-then-get-up-the-next-day-and-do-it-all-over-again business. Every day is different here if you’re willing to let it be that way. That night, even for a little while, we were able to escape our troubles and get lost in Butter.

Steelers Fans in Jets Country

“Fan” is a special title that has to be earned. You don’t watch one or two games and call yourself a fan—“fan” comes after die-hard observation of game after game after game, throes of passion upon victory, stunning heartbreak upon defeat. That being said, I am not a Pittsburgh Steelers “fan” and I know only a smidge about football, but there's a special place in my heart for the team from the city where I went to school, the place known as “a drinking town with a football problem.”

Pittsburgh Steelers fans, especially those from Pittsburgh, are delightfully rabid supporters of their home team. I’m sure there are innumerable cities out there whose support for their home team is similar, but I’ve never personally experienced it. Coming from a state where pro sports teams have mostly fair-weather fans if any (Florida), being in Pittsburgh was a completely different experience. Inflammatory remarks toward the Steelers caused violent fights to erupt, while a kind word endured you to a Steelers fan for life. As any Pittsburgher will tell you, Pittsburgh is the Steelers. That’s just the way it is.

So now, with this special place for the Steelers in my heart, a roommate who is a die-hard fan and has threatened to disown her little brother for liking another team, and a bunch of people I went to school with all now living in New York, Steelers love is the only love to have. We are certainly not Jets fans.

Last Sunday, with a herd of other New Yorkers who are certainly not Jets fans, we crowded into Public House, a Steelers bar just outside of Grand Central Station. The patrons were a sea of black and yellow, proudly wearing jerseys of players like Troy Polamalu and Heinz Ward. That day the Steelers were to play the Jets in a game which would give one team entry to the Super Bowl, the other team a sad end to their season.

Steelers fans lined up four-deep at the bar and filled every table, except one table of Jets fans there just to cause trouble. Every “J-E-T-S” cheer was thwarted or booed by the Steelers crowd with a hearty “Here we go, Steelers, here we go! Pittsburgh’s goin’ to the Super Bowl!” Every happy pro-Steelers interception, every amount of yardage gained, every touchdown was cause for similar celebration. It was that same sense of community I missed from college that isn’t so easy to find in New York. But people like these Steelers fans had made their own community here in this bar, all watching the multiple screens with rapt attention.

In the first half of the game, the Steelers were on fire, but in the second half the Jets began catching up. Shouts of happiness from that lone Jets table began to increase, much to our dismay and annoyance. Would our precious Steelers not make it to the Super Bowl, and would those Jets fans finally shut up?

But, of course, they did. Bartenders stood on the bar and poured champagne into patrons’ empty beer glasses and mouths, celebratory dance music filled the bar as fans who didn’t know each other when the game began hugged, took pictures, and even exchanged phone numbers. Yes, they would be back to this Steelers bar once again to see their team go for yet another Super Bowl victory.

After the game, my friends and I headed for a pizza nearby, surrounded by post-game Jets fans. My friends in Steelers jerseys got sneers and Jets towels waved in their faces, but they smiled on through. I wonder if being a Steelers fan in New York is like being a Jets fan in Pittsburgh—it’s just not something you do unless you want to have your head handed to you. We fared just fine since we weren’t too up in anyone’s faces about our oh-so-recent victory, though. However, I think it’s a lot more acceptable to be a Steelers fan in Jets country than a Red Sox fan on Yankee turf. I won’t even bother testing the waters with that one.