Sleeps Well With Others

The one thing you will love--or hate, depending on who you are—about your apartment in New York is the amount of people who will be staying with you for innumerable weekends of the year. I am one of those people who absolutely loves this—I love sharing my take on the city with others, painting the town red, finding new and crazy things to do, and experiencing the city through new eyes each time someone visits.

When I was in high school, my house was never the house where everyone came to hang out because everyone I knew lived 30 minutes away from me. But because so few people have room for extra people in their apartment, mine is happily the one they choose for their weekend getaways. I enjoy hostessing an impossible amount: can I get you some water? There are towels in the linen closet. Something to eat? Because if your guests are visiting from out of town, why should they not feel like royalty?

Every time people visit and ask me to take them out, my soul feels all warm and fuzzy. It means I get to share my part of the city, part of myself, with people I love. I’m sure every New Yorker feels this way. There are places that are your standbys, that even your visitors come to love and request specifically to visit when they’re in town. So far, for me, this includes: MacBar, Beauty Bar, The Sunburnt Calf, The Meatball Shop, and The Strand Bookstore, among others.

Yes, there do get to be points where it feels like I’m running a Bed and Breakfast—so and so is in this weekend, what’s-his-face is in the week after that. It can get exhausting, and sometimes I just want a weekend to myself. Everyone comes to New York because, well, it’s New York. On the whole, though, I love the company and I love that with each different set of visitors your itinerary will vary. At least I’m not doing the same thing every weekend. For example, SD will come in and she'll want to go to the theatre and find some cool coffee shops. KriTo and TDS will want to shopppppping and danciiiiiiing and maybe to a museum. It tests and develops my New York know-how: how do I show these people a good time when they've already been to visit many times? But somehow I make it work and we all end up coffee-ing or dancing the night away.

I wonder if it’s a cyclical phenomenon, this people-coming-to-visit thing. Of course, who doesn’t want to go to New York, but maybe sometimes New York is just a happy side effect of seeing a friend?

…maybe not. I mean, it is ‘The Greatest City in the World’ we’re talking about here.

Even so, I’m happy to have people, no matter their reasons for showing up at my door. It’s been everything from auditions to interviews to school trips to vacations. And yes, maybe they wouldn’t be coming way down to South Florida to visit, but that’s a proximity thing. It’s one of the reasons I’m glad I live in New York, actually—it’s the Greatest City in the World, so it draws the Greatest People in the World. It made the college/real-life transition so much easier, knowing I’d see the shining faces of my college friends multiple times per year.

So despite all the schlepping around Manhattan and occasionally Brooklyn, I adore my visitors. Especially at 4:30am when we all sit in my living room, partially hammered from a night out dancing our asses off at Fat Baby and Pianos on the Lower East Side, eating plantain chips with hummus and bullshitting about life, there is really no place else I’d rather be.

Long and Hot

…the summer, I mean.

 I know what summer means, typically. It means barbeques, suntan lotion, saltwater, chlorine, tan lines, not feeling bad about having ice cream in the middle of the afternoon, and candy-colored drinks with little umbrellas in them. Some of these things you get in New York, others not so much; and some things are an entirely different animal.

Coming from South Florida, I know heat—sweating after being outside for a full minute in places you forgot you had glands. But New York is different. At least in South Florida, you have to drive everywhere, and if you’re lucky your car has air conditioning. Not so in New York, where walking and public transit are the norms. Walking to the subway, there’s a soft but intense heat that swaths itself around you as if it was an overcautious school nurse wrapping a bandage around your leg just a little too tight—it’s not uncomfortable, per se, but  makes your limbs throb and it’s almost a challenge to feel your toes. As you descend the stairs underground, however, the bandage gets tighter and tighter and tighter…

Going underground is a little like being in a sauna against your will. Sweat begins to glisten on your face more and more with each minute you wait for the train. By minute five, sweat begins to form droplets on the upper lip and we all pray we are never the unlucky soul who waits more than 10 minutes for we will surely melt. It is, as KriTo would say, “some Wizard of Oz shit.” But when that train comes whizzing past, it brings a glorious rush of cool air that sweeps your hair up and the droplets away, saving the day each time. Inside the train, we lean voluntarily against cool metal poles that we would normally avoid like the plague for fear of actually catching plague. Summer means abandoning fear in pursuit of anything cold. The once calorie-conscious nursing student eats her frozen yogurt on the train with gusto. Teenagers recklessly sip Slurpee Big Gulps, for once not worried about looking cool. Even the financier on his way down to Wall Street chooses a pretty pink frappuccino to fight the heat.

Despite previous commentary, though, I don’t hate the heat. If anything, I find it a worthy adversary. I admire its wit and cunning. For example, when all year fashionistas pursue dewy, glowing skin with this potion and that cream, summer bestows it upon all of us for no charge and suddenly they prefer the matte look. I enjoy finding new ways to beat the heat, be it via my own frozen yogurt or eating a salad or even just letting it warm me up because, well, if you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em. I like the way summer shines itself onto my nose and cheekbones because it makes me look alive, living in the moment. And summer makes walking in the rain almost enjoyable—it’s like the weather’s way of saying, ‘Oh, sorry for all that heat, bro. Let’s cool it off a little. My bad!’

Summer in New York is like a three month-long celebration. Everyone is outside all the time, playing on roofs and in parks. Some of this playtime includes rooftop and park movies. I had the pleasure of attending HBO’s Bryant Park Film Festival this past Monday. The festival shows classic films every Monday night all summer. I chose this night to attend the Bryant Park Film Festival for the first time because of Marilyn. Miss Monroe and I have always had a very important connection, though I cannot explain to you how it works or why it exists. When I saw Gentlemen Prefer Blondes was on the upcoming bill, I wrote it in my agenda weeks in advance and urged HL to come with me. Who wouldn’t love to sit in a park and watch a movie? I’m pretty sure this is one of the things that makes summer in New York.

There’s a big, flat lawn in the middle of Bryant Park, surrounded by tables, chairs, and a walk-up café or three. They roll out the lawn in the spring because in the winter it’s an ice-skating rink. And when it’s a Monday night in summer, it’s absolutely packed to the gills with people, all facing a tall movie screen at the front of the park, on 6th Avenue. Since the movie started around 9, I thought if I arrived around 8 there would certainly be a patch of grass for me somewhere.

Barely true. I wedged myself between a series of lady groups who had spread their picnic blankets over larger areas, leaving just enough room for a small lady like I to heave my giant bag next to me and save room for HL, who was coming later. I unwrapped my salad and read my GQ, waiting for the movie to start. Next to me, girls chattered drunken mistakes, couples laughed, and every so often someone would stand up and wave at a friend just entering the park, guiding them towards their sitting place. Said friend would then gingerly make their way on tiptoe through the spaces on the lawn not covered up by someone else’s blankets or towels. It takes more skill, balance, and precision than one might think.

Eventually, though, you sit, and the movie begins. There are a couple of previews and a Bank of America commercial (they sponsor the festival), and then the HBO intro. It’s an old one, from the early ‘80s probably, and everyone gets up to dance and clap their way through it. Then the movie begins with a giant roar of applause from the audience. Then, in a flash, there are Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell up on the screen in shimmering red sequin gowns and feather headdresses singing “We’re just two little girls from Little Rock…” The audience applauds at the end of each musical number, laughs in the proper places, oohs, aaahs, smiles and then the movie ends.

People filter out of the park in droves, down into the subway for more heat or walking for a bit to take in the refreshing night air they’ve been blessed with. That same summer dew nestles onto their faces as they enter their homes, opening the windows and letting the night air whisk in a breeze along with the sounds of dogs barking, taxis honking, and traffic rushing in the distance.

Coney Island Baby

The only things I had heard about Coney Island raised it to mythical proportions, a seaside playland of colorful amusements, Nathan’s hot dogs, roller coasters, freak shows, burlesque, and much more. Upon my arrival last Thursday evening, I knew I would finally be able to sink my toes into some sand, which I had not been able to do since I left from my winter holiday in South Florida this past January. On the long D train ride south, my feet wiggled in excitement. The ever-game TBW met me there.

 The first order of business TBW and I had was to gorge ourselves on junk food and be real Coney Island visitors, even for a short amount of time. When asking TBW where he wanted to eat, he simply replied “HOT DOGGSSS.” It was clear where we had to go. Our journey began under the flashing neon hot dog sign of Nathan’s, a renowned purveyor of hot dogs to Coney Island since 1916, with the rest of New York and even more parts of the U.S. following suit after that. Its big, green swirling letters represent a hot dog institution, really. An institution my father the hot dog maven had always made me especially aware of. In South Florida, we were lucky enough to have a few Nathan’s (Nathanses?) nearby, so I was introduced early on to the delights of crunchy, snappy salty sweet hot dogs kept like presents inside rectangular, golden yellow paper boxes. My mother also had a history with Nathan’s, telling me stories of driving all the way down from New York’s Catskill mountains with a group of friends for the sole purpose of eating a Nathan’s hot dog. Though I am by no means a junk food or fast food person, Nathan’s didn’t disappoint, and tasted just like it did when I was a kid sitting at the Broward Mall food court. With corn dogs, hot dogs, cheese fries and lemonades between us, I think Nathan’s is what Coney Island is supposed to taste like.

TBW's riflery sheet, mid-game

Post-Nathan’s, our travels took us to an area of grunge-tastic carnival games, with toothless women in their forties hocking impossible victories in the areas of riflery, horseshoes, and that thing where you try and get the ring around the swirling metal pole without touching it (though TBW did attempt the riflery challenge and was almost successful!). It was what all carnivals should be—bored teenagers running the Ferris wheel, men promising game wins to pretty underage girls, overstuffed and hopefully not flea-ridden stuffed animals that could double as lounge chairs suspended from all corners of the booths making you wonder, if you did win, where on earth you would put such a thing and how the hell to get it on the subway. I felt the remnants of a bygone era and wondered what Coney Island was like in its heyday, but was happy to appreciate it now in all of its wonderful, old-school, crusty, rusty twisted glory.

The Cyclone!

As we continued around the block, the world-famous Cyclone roller coaster appeared. Built in 1927, the track is 2,640 feet long and the whole ride takes about 1 minute and 50 seconds. Its steepest drop is 60 degrees, but it has a total of 12 drops, 16 changes of direction, and 6 180-degree turns. It was declared a New York City Landmark in 1988, and was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1991.

I had developed a taste for roller coasters as a middle schooler, when my mother told me never to ride the ones that went upside down. On a day trip to an amusement park, I went on four or more roller coasters that went upside down and had a blast. The feeling of one’s stomach rising into one’s throat on each downward plunge is almost addictive.

Though I didn’t know what kind of tricks the Cyclone was known for, I was curious about riding it—it had been years since I had a proper roller coaster ride, and there’s no time like a random Thursday night to cure that. I looked to see how much admission was--$8. Kind of a lot for a single roller coaster ride, no? But I decided it was worth it. How often do you get to ride a historic roller coaster, anyway? TBW indulged my childlike enthusiasm, and aboard we went. Squishing into hastily upholstered cars, TBW asked me, “So how old is this?”

“Old,” is all I could reply. I was a little nervous, but excited.

I would find out that the Cyclone was known for its plunges, steep dives where I felt that good old stomach-in-throat sensation. We rattled against the car as it clicked loudly on the wooden track, faces thrown back by the sheer force of movement. Don’t underestimate the power of wooden roller coasters! It was wonderful, though, and put a smile on my face that I could not unglue for about 20 minutes.

The boardwalk was next, surprisingly clean and lined with vendors selling funnel cakes, hamburgers, cotton candy, and other carnival food. An endless line of trash cans painted with different imagery of Coney Island by the eager paintbrushes of elementary school students created a kaleidoscope of painted metal down the center of the boardwalk. The sun set in front of us, making a milky pink, lavender, creamsicle and periwinkle sky. We stepped off the boardwalk and into the sand, littered with used Nathan’s napkins, beer cans, and red plastic Solo cups. It was a little sad to see a beach look this way, so I hope someone is responsible for cleaning it beyond the seemingly few who had been kind enough to clean up after themselves. Even so, it was lovely to feel the sand on my feet, to be at Coney Island feeling like an overgrown kid, smiling and pointing at all the bright colors. I imagine that’s what keeps people coming back. I’m sure the view doesn’t hurt, either. 
 

Tonight, We Dine!

Like most starving artists, I am not privy to the beauty of dining out every evening…except when TM and TF come to town. They enjoy good food, the experience of dining out, and having me along for the ride. So once every couple of months my nights are filled with sumptuous foods from all over New York. This trip, these are the places we’ve had the pleasure (and not-so-pleasure) of taking in.

Nancy Lee’s Pig Heaven

1540 2nd Avenue, Upper East Side

Nancy Lee’s is a Chinese restaurant on the Upper East Side, decorated on the outside with a sprinkling of alfresco seating and red paper lanterns. On the inside, it is pink pink pink and decorated with pigs pigs pigs, in reverence of the menu item for which it is best known—pig. In fact, it appears on the menu in the form of “Hot Pig,” “Cold Pig,” “Hot No Pig,” and “Cold No Pig,” among others. Of the most famous items for which Nancy Lee’s is known, however, are the spareribs, featured on the Travel Channel’s Food Paradise series in their Ribs episode. A connoisseur of spareribs, TF had written down Nancy Lee’s on his to-do list after TM saw it on television. I am not an active sparerib worshipper myself, mostly because I don’t like to get my hands dirty (how bourgeois, I know), but I am certainly open-minded when it comes to food. Away to Nancy Lee’s we went.

The spareribs arrived, thick strips of meaty bones reddish black and crispy, almost candied, with barbeque sauce. So far they were better than the standard sparerib fare I had seen, mere bones with a scrape or two of meat that must be gently gnawed loose with the front teeth. But these you could really bite, and bite we did. Each mouthful was sweet but not too sweet and perfectly savory. I don’t remember ever enjoying spareribs before. And TF, the rib connoisseur, was floating away on a rib-flavored cloud. After one bite, he looked at TM and I as if to say “My goose is cooked. These ribs have my heart and they’re never giving it back.” Though married to TF for 25 years, TM was quite a fan of the ribs herself and happily agreed to share him. Thankfully, though, I am not married and won’t have to split my love between the ribs and anyone else. I will doubtless be returning to Nancy Lee’s in the future.

Ed’s Lobster Bar

222 Lafayette Street, SoHo

Because the SoHo/NoLita overlap is one of my favorite places in the city, I was always walking past Ed’s Lobster Bar, a small white and yellow storefront with a bright red lobster logo, never really able to go in. At the behest of TF and TM, though, I was finally able to go this week. Done up nautically but intelligently, with white wood-paneled walls, booths and porthole-like mirrors, we made our way through the narrow restaurant and took our seats. As there are only lobster and seafood items on the menu, I plied myself with the aforementioned crustacean in the form of a lobster bisque appetizer and a lobster roll entrée. The bisque arrived, thick but not too thick, with just the perfect balance of lobster and sherry. It was accompanied by two small but mighty lobster ravioli floating in the soup, packed with shredded lobster. I swore to myself if I didn’t walk out with claws it would be a miracle. I happily made my way through the soup, leaving only the bowl, the dish, and the spoon behind. The lobster rolls were next, filled with thick chunks of tender lobster that practically overflowed from their sweet, butter-lined hot dog roll nest. The meat was dense but the roll was soft and somehow the combination melted in my mouth. Each bite of the roll was fresh, sweet magic. Though my budget does not often permit such dining, perhaps on a day when I am celebrating something wonderful or just on a day when I want to eat a fabulous lobster roll, I will be back.

Beauty and Essex

146 Essex Street, Lower East Side

I originally wanted to eat here because I thought it was cool that the restaurant had a pawn shop front, but I soon realized that would be one of the few things I liked about it. I thought the cool, grungy pawn shop vibe would be reflected in the restaurant, but I was mistaken. Filled with people who go to be seen, not necessarily to eat, the restaurant had a pretentious atmosphere that was just not for me. I had delicious merguez rigatoni, but wouldn’t eat there again unless I could get take out.

Balthazar

80 Spring Street, SoHo

I remember always hearing wonderful things about Balthazar until I was talking about the restaurant with MA as we walked through the East Village. I wondered aloud what it was like and a grumpy man walked past us and said, “Overrated.” I was disappointed to hear it, and I wondered how that could be true—it’s been so well-reviewed over and over. I finally got a chance to see for myself, though.

A well-crafted French Bistro in the heart of SoHo, upon first glance Balthazar conjures visions of an aged French brasserie, with splotchy, darkened mirrors, red leather booths, and white tablecloths. Tables are packed tightly together but still intimate. A wait without a reservation runs about an hour and a half on weeknights, probably even more on the weekends. I booked our reservation about a week in advance, just for good measure.

The food could have easily been traditional French, but what’s nice about the menu is that it takes a thoughtful spin on the classics, sometimes by adding global influences (chorizo, grits!) to their offerings. Highlights from our dinner in particular include French Onion Soup, Duck Shepherd’s Pie, and Profiteroles. Most French Onion Soups I’ve had are savory, but this soup was slightly sweet, and had a Vidalia onion flavor amplified by a creamy gruyere. TF ordered Duck Shepherd’s Pie which I decided upon tasting I would very much like to take intravenously. Tender, savory shredded duck mingled with creamy, almost puree-like potatoes, a single forkful of it melting in my mouth. Out of sheer politeness I had to stop myself from licking the plate. And then the profiteroles. Because Balthazar makes all of their own pastries (in fact, many restaurants across New York feature breads and pastries from Balthazar), I knew they would be even more delicious than they might have been normally. The profiteroles arrived, vanilla ice cream sandwiched by flaky pastry. The waiter poured warm chocolate over them. I sliced into them with the side of my fork, mashing the ice cream into the pastry a little bit more, and tasted the concoction. It was spongy and flaky, sweetly cooled by the vanilla ice cream. After each bite I felt the need to close my eyes and chew, turning my attention only to the chocolaty, pastry-y, creamy, vanilla-y parade happening in my mouth. That is what dining is supposed to be like.

If You Need Me, I'll Be on the Roof

As happens when doing laundry in an apartment building, you meet some of your neighbors. This past weekend, I met Casey, who told me a story about how he and his wife recently held a party on our roof deck. I stopped him.

“I’m sorry, our what?”

“Our roof deck. You know, you just take the stairs up from the sixth floor. You didn’t know we had one?”

No, I did not. And after living in this apartment a year, it was about damn time I did! Yesterday was my first chance to visit. A white picket fence surrounds the deck, as does a sign marking the deck’s hours (only until midnight, apparently) like a pool, and as if someone might perhaps fall in and drown if sitting up there after the witching hour. Crossing onto the brown wooden deck lifted a few inches off the actual roof floor, I sat on one of the many generously provided deck chairs and faced the sun moving toward the western sky.

I sat for an hour or so in the five o’clock sun, tiny beads of sweat beginning to dot my face, but I didn’t care. How had I gone a year without coming up here? A couple of those months would have been insanely snowbound, but still. All of those fine fall and spring (or whatever we had resembling those seasons) days could have been spent atop my roof with a jagged skyline of buildings just sweetly caressing the sky, leaving a larger patch of blue than I had seen outside of a park in a long time. I resolved to repair this rift in my roof experience and ventured up there again this evening.

Walking home from an event around 8:15pm, the sky was not yet dark. It was one of those balmy, early summer evenings where the weather says, ‘Hey, sorry about all that heat a couple days ago,’ by sweeping a cool, light breeze down each street that rustles leaves and ever so slightly rushes through your hair. People sit outside on their stoops because they can, watching the light fall further and further away.

I made it home before it was dark, thankfully, and rushed up to my roof as I had the day before. I sat, and listened to nothing, save for the occasional car horn or whoosh of traffic. Growing up in South Florida, it was nothing I wasn’t used to—in fact, if a place is too quiet it creeps me out. After a while, I realized how loud my own thoughts were, so loud in fact that I had forgotten mostly silence danced around me. I wonder if this is a step on the path to becoming a New Yorker—where you’re able to ignore and forget the noise and somehow get lost. Everything else is background, and only what’s in the present matters.

I sat up there and I looked at the buildings, lights slowly popping on in apartments as time ticked past, as if surveying my kingdom. Soft grey clouds made their way across the sky as that same cool breeze drifted past. Staring up into the skyline, I knew. This, I thought, this is what I signed up for. I had never thought New York could belong to anyone; it was too wild a spirit to ever be tied down to one person. In that moment, though, I felt more than I ever had that New York could belong to a person, and that it belonged to me. I felt invigorated and alive, that I could call something so energetic and passionate and electric my own. But I also knew the moment would be fleeting—soon New York and I would be back to our old relationship, I the lovelorn teenager and New York the uncatchable catch. I also knew that every New Yorker must have had this experience at least once. The power of that moment keeps them around, coming back for more. We know that we can never fully own the city, but for a few moments once, we did. And that was enough to bind us here forever.