What You Don't Get in New York

As a native South Floridian, I have never known a snowy or even cold Christmas-New Year's combo and every year I get more and more okay with that. In the winter, A1A, the beach road in Fort Lauderdale, is decorated with shells and starfish formed from Christmas lights. There's a giant penguin with a surfboard welcoming visitors to Fort Lauderdale Beach. I turn down Oakland Park Boulevard and breeze along with the windows down, blasting The Pointer Sisters' "Jump! (For My Love)" on the radio. The ability to do this is one of the things I miss most about South Florida, but I appreciate them so much more when I'm here.

But there are other things, of course.

Driving in JS's SUV to and from the Dadeland Mall while singing "Hotline Bling" and "All I Want For Christmas is You" at the top of our lungs. Waking up in her guestroom at 6am and looking at the view of Miami. Trying to take pictures of her dog that she calls a "lap giraffe" but failing because he doesn't stop moving. Sitting on the beach with her and wearing our big sunglasses, listening to her say things like "God help me if I see another sonogram on Facebook. Congratulations, you're giving birth to a fucking squirrel."

How JL's apartment, decorated in Jim Morrison posters and Grateful Dead wall hangings, always smells vaguely of weed. How she makes her mother's fudge every Christmas, occasionally throwing in walnuts or peppermint sticks. Drinking white sangria at the utterly epic I-Pic movie theatre and eating buffalo chicken springrolls while watching Sisters. How, even after 23 years of friendship, she still remembers things I've said even when I don't remember saying them.

When my mother makes potato latkes when I am home in December even if Hanukkah has passed. How every year I try to flip them at the right time but often end up burning myself with oil, taking them out before they're done or after they've been too done. Flipping them onto paper towels to sop up the oil so my mother has a chance to eat some herself. Watching my dad crunch into the ones that are especially crispy because those are his favorites. Doing all of this at a time like Christmas, a time when in the past we might also be out for Chinese food and a movie.

Sitting at the dinner table with my family for a meal, cutting into things I can't afford to eat in New York like steak and baked potatoes and roasted brussel sprouts. Laughing at my dad's jokes, complimenting my mother's cooking, and really meaning both of those things when I do them. How my dad always leaves a cup full of the diet soda he hasn't finished on the table when he clears his place. How my mother instructs me where everything goes in the refrigerator when we're done eating.

Tending bar on New Year's Eve, leaving out my tip jar imprinted with my alma mater for guests. I will make my dad either a piña colada or a white Russian because he's not a big drinker and only likes things that taste like dessert and are topped with whipped cream. My mother will have a Cosmopolitan in what she refers to as "my glass," her oversized martini glass spun through with turquoise. "Use the Grey Goose Orange," she'll say, "and make it VERY. COLD." And champagne. Lots of champagne. Preferably Taittinger, but Veuve Cliquot or Perrier-Jouet will do, to be drunk only by she and I from the glasses from my grandmother Evelyn's set, the short ones rimmed with gold leaf. Everyone else gets regular champagne flutes.

Sitting out by the pool in my bathing suit and reading the back issues of New York Magazine I haven't gotten to yet. Coming inside when it gets too hot and lying around the house wrapped in a towel, still in my bathing suit, then going back outside later only to repeat the process all over again until it's dark outside.

Staying up way too late with my mom watching movies on Turner Classic Movies. Going out to dinner with my dad and talking about marijuana reform, his past life in the Bronx, and "whether or not I'm seeing any men."

Brunch on Sunday morning where my mother will make something a little more complicated than cereal, like French toast or Ebelskivers. Sitting there at the table in my pajamas with my parents, looking out at ponytail palm tree in the driveway my parents have nicknamed "Maxx II," after "Maxx I" was replaced a few years ago.

Trying to turn correctly out of the curved driveway but having to instead attempt it two or three times, rolling over the grass and maybe even hitting the house before I do it correctly. Not getting it right until the day before I leave, rolling my eyes at myself at how terrible a driver I am. Being proud of myself for never hitting the mailbox, chiding myself for hitting the neighbors' bushes covered in Christmas lights.

Doing my laundry in my parents' washer and dryer and not having to pay for it. Wearing clean jeans on the plane home after folding everything else neatly in my suitcase. Making my bed, or doing my best to do it, before I leave so my mother doesn't have to reach too much. Kissing my parents goodbye, saying "Bye Maw, Bye Paw," before I head into the airport and come back to New York.

Good Dates, Part II

It seems to be that time of year where we are all doing our best to tide ourselves over with the drunken evenings or brunches that define our friendships before we're resigned to spending time with our families for the next week or two. Fine by me.

SJT

Having mistaken the time we were to meet for dinner by a full hour, I am a half-hour late to meet SJT and my brain is falling out of my head. I am many things but a flake is not one of them, so I am instantly forgiven. Nevertheless, we meet at a different restaurant than we originally intended, one closer to a train we'll need later in the evening, but it's just as lovely. We avail ourselves of Nepali soups (dal, a lentil soup, for me and chasha thang, a shredded chicken and corn soup, for me) and sha momo (beef and herb dumplings) at Cafe Himalaya on 1st Avenue and 1st Street and make it to our next destination, an opera house in Brooklyn, in plenty of time.

I have written this before, but perhaps one of my favorite things in the world is to go to the opera with SJT. A dramaturg, opera writer, and self-described "opera queen," he affords me deep insights into an arts field I'm not the most familiar with, so even if I don't particularly enjoy the opera, I've learned so much about it that the evening is never a waste. Such was the experience we had on this jaunt to the Gowanus-ish neighborhood in the wilds of Brooklyn, where we saw an opera in English of which I didn't understand a word. First I thought it was me, that perhaps I was so dense about opera and that my ears just didn't work. Thankfully, though, this was not the case--SJT shared with me there were incredible problems with the diction in the show and I was so happy when, during intermission, he shared with me the story of what was actually going on. I did like that the company featured performers with gorgeous voices who were our age--so often, SJT tells me, there are 50-some-odd year-olds who will play teenagers just because their voices are so much more well-developed and, well, they're stars so who wouldn't want to come see them. But the younger age of the cast I think lends itself to expanding the notion of who opera can be for. Next time they just need a better director, or maybe even a dramaturg like SJT.

On the train back, we are both feeling nibbly, so we stop into one of my favorite haunts, the Olive Tree Cafe on Macdougal Street in the West Village, for babaganush and chicken wings. By the end of the evening my eyelids are drooping, but that's how you know you've had a full, and fully marvelous evening.

MS

On a Wednesday night at around 8:45pm, I see a text from MS. "What are you doing tonight?" he says. Having just come back from yoga, I didn't really have any plans other than to shower and lope around the house in my sweatpants. I wrote this to him. It turns out his parents had tickets to a gala at the Neue Galerie, a museum of 20th century German and Austrian art. It ended at 9:30pm. Could I make it? he asked. I hemmed and hawed probably for a little too long before I said, Oh hell, I'll give it a shot. Worst comes to worst, I said to him, we'll just grab a bite and have to actually talk to each other. I threw on a cocktail dress, smeared some eyeliner on my face and raced a razor over my legs before hopping into first heels, then a coat, then a cab to hustle to the museum. I got there at 9:35 and the girls at the front door were like, "Uh, I guess you can come in..." Thanks, guys. People were in line for their coats and the bar had closed. And I didn't really care at all because I'd still get to spend time with my friend just the same. MS got his coat and we hobbled (rather, I, in heels, hobbled) over to Bocado on 87th and Lexington for late-night vittles. We dipped bread in olive oil and I tried valiantly to stab a brussel sprout with a fork but to no avail, while we chatted about dating and MS's potential move to Nashville. We ended up shutting the restaurant down, the lights turning from dim to bright as the clock reached a certain hour and we parted ways.

RaGo

"Wanna see a Broadway show with me?" RaGo asked.

There are few things that I will drop all planned activities for, perhaps none more than an activity like this. I was raised going to the theatre--when I was growing up, my mother got tickets to almost any show that came through South Florida: Fiddler on the Roof, Chicago, Cabaret, Cats, you name it--but strangely, now that I live in New York, mecca of theatre that it is, I hardly ever go. I simply cannot afford the ticket prices, so I usually only go when my parents come to town because that's one of their favorite activities. But RaGo had a gift certificate to the TKTS booth in Times Square that was soon to expire, and she had been kind enough to think of me to accompany her on her theatrical sojourn for the day. I of course agreed, and we met on the TKTS line at 10am on a Sunday morning. A line had in fact already formed though the booth would not open until 11am. We were in line with many a backpacked out-of-towner, their Midwestern or Australian accents giving them away. I realize now that I may have appeared as a city dweller, as the woman behind me began asking me for recommendations while I was waiting for RaGo. This fills me with pride as I write this, and a small smile crosses my face. Anyway, once Rachel arrives we gossip and then decide what our top shows would be. It's her birthday present, and her top choice is An American in Paris which as a huge dance nerd I am more than excited to see. We luck out with a crisp, 60-degree weather day, so waiting is not an issue; though I can't imagine what it would be like in the summer or in the depths of winter. Sheesh.

Once the booth opens, we are in and out in 15 minutes, with incredible orchestra seats to a Broadway show for a relative pittance. We squeal joyfully for about a minute, then RaGo says, "Now let's get out of this hellhole." It's true, Times Square is most definitely the bane of most New Yorkers' existence, but it also allowed us to get these amazing seats at unheardof prices, so it's a give and take.

We go for coffee at Kahve in Hell's Kitchen and then brunch at the ever-delightful BarBacon, where we stuff ourselves with mimosas and bacon-laced treats like a corn torta (she) and a BLT with sunny-side up egg and avocado (me). Pleasantly filled, we then head over to the theatre and our fantastic seats therein. The choreography, by Christopher Wheeldon, is so beautiful I well up several times watching it. After intermission we just look at each other. I squeal and she goes, "I KNOW!" We are having a blast watching dance together, a sheer delight I only rarely get to share with my friends. The second half is just as swoonworthy, and I well up again, not only loving what I'm seeing but feeling honored that RaGo wanted to share this day and her birthday present with me. We hug and part ways and, feeling particularly sappy, I listen to George Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" as I walk down Fifth Avenue.

Good Dates, Part I

I've said it before and I'll say it again: sometimes the best dates you'll ever go on are the ones you go on with your friends.

RD
RD and meet in Chelsea at around 4pm. We drink tea and talk about boys who kiss us, who don't kiss us, and who kiss us strangely. He slices an edge off of his almond croissant for me because I tell him I'm not eating dessert again until the holidays but he wants me to try it anyway. It's delicious, and I wish I could eat the whole thing.

We make our way to New York Live Arts, where one of my favorite modern choreographers, Sonya Tayeh, is exhibiting the piece she's been working on as a part of a residency at the space. The dancers wear black and the space is almost grey with low light. They flick their legs and arch their backs in time to interviews set to music, where Sonya talks about the aftermath of coming out to her mother, who has barely spoken to her since. Afterward, Sonya sits quietly for a talkback with the audience, musicians Jo Lampert and duo The Bergsons, and Janet Eilber, Artistic Director of the Martha Graham Dance Company. Sonya's hair is long and thick, shaved on the sides of her head. She wears pieces in long, draping black. RD notices how her gestures when she speaks are a dance on their own, long, lithe fingers moving perfectly in time to the music of her speech. I always like seeing dance with people who aren't dancers because they notice things like that.

After Sonya, we head to dinner at Mizu, one of the spots RD usually goes for lunch. We eat soup and sushi and talk about gender inequality in the workplace. I nibble at his black cod sushi in miso dressing and wish I had ordered it myself. He tries to get me to order dessert again, cocking his eyebrow at me mischievously. I want the green tea mochi, but I drink water instead. Somehow he forgives me, and we bundle ourselves into our coats for a brief stop at Flying Tiger. The store is originally Danish, and is kind of the Ikea of home decor--tea towels for $3, funny cocktail napkins for $1, a set of magnets for $2, and so on--where it might fall apart but at least it looks cute for a while first. It turns out we've arrived 10 minutes to closing, but the store's bright lights still welcome us and nobody shoos us away.  The store has a path you have to follow to go through it, so you end up seeing everything and snatching up what you like along the way. I end up with some kitchen cloths patterned with hearts and red lip magnets that I will immediately come home later and neatly place on my fridge.

We part ways soon after, each of us heading uptown on different sides of the island. "This has been such a nice evening!" he says. "I thought I was just going to do the requisite, 'Hi, I miss you, your hair is gorgeous' and then leave, but this is so much better."

HanOre
HanOre and I always have a fantastic evening, but this evening was made even better by an adventure to a hole-in-the-wall joint for one of the best meals I've had since moving to New York. I had taken my Sunday slow, spending most of my time in my neighborhood, and wanted to explore. Someplace new, someplace unusual! Casa Adela, a Puerto Rican restaurant in Alphabet City, had been on my radar for a long time, but probably out of sheer laziness I never made the trek to 5th Street and Avenue C to actually try it. Sunday night, though, seemed like the perfect opportunity, so I asked Han if she wanted to try it and she agreed. What better way to spend the first night of Hanukkah, we reasoned. The restaurant is almost literally a hole in the wall, with only five or six tables and bright fluorescent lights. Signs behind the counter are all written in Spanish, and stacks of Goya juices still in their bulk cardboard containers sit right in front of it. We wait for a table, but as we'll learn it was well worth the wait.

The waitress asks us for our order in Spanish, so I respond in kind. We both order Pernil Asado--roast pork--yellow rice and cual tipo de frijoles, what type of beans? Frijoles negros, por favor. Black beans, please. Y a beber? Solo agua, por favor. Muchas gracias. My Spanish comes back to me in waves, often very rocky at the start then much smoother at the end. By the time the food arrives we are ravenous, and dig in almost immediately. We are each given a giant plate of yellow rice and a teacup of black beans to pour onto it first. Then shortly after arrive two small plates of roast pork. It has that gorgeous reddened exterior flecked with seasoning and I can tell just by looking at it that's juicy. I'm able to slice into it smoothly and when I pop it into my mouth, I realize part of my food life has thus far been missing. We both MMMMM audibly while we eat and just stop talking because it's taking away from the eating experience. It is, in fact, juicy--bursts of salt pop in my mouth and combine with the juices and I think this is the right time to use the expression "I literally cannot even"? We sit in stunned silence, continuing to eat, and then soon, sadly, it's over. At least for me. I haven't eaten since the early morning and have destroyed the plate of pork. I am envious of Han, who will have her leftovers for lunch tomorrow. But I will have my memories! *swoons, faints, dies, is reborn again as a plate of Pernil Asado*

Mouths still watering, we pop into Lois at Han's recommendation. It's a wine bar just a block away, on C between 6th and 7th. All of the wine is on tap--but don't worry, the taps have been engineered to prevent oxidation and maintain the wine's original tastes--and you can order in a variety of sizes: glass, carafe, and so on. What's interesting about Lois, named for its Avenue C (Loisaida Ave) location, is that it's also a no-tipping bar; the price of gratuity and tax are both included in whatever you get. The very friendly bartender allows us to taste a few varietals before we settle on our choices, too. We both choose something light, dry and fruity then sidle up to a corner booth and talk about the book Han is writing, the books other people are writing, and the couple next to us who we think are on a first date.

Pork and wine? Sounds like a good way to spend Hanukkah to me.

Wildlife

It was about 1am on Thanksgiving, when the blinds moved in my mother's bedroom, at my parents' house in Florida. At first we thought nothing of it. We were watching Milk Money, that awesome movie where Melanie Griffith plays a hooker who ends up in the suburbs and falls in love with science teacher Ed Harris. But then it happened again. And it wasn't a "it was the wind"-kind of movement. It was the movement the blinds used to make when our dearly departed cat would walk through them. Something living was behind the blinds.

We didn't know what to do--what if it was something poisonous??--but eventually my mom, brave as she is, went and opened the blind, and I saw it. A slimy little brown frog, half the size of the palm of my hand, was clinging to one of the white blinds for dear life, its little frog toes spread out like one of those sticky hands you used to get for 25 cents in hard plastic bubbles from vending machines.

Growing up in South Florida, I had become accustomed, as we all do, to all manner of bugs, reptiles,  and other strange, tropical creatures, but I never, ever got used to frogs. They make my heart thump in fear the way no other animal does. Upon seeing the creature in the house, my mom and I both gasped, and I definitely screamed like a little girl. I had only visions of the story my mother once told me of one of these frogs that had sprayed poison out of its mouth and killed my aunt's dog some 40 years ago. I didn't know if it was one of these frogs, neither of us did, but we knew we didn't want to get close to it or touch it. As my mother opened the blind to get closer, the frog leapt onto the ground. I screamed again as it bounded through the air, probably more scared of us than we were of it. It made its way toward my mother's closet, and I immobilized by fear. "Shit," my mother said. "I really don't want your father to put on his shoes tomorrow morning and step in frog." She was far less scared than I was. But the frog had disappeared into the closet. "Put on the light!" I said to her. I sat up on the bed and we both looked at the closet, waiting for it to come out. When eventually the frog stepped into the closet's pool of light, it stayed for a moment and, reflexes barely able to catch up with my brain, I threw an old blanket in its general direction and miraculously the blanket landed right on top of it. "Good show, Lyss!" my mother said, only to follow it with, "But what do we do now?"

We stared down at the blanket. My mother sat down for a second to catch her breath. We didn't want to kill the thing, we just wanted it out of the house. How on earth did the damned thing get in here, anyway? The occasional gecko on the house's exterior we were used to, but they were always outside and totally harmless.

There was an extra square of carpet in the closet, close to the blanketed frog. "Why don't we make a, uh, sort of sandwich?" I suggested, moving the carpet square under the blanket. My mother did this, wrapping the whole thing in a towel and moving toward the door. She threw the whole thing on the ground outside and slowly the frog emerged and casually hopped away into the night, as if nothing ever happened.

--

Friday night is a different kind of wildlife encounter. J, Z and I are at Lagniappe, a bar of sorts in Miami. They have both since moved to the area from their previous homes closer to me, so I am seeing their lives down here for the first time, the creatures in their natural habitat, if you will. Lagniappe is their usual haunt--good for both dates and hangouts with friends, they tell me. It is not a regular bar, but in a good way--in front of the cash registers, there are both refrigerators (with white wines/bubbles) and wine racks (red wines), where you purchase a bottle and you're given glasses. Then, you go outside to the space's massive patio that's attired with patio furniture leftover from Hurricane Andrew and lit up with strings of those yellow lightbulb lights and you find a table. Barely any two chairs or tables are alike, and they're all sort of pushed together in different corners of the patio in a sort of perfect chaos. Even so, there are some tables you don't want, J tells me--of one that's empty but in a very high-traffic area, she tells me if you sit there you get everyone's butt rubbed against your head. Not really what either of us were looking for this evening. We find another in a corner that overlooks the entire patio. It's booming with people, all sitting and enjoying their wine and plates of meats and cheese. We observe, making shady comments about the people around us, often punctuated with exclamations like, "Gurrrrrrrrrl," and "Oh NO, bitch. Oh NO." It's just like old times.

The crowd gathering for the five-minute rainstorm.

At one point, tiny droplets begin falling from the sky. First they're small enough to ignore, a light sprinkling, but then the drops get heavier, louder. Everyone either stays put or gathers under the bar's large overhang, but nobody leaves because we all know it's South Florida, it will be over in five minutes. And surely enough, it is. We sit down, seats a little wet but nothing drastic, and resume our discussion.

Eventually we embark on our own meat and cheese platter. Just as with the wine, you pick out your meats and cheeses and pay for them, then the kitchen assembles them for you on a platter with sliced baguette, jam, and olives if you so desire. I chose black truffle pecorino, drunken goat, and brie alongside capicola and proscuitto, and they were soon given back to me, blooming gorgeously on a silver tray. I carried it off back to our table and we dug in. In between three or four bottles of wine we discuss the trials and tribulations of dating as a twenty-something in the Tinder/Grindr/texting era and gossip about people we went to high school with. So, yes, it's just like old times, but with more wine.

--

The day I am leaving Florida, the blinds overlooking the backyard are open. Standing there in the grass like a statue is a bright green iguana that's about two feet long. It has spiky fringe on the back of its head and dark scales around its long-clawed feet. It is positively prehistoric, and it's just hanging out in my backyard. Don't get a whole lot of that in the big city, I think to myself, recalling the pigeons and rats that make up New York's "wildlife." There was an iguana by the house one other time a few years ago, a lime green thing clinging to the screen on the exterior of the house, but it was skinny and small in comparison. This one now was definitely a small dinosaur. I snapped a bunch of pictures, shaking my head in disbelief. Only in South Florida.

The Things That Scare Us

People always say it takes guts to go after the things you want, and I think that's true, but I also think it takes a certain level of blindness, an inability to see or understand the implications of what you're trying to accomplish.

I find myself constantly afflicted with this aforementioned blindness, though usually, thankfully, it seems to work out in my favor. I think because if you do have that blindness, a negative response to your actions doesn't really phase you. So maybe bad things have happened when I've blindly gone after the things I've wanted, but I've just never noticed them. What's that saying about ignorance being bliss? And what on earth am I talking about?

In the past, people have asked me how I've been able to do certain things--how did you get so-and-so to appear at your reading? How did you get your article in such-and-such publication? "Well," I always say, "I just asked." There's really no big secret to it. On many of these occasions, I have been blind to negative outcomes and I just do what I want to do. If it doesn't work out, okay; or, in the immortal words of my mother, "NEXT!"

Such was the case again this week when I was presented with an interesting dilemma--there was an article from the February 5, 1985 issue of The Village Voice I wanted to read as a reference for an article I was working on for another publication, and I couldn't find it online. The piece, titled "I Spy," was written by famed former Voice film critic J. Hoberman, Jim to friends. I contacted him and asked if he had a copy I could read. I didn't think there was anything really special about doing this. I guess my mother had also told me to simply go to the top first, and if that person can't help you, then try someone else. So I went to the source, and to my delight, he responded in the affirmative--yes, he did have a copy I could read, but he didn't have a scanner. Could he mail it to me? Or, he said, I could find the Village Voice archives at the NYU Bobst Library. If he mailed it to me, the piece wouldn't get to me until after my deadline. Would I be able to meet him in person? I asked. I would be glad to get him a coffee or whatever pastry his heart desired as thanks. While I waited for his response via email, I called up the libraries just in case he wasn't available.

It turns out I could only go to Bobst Library if I had an NYU student ID (nope), an NYU alumni ID (also nope...and neither did HanOre, an actual alum, so I couldn't even borrow it), or permission from the New York Public Library in the form of what's called a METRO pass to use Bobst--meaning that whatever I needed was not available in the NYPL system so I, sad and pathetic researcher that I am, had no place left to turn except Bobst and they would take pity on me. So, before wandering down that path, I called up the NYPL--did they have what I need in microfilm? No--they only had the July to December issues of the Voice, or so it seemed. Well, that was one element crossed off my list. Now it was time to call Bobst, to see if my treasure was buried in their microfilm...and it turns out it wasn't there either. Jim was now my only hope.

And to my delight, he was available. We would meet for coffee. "See you there then," he wrote. "I'm a grizzled guy with glasses." I chuckled.

*

"Hi Jim, I'm here outside of the Anthology Film Archives in a leopard coat and cowboy boots. Thanks again for meeting me today, and I'll see you soon!" is probably on the list of the most "me" things I have ever said. 

But I am easy to spot (no pun intended), and shortly Jim appears, in a maroon beanie and black leather jacket pinned with some kind of band button I can't decipher. His beard matches his self- description and I appreciate his self-awareness. We attempt one coffee shop, but it's full so we try another. Shortly I have a latte in his hands and a tea in my own and we are sitting and chatting. He takes out a padded folder and removes his piece, a perfect photocopy, and hands it to me. After all of the library-calling and emailing, it feels less like a treasure map and more like the treasure itself. I am so excited to read it, but I am also excited to chat with him about his work and the golden age of The Village Voice. He tells stories and laughs and we talk about freelance writing, and it's a lovely time. He shares details of his life--his teaching gigs at Cooper Union and, soon, Columbia; his past and forthcoming books; growing up in Queens--and asks me about mine. I am honored that he has been kind enough to take an audience with me, but also that he is interested in my own life. On our way out, I ask him if he hates it when people ask if he's "seen any good movies lately." He does, he laughs, then we shake hands and part ways. He says he is interested in reading my piece when it comes out.

This is where the blindness comes in for me, I think. I didn't just say, Jim Hoberman, legendary and accomplished film critic, I am going to ask you to coffee! I just said, here's some research I need to do, and this is how I'm going to get it done.

So yes, Jim was the film critic at The Village Voice for almost 25 years; he has written several books about film, has taught at Cooper Union, Harvard, NYU and, shortly, Columbia; and he has twice served on the board of the New York Film Festival; and, as he writes in his website biography, "the thing of which he’s most proud is surviving for over 35 years in New York without the benefit of a normal job." But he's still a person, as we all are. We all put on our pants the same way. Some of us have just been putting them on for longer and in more distinguished places, but those of us who haven't have the opportunity to catch up and get there, too.

And this is not to say that I haven't been scared meeting other people in the past. I was notably fearful about what kind of salad I should order while having lunch with James Wolcott. But I was still there--courage is not the absence of fear, after all; it is acting in spite of it. 

I am scared of so many things, often without reason--failure, butter, rejection, every time I pitch Vogue, texting guys I am dating, mayonnaise--but I try to notice what scares me, recognize the fear is holding me back and do it anyway. Eat the butter, text the guy, pitch Vogue, fail, get rejected, then get back up and do it all again.

I guess if you ask me how end up doing certain things, if I am ever scared, this has been the very long-winded version of my answer. I just never let fear stop me.

The photocopy of Jim's piece

Engaging

For their first date, Addison and Aggie were supposed to get hot cocoa and meet in Central Park, but due to rain they had to make other plans. Today though, a few years after they met, hot cocoa wasn't exactly on the menu.

Addison had initially reached out to our mutual friend Cassandra to see if she would take surprise engagement photos of them in Central Park, but she had recently moved to Stockholm. She was kind enough, however, to refer Addison to me. Would I be interested in taking on such a project? I definitely was.

The beautiful vastness of Central Park and the fact that I had never actually met Addison and Aggie became our dilemmas. How would we be able to meet up so I could photograph them and capture the big moment, while still recognizing them and not being seen? I would take some time to plan and plot. I felt a rush of my inner James Bond.

"If you can pick out a particular entrance of the park you'd like to go through, I could be there and I can let you both walk past me, then just begin casually strolling behind you after a few minutes, secret agent-style," I wrote to him. My fingers trembled with excitement and anticipation as I even wrote the words. We'd have to be totally stealth, but if it worked out, it would be amazing. He could text me selfies of he and Aggie under the guise of posting them online so I knew what they were wearing. I would do the same back to him, and tell him exactly where I would be standing so Addison and I would see each other, then I'd know to follow him into the park. We ultimately decided to meet outside the Museum of Natural History.

Even as I write this now, a week later, my heart beats faster. I couldn't sleep the night before. There were so many variables out of my control. What if the bus broke down on my way there? What if their train got stuck? What if Aggie wanted to stop inside the museum? What if I sneezed too loud as they walked past and she noticed me? I tossed and turned all night.

I set my text ringer very loud so the next morning when Addison texted me, I'd be on the move. Around 9:30, he assured me everything was going to plan. Not too long after, I got pictures of he and Aggie. She was wearing a long, light pink coat and he was wearing a grey puffy vest. I'd have no trouble noticing them.

And then, my checklist to myself began. Did I charge all my batteries? Yes. Did I have enough room on my memory card? Yes. Did I have every lens I'd need? Yes. I was originally going to use the longest lens I had, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself--a very long lens protruding from a very short person's face and/or frame is by no means stealth--so I went with my second longest, the one I had used before I had the other one. If it worked on ballerinas far away at Lincoln Center, after all, it would work for Addison and Aggie.

And then what would I wear? I had to be noticeable enough so Addison would see me, but inconspicuous enough that Aggie wouldn't think twice about some chick leaning on a street corner. It was not the day for my favorite leopard coat, in other words. I decided on a black sweater and black jeans with an army green jacket, tan high-tops, and a black beanie. I carried my gear in a green leather bag. I'd blend in perfectly with the scenery. I texted Addison photos so he'd know what I looked like, too.

I arrived probably way too early, but I decided I'd rather be chilled out and waiting for them then scrambling to get there. Texts from Addison were on schedule, though at one point they got on the wrong train and had to come back around to the right stop. Texts resumed after they got off the train. They were now rounding the south end of the museum. I kept my eye out for a pink coat as I leaned, rather shadily, if do say so myself, on a gate on the corner of 80th and Central Park West. Then I saw the coat. I made eye contact with Addison. It was on.

They crossed Central Park West and headed down into the park. I was a cool distance away from them until they rounded a bend but turned back around and walked right back to me. The sidewalk had ended and led into the street, so they had simply moved in another direction to actually get into the park. My innards melted. NOOOOOOO! my brain screamed. I HAVE FAILED. I stood immobile and, by the grace of RuPaul, remembered the millennial stereotype of always being in your phone like an asshole. In a swift movement I reached into my bag for my phone as they were stepping back past me and tapped on the screen indiscriminately until they were safely far enough away from me to not notice. MISSION RESUMED. No failure to speak of. Addison was totally casual and never made eye contact with me, bless his soul.

I had assumed a safe distance again, and my lens length was perfect. Every so often Aggie would turn around and marvel at nature and I would slowly turn away from her, pretending to take pictures of trees. I felt my heart pound, like at any moment she would notice me, turn to Addison and say, why is that strange girl in all neutrals taking pictures of us? At various points I darted into bushes and pressed myself up against trees and warily rounded corners so I would remain unseen. I followed them into various paths, over the Oak Bridge and into the Ramble. We went up and down stone steps, through which my brain cried out, knowing full well my propensity toward falling, Do not trip, you idiot! Keep your limbs together just once for the sake of their engagement!


As we crossed up the stones and deeper into the park, another couple maneuvered in between us. Who the hell are you? I wanted to say. Get out of here, you fools, Addison and Aggie are trying to get engaged! But eventually, thankfully, the couple disappeared. Addison led Aggie to a beautiful area covered in almost a canopy of fall leaves in gorgeous colors. They stopped walking and Addison turned to her. THIS IS IT, I thought. THIS IS THE MOMENT. My hands shook and my shutter snapped wildly as Addison got down on one knee and Aggie's hand flew over her mouth. I caught it all. She said yes, and they kissed, and she jumped into his arms. My heart rate slowed. Addison waved for me to come out and I said hello and congratulations and gave hugs and took more pictures. Addison explained I had been there the whole time. "You're so sneaky!" Aggie exclaimed. She had  no idea the engagement was coming, but Addison had been planning it for months. They laughed and smiled and danced like Drake in "Hotline Bling."

We did a couple of posed shots near the lake and the skyline. In between shots, Addison told Aggie that the ring had 26 stones in it, one for each year it took for her to get to him. My brain sputtered and died and I'm really happy I held together a speck of professionalism and didn't start weeping into my viewfinder. They are such lovely people and I wish them a lifetime of happiness (and thanks so much for letting me write about this on the blog, guys!). It was such an incredible experience to be a part of this once-in-a-lifetime moment, and I will always cherish it. Congratulations again!

St. Marks is Dead

Whenever I would come to visit New York as a teenager or college student, a visit to St. Marks Place was always on my list. I had no good reason why, usually; no specific place I wanted to go or thing I wanted to see, but I knew the street was important. I've written before about my longstanding love affair with punk, and I knew St. Marks was one of the streets the punks frequented--I think part of me just always wanted to tread the same ground as they did, to feel the pulse of creative dissonance running under my feet as they had felt it.

To the uninitiated, St. Marks Place is in the East Village, between 3rd Avenue and Avenue A, in Manhattan; it is technically "8th Street" but nobody in their right mind calls it that (unless you are my friend Dan who is visiting from Boston and when he said it I think I visibly winced in pain). It has, as author Ada Calhoun points out in her new book St. Marks is Dead which comes out November 2 from W. W. Norton, often been a cultural hub of the neighborhood if not also lower Manhattan and even Manhattan in general. In this cultural history, Calhoun shows us the constantly changing lives of the street, the births and deaths of each experience of living there even before the street itself existed. St. Marks, one sees after reading her book, is always dying because it is always being born again.

People who lived on the street know the magic of it, too. In fact, one time I was reading the book on the train a woman peered over my shoulder. She had a grey pixie cut, gold glasses, a brown trench coat, skinny jeans and ballet flats and said to me in a German accent, "St. Marks! You know I used to live there! I should read that book." Calhoun writes in the book that for some people St. Marks is a place you live at a certain time in your life, either your best or your worst, and once you leave you don't return for fear of either not living up to those memories or having to relive them. This woman's experience seemed to be positive, though, and I of course recommended the book to her.

The book is one close to Calhoun's heart, one imagines, because she herself is from the street. She was raised there in the 1970s, often considered one of the most dangerous times to be living in the city in the last 50 years. While she shares some of her experiences of these moments in the book, she is still an appreciative narrator, one who inspires further adoration of St. Marks and its history in the reader, especially this reader, who is a raging postmodern history nerd at her core.

Calhoun narrates the history of the street through vignette-like stories she's uncovered, almost like buried treasure or precious jewels, from what is undoubtedly years of intense (and probably fascinating to conduct! I was jealous of all of the documents she was likely able to read and people she was able to talk to to tell each story) research. Through the tales she shares of everything from German boating tragedies to anarchist crust-punks, she reveals the ever-evolving lives of the street she calls America's Hippest. She writes in such an engaging manner that every era of history she covers, from the disrupted lives of the Native American Lenape tribe who populated the area in the 1600s to the bustling "Little Tokyo" as the street is now known, is equally enchanting. While I don't consider myself a revolutionary history buff, I was on the edge of my seat, nose buried in the middle of the book on the 6 train downtown, as Calhoun narrated to me the growth and decline of Peter Stuyvesant's empire.

What's also wonderful about St. Marks is Dead is that the snippets of history Calhoun chooses to share connect to a person's general knowledge of American culture or history, almost filling in the gaps and allowing one to experience "a-ha!" or "lightbulb" moments while one is on public transit, smiling and nodding to oneself, "I see what you did there! Look at you!" One moment in particular for me was when she writes about the Beastie Boys hanging out on St. Marks at Tish and Snooky's Manic Panic, one of the original punk stores on the street. Like, oh, casual, this group of kids idolizing these punk chicks on the street before they became a legendary punk/rap crew. The book is full of moments like these, of the famous and infamous casually spending their time on St. Marks simply because that's where the cool people were and that's why they wanted to be there.

Something else I loved was seeing some of the places or figures from the latter end of the century are still around, like "Mosaic Man" Jim Power whose mosaics still line the streets in the East Village and have for decades, or Gem Spa, the ages-old bodega/egg creamery which Calhoun notes was actually the background of photo on a New York Dolls album (I'm ashamed I didn't know that myself!). And then there are those I got to see before they closed/were removed/became something else, like the black cube sculpture Alamo at the corner of 4th Avenue, Kim's Video, Yaffa Cafe.

Even in the short time I've lived here in New York I've seen St. Marks change. I've seen noodle houses exchanged for new, trendy bars and my favorite, independently-owned frozen yogurt shop go the way of the wind; I signed the petition for St. Marks Bookshop to keep its lease, though it eventually moved instead of just closing; I've eaten at Korean dessert shops that just opened new locations and drunk half-price cocktails at a Thai restaurant that has since closed due to health violations. Like every New Yorker, I have a vision of the street in my head as I walk down it; I can picture where so many of the places Calhoun mentions are or once were. It's difficult to feel like you're a part of New York's history--the city is so big, filled with so many people who are doing amazing and interesting things--but then you see in histories like Ada Calhoun's St. Marks is Dead things that you too have experienced along with so many others, and it makes you feel like you matter, like you're not just another notch on New York's proverbial bedpost.

If you want to learn more about New York and about American culture, then this book is definitely for you. But then, of course, so is a walk down St. Marks.

You can also come see Ada Calhoun read at the December Miss Manhattan Non-Fiction Reading on Monday, December 7! Stay tuned for more information.