Having a car in NYC is by all standards, a luxury. I would venture to say having a car in general these days is a luxury, as only the well-to-do seem to be able to afford to fill the tank on a regular basis. (Is it just me, or our lives becoming more and more expensive, while our paychecks are staying the absolute same?)
In any case, we joined the ranks of the spoiled last fall when we bought our Subaru Outback. We consider this the best NE car one can drive. 4 Wheel Drive for crazy NE winter trips to Vermont and other Northern climbs, and plenty of space in back for the tent, sleeping bags and car camping if it comes to it. Rack on top for bikes if we get around to buying them…all this and it insures like a car, not an SUV. I think filling our tank costs us half as much as our SUV driving amigos pay.
Our little luxury hasn’t caused us much angst, and no regret. We have parking in front of our building, and it’s been no trouble dealing with alternate side street parking. The only problem with having something you care about that is “expensive” is that other people don’t value it as much as you, and think nothing about leaving a ding in your door, scrapes on the sides, and near-misses on the highway. We have learned that cab drivers aren’t afraid to nudge your car out of the way using their car, because in a city of “no fault accidents”, they aren’t responsible for any damage they may cause to your car. As if we needed more reasons to hate on Taxis and their drivers.
Well, other than a major fender bender (read: fender removal) caused by a FED EX driver backing into our parked car (insurance dealt with this nicely) the only other set back our Outback has caused would be parking tickets. These are par for the course here in New York – unclear street signage combined with the car population and limited space just means that it’s inevitable that you’ll be paying “the man” a little extra every couple of months.
My suggestion to car owners in NYC, just pay the tickets – no matter how unjustly they were doled out. Pay them immediately. Or the following could happen to you:
The Mr. came home early on Monday, and sent me a text asking “did you move the car this morning? It’s not where I remember it being.” No, I hadn’t moved the car, and after a call to our local precinct, we determined that the City Marshall had moved our car, on the back of a tow truck. Because of 3 outstanding parking tickets. The City Marshall apparently periodically makes the rounds, street by street, running plates looking for delinquencies. All this to show there is a “Zero Tolerance” for unpaid parking tickets. (I wont get into my thoughts on this, and the countless moving violations I see on a regular basis in this city, which could ultimately cause harm or take a life. I wont get into that.)
Let me just skip to the part where I tell you about our amazing day yesterday.
The three outstanding tickets, after accumulating interest and being “settled upon” by the city amounted to about $350. The towing fee another $200. Now tack on another $200 in surcharges, daily storage fees (even though our car wasn’t held for even 24 hours, it counted as two days – the day they towed it, and the day we picked it up), operation fees, and sales tax (were we sold something?) and you have the grand total that we had to pay in order to get our car back; about $750.
What we found out was that even if we HAD paid our tickets within the last month, it would fail to show up in the records. So the car would have been towed anyway, and we would have to pay the “settlement” fee again. Yes, we would be reimbursed, but only after a court hearing. We also found out that if we had been on vacation, say for 3 weeks, when the car was towed, we not only would have come home to find our car removed, but also sold – as any car left over 3 weeks is auctioned off…
So first, we took a 30 minute train ride to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn to the City Marshall’s office to give them our blood money.
Then we went from Bay Ridge to Williamsburg – 2 trains, and about 3 additional walking miles away to pick up the car. It was raining all day yesterday. That made the walking extra fun.
Once we retrieved the car, and luckily found it in the condition we left it in, we were given a sheet of paper to put on the dash for the next month that tells any City Marshall happening by that our car has already been towed. The reason we have to leave it there for a month is because that’s apparently how long it takes for them to process our payment.
By day’s end, the Mr. and I both felt prison-raped, and cast aside as worthless, and felt the need to get tetanus shots and AIDS tests.
While the ultimate lesson in all of this is obvious (pay the stupid tickets when you get them) I think the real message is this: This city will try to “f” you up the “a” every chance it gets, so maybe we should all just go live off the grid in a lean-to with a stockpile of guns, in New Hampshire where we can “Live Free or Die”, and we can be buddies with the Sherriff and the Marshall and they wont punish us for the luxury of owning a car.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Hay Fever and Heels
Spring has sprung in the big Crabby-Apple. Early signs of its arrival are, in no particular order:
-Sudden torrential rain storms (that usually shut down the subways)
-Fun, funky galoshes
-Beautiful blooming trees
-Airborne pollen
-Sexy strappy sandals
One rite of passage some New York women subscribe to is the self inflicted torture of wearing highly uncomfortable shoes as often as possible. Spring and summer provide the enhanced opportunity to add sweat and city soil (read: "Soylent Grey") to the already laborious task of teetering in spikes, wedges and platforms over pot holes and cobble stone streets. Some cultures encourage their women to wear a burka, and some women wear wigs in public to show their modesty and devotion to their god. Many women in our culture perform a modernized foot-binding ritual known as the spike, pointy-toed heel.
I am one such woman. Why, you the reasonable reader, may ask?
Well, there’s the impractical answer:
“They make my legs look longer”
The obvious;
“They make me taller”
The unlikely;
“I like pain”
The unreasonable;
“I’m going out later”
The pathetic;
“Men notice me”
And the absurd;
“I want to be Carrie Bradshaw”
And I suppose all of the above are partly true. But mostly, I just like cute things, and sometimes cute things cause pain (anyone give birth lately? I haven’t - but it sure looks like it hurts, and babies sure are cute!)
One thing the seasoned, sassy and savvy New Yorker learns over time is to know when to start getting pedicures in preparation for the pleasure and pain of the summer sandal. I smugly chuckle to myself when I see a woman wearing sandals in March - obviously a recent purchase that she doesn't have the patience to forgo until warmer weather, even though her toes are turning slightly blue from the chill. The rule of thumb in my house is “it’s not spring until after tax day.” And even then, sometimes it snows in April. So if you get your winter protective layer removed from your footsies too soon, you’ll be wasting your money and hiding their glory for a few more weeks if not months.
I think today was the official land mark day. I can just feel it. I have bared-legs (a skirt, no tights, and I shaved!) and I’m not even cold. There have been a few other days this month that were warm enough, but only now do I think we’re in the clear, ladies.
Though I was wearing my adorable green cowboy boot galoshes yesterday, tromping confidently through 3 foot deep puddles - today, I’m kicking it spring style. But my pedicure is pathetically peeling, so until I can make it to my neighborhood nail salon, these piggies are only going to market under wraps. Wedge platform wraps, that is.
Friday, May 9, 2008
The Herald in the Square
Near 34th Street, Herald Square, any New Yorker is overwhelmed. I always move as quickly as I can through the hordes and masses of tourists combined with vendors combined with teenagers skipping school combined with panhandlers combined with petitioners. It's a thick stew of humanity.
I had safely navigated through that horrible 34th St./6th Ave. junction and was walking South on 6th. The crowds were thinning with each block, so I had only to avoid getting punctured by umbrellas (who are the people who are allowed to use those huge golf umbrellas on the sidewalk, and how do I get to become one?)
I heard yelling.
Well, screaming.
A man was screaming.
"AAAAAAAGH!!!"
He was in agony.
I was trained as an Advanced First Aider in high school, and ever since, my instinct to help kicks in when I sense someone needs medical attention.
On the corner of 31st and 6th there was a man near a phone booth, doubled over, screaming. He was moving in slow motion, trying to tie his shoes, and screaming at the world. This poor, dear, mentally ill man was summoning from the deepest part of his being, all the angst of his difficult life and the desperation of his situation, a mighty roar, and in that roar was contained his whole life and world encapsulated and represented by those untied shoes.
I suppose I could have tied the shoes for him, but like other passers-by I sensed that it was more than the untied shoes making him scream, and I would be particularly vulnerable entering his "sphere". Am I a bad person?
I had safely navigated through that horrible 34th St./6th Ave. junction and was walking South on 6th. The crowds were thinning with each block, so I had only to avoid getting punctured by umbrellas (who are the people who are allowed to use those huge golf umbrellas on the sidewalk, and how do I get to become one?)
I heard yelling.
Well, screaming.
A man was screaming.
"AAAAAAAGH!!!"
He was in agony.
I was trained as an Advanced First Aider in high school, and ever since, my instinct to help kicks in when I sense someone needs medical attention.
On the corner of 31st and 6th there was a man near a phone booth, doubled over, screaming. He was moving in slow motion, trying to tie his shoes, and screaming at the world. This poor, dear, mentally ill man was summoning from the deepest part of his being, all the angst of his difficult life and the desperation of his situation, a mighty roar, and in that roar was contained his whole life and world encapsulated and represented by those untied shoes.
I suppose I could have tied the shoes for him, but like other passers-by I sensed that it was more than the untied shoes making him scream, and I would be particularly vulnerable entering his "sphere". Am I a bad person?
Rainy Days and Fridays...
Walking from the train to work this morning, I heard a snippet of conversation that was very memorable. Two men standing on a street corner first grabbed my attention when one of them spit a loogey within inches of me.
Corner Umbrella Selling Guy to Loogey Guy: "Everybody knows how to beat a ho."
Maybe it's Spring fever, but I'm twitterpated.
Ah, sweet amour...
Corner Umbrella Selling Guy to Loogey Guy: "Everybody knows how to beat a ho."
Maybe it's Spring fever, but I'm twitterpated.
Ah, sweet amour...
Perfect Harmony
Like most New Yorkers, I avoid shivving someone during my commutes to and from work by blocking everything out. I don't make eye contact. I bury my head in a book. I listen to my iPod. Non-New Yorkers and hippies probably perceive all this as anti-social and inhumane behavior, but we know better - it's self preservation.
If I make eye contact with people, I am giving them an invitation to enter my "sphere". New Yorkers must protect their "spheres" because they don't have "space".
If I don't bury my nose in a book, there's nothing to look at, and I eventually make eye contact with someone.
If I don't listen to my iPod, anyone can talk to me. By anyone, I mean those assholes who like to get attention from women by "commenting" on their appearance. I will give you only one example such a comment:
"Do you have someone to suck on those toes?"
This -though memorable and distinctive - is mild. I have heard comments that make me cry later, and in general it's just exhausting and not worth the effort of trying to tune out without the aid of headphones. My husband is the one who insists I wear the headphones, I don't even need to be listening to music. They are a barrier that forces these non-classy dudes to realize they wont be heard, so they wont bother since ultimately, they're making the comments because THEY want attention.
So last week I was on a fairly empty train, reading and iPoding. I heard non-iPod music, and thought there was a band in the car. I looked around, and there was no band, no pan handler, no hobo.
Sitting across from me was a man in his mid 60's, wearing a very nice business suit, a briefcase on his lap, playing a harmonica.
It was so poetic. He wasn't playing for attention, he was playing purely for pleasure. While I was reading and tuning, he was blissfully hobbying. I thought of my dad - imagine my dad during his daily commute to work - instead of working on a cross word puzzle, working on a harmonica riff? Imagine this man playing this very song later for his grand child. He wasn't self conscious, and he wasn't pandering.
It is so rare to see something so sincere and so void of ulterior motive in New York. But I suppose these things are always there, if you're not tuning out.
If I make eye contact with people, I am giving them an invitation to enter my "sphere". New Yorkers must protect their "spheres" because they don't have "space".
If I don't bury my nose in a book, there's nothing to look at, and I eventually make eye contact with someone.
If I don't listen to my iPod, anyone can talk to me. By anyone, I mean those assholes who like to get attention from women by "commenting" on their appearance. I will give you only one example such a comment:
"Do you have someone to suck on those toes?"
This -though memorable and distinctive - is mild. I have heard comments that make me cry later, and in general it's just exhausting and not worth the effort of trying to tune out without the aid of headphones. My husband is the one who insists I wear the headphones, I don't even need to be listening to music. They are a barrier that forces these non-classy dudes to realize they wont be heard, so they wont bother since ultimately, they're making the comments because THEY want attention.
So last week I was on a fairly empty train, reading and iPoding. I heard non-iPod music, and thought there was a band in the car. I looked around, and there was no band, no pan handler, no hobo.
Sitting across from me was a man in his mid 60's, wearing a very nice business suit, a briefcase on his lap, playing a harmonica.
It was so poetic. He wasn't playing for attention, he was playing purely for pleasure. While I was reading and tuning, he was blissfully hobbying. I thought of my dad - imagine my dad during his daily commute to work - instead of working on a cross word puzzle, working on a harmonica riff? Imagine this man playing this very song later for his grand child. He wasn't self conscious, and he wasn't pandering.
It is so rare to see something so sincere and so void of ulterior motive in New York. But I suppose these things are always there, if you're not tuning out.
BK and the Bandit
I live on an industrial kind of block in South Park Slope, Brooklyn, one block from the East River. Our neighborhood has a mix of 3 story row houses and brick warehouses.
Our neighbors are a mix of Italian, Polish and Middle Eastern families who have - as far as I know - lived here for several generations. Only recently have displaced hipsters migrated from Manhattan. The Mr. and I have lived in our loft-style apartment for 6 years, and while the landscape has changed very little in our time in the neighborhood, the types of folks getting on and off the train has morphed dramatically. It used to be we were the only people commuting during daytime hours, except for those commuting home after a night shift. Now our trains are crowded with urbanites going to their media industry jobs, all too cool for school. But I lived here before there were non-Chinese delivery options. I win.
I like talking with Tony, the mayor of our block. He grew up in the house he currently lives in, and owns another multi-family home next door where his daughter lives. He is not in the best of health, and has a scare every couple of months. I see him on his scooter nearly every morning alternately inhaling from an oxygen tank, then a cigarette. He once told me about a massive feast of shellfish he had consumed despite an allergy to shellfish. This binge, no surprise, was followed by a trip to the hospital where doctors had to drain fluid from his ankles and joints because they had swelled four times their size.
Tony has assured me that I am “safe” in our neighborhood, mostly owing to his last name. He has friends at our police precinct (his words “a lot of mafia”), and even though there is a convicted felon on our block (only murder. Of a prostitute. Right around the corner.), this man’s attempt to threaten Tony on one occasion didn’t go far, because Tony reminded him of his last name ("you don't want to mess with me. Do you know what my last name is?"). He told me his last name, and it’s the name of a town in Italy. Because I like knowing I’m safe because of Tony, I wont tell you which town.
Welcome to New York!
The man who served time for murder (and is now unarguably reformed, and all better, right? As long as I don’t turn the corner and sell sex at the same time, I should be fine, right?) has a pit bull that he walks every day, and he does his due diligence and bags the waste. He then leaves the bag of dog feces on the curb near a newly planted tree, across the street from his house. Even if I didn’t know about his crimes of passion, this behavior is interesting insight to his...psyche.
I saw something the other night, however, that I don’t think Tony or his family or his friends can protect me from. This was one of those “what the fuck” moments that happen in New York, and had it happened outside New York, it would not have the same impact.
The Mr. and I were parking our car in front of our building at about 1AM. It was a quiet night, no one around. As we were opening our doors, we saw an animal loping up the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, coming from the direction of the river. Dog? A little too skinny. Cat? Much too large. Oh, of course it was a raccoon!
This was no ordinary raccoon. I grew up in suburbs outside of Seattle, and I know raccoons. I have been camping and I know raccoons. They’re frisky, ornery critters who are only after your grub. I get it. This raccoon, however, had apparently been feasting on maybe horses. It was the size of a Dalmatian, I’d say. It’s legs were shaped like a deer’s in that I could see the backwards joint of the hind legs. It was running - trotting - galloping up the street much like a coyote. If this raccoon stood on its hind-legs, he could rest his front paws on my shoulders.
We got out of the car, marveling. It ran up the block away from us. The Mr. locked the car doors. We turned to go inside, and realized the critter was on our side of the street now.
“Honey, unlock the car doors”
“What, he’s over there now”
The demon had now run past us and was heading towards the water again.
“Dude, unlock the car doors, I need to get in”
The Mr. remotely unlocked the door, which makes a honking sound. This frightened Satan-raccoon, and he turned back towards us. Dear husband now locked the doors again. I jumped up on the rear bumper of the car, no easy task in clogs, and considered climbing on top of the car. While the poor, frightened, confused, evil animal turned back towards us, a yard or two away, his eyes caught the light, and as they do, glowed red. Finally Lil’ Human Eater decided to run towards the water, and I decided to run inside.
I spent the rest of the evening with crazy-Gemini emotions, going from “oh that poor, poor creature, he’s so out of his element, he’s so scared, he’ll never make it here!” to “what the fuck has that raccoon been eating and why is it here and why must he be so huge, and trying to eat me!?”
We did a little research, and well -
This happened...
Then THIS happened!
AND OH MY EFFING GOD THIS IS A BLOCK AWAY!!!
I NEVER should have done that research! Now I’m afraid to leave the house!
Our neighbors are a mix of Italian, Polish and Middle Eastern families who have - as far as I know - lived here for several generations. Only recently have displaced hipsters migrated from Manhattan. The Mr. and I have lived in our loft-style apartment for 6 years, and while the landscape has changed very little in our time in the neighborhood, the types of folks getting on and off the train has morphed dramatically. It used to be we were the only people commuting during daytime hours, except for those commuting home after a night shift. Now our trains are crowded with urbanites going to their media industry jobs, all too cool for school. But I lived here before there were non-Chinese delivery options. I win.
I like talking with Tony, the mayor of our block. He grew up in the house he currently lives in, and owns another multi-family home next door where his daughter lives. He is not in the best of health, and has a scare every couple of months. I see him on his scooter nearly every morning alternately inhaling from an oxygen tank, then a cigarette. He once told me about a massive feast of shellfish he had consumed despite an allergy to shellfish. This binge, no surprise, was followed by a trip to the hospital where doctors had to drain fluid from his ankles and joints because they had swelled four times their size.
Tony has assured me that I am “safe” in our neighborhood, mostly owing to his last name. He has friends at our police precinct (his words “a lot of mafia”), and even though there is a convicted felon on our block (only murder. Of a prostitute. Right around the corner.), this man’s attempt to threaten Tony on one occasion didn’t go far, because Tony reminded him of his last name ("you don't want to mess with me. Do you know what my last name is?"). He told me his last name, and it’s the name of a town in Italy. Because I like knowing I’m safe because of Tony, I wont tell you which town.
Welcome to New York!
The man who served time for murder (and is now unarguably reformed, and all better, right? As long as I don’t turn the corner and sell sex at the same time, I should be fine, right?) has a pit bull that he walks every day, and he does his due diligence and bags the waste. He then leaves the bag of dog feces on the curb near a newly planted tree, across the street from his house. Even if I didn’t know about his crimes of passion, this behavior is interesting insight to his...psyche.
I saw something the other night, however, that I don’t think Tony or his family or his friends can protect me from. This was one of those “what the fuck” moments that happen in New York, and had it happened outside New York, it would not have the same impact.
The Mr. and I were parking our car in front of our building at about 1AM. It was a quiet night, no one around. As we were opening our doors, we saw an animal loping up the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, coming from the direction of the river. Dog? A little too skinny. Cat? Much too large. Oh, of course it was a raccoon!
This was no ordinary raccoon. I grew up in suburbs outside of Seattle, and I know raccoons. I have been camping and I know raccoons. They’re frisky, ornery critters who are only after your grub. I get it. This raccoon, however, had apparently been feasting on maybe horses. It was the size of a Dalmatian, I’d say. It’s legs were shaped like a deer’s in that I could see the backwards joint of the hind legs. It was running - trotting - galloping up the street much like a coyote. If this raccoon stood on its hind-legs, he could rest his front paws on my shoulders.
We got out of the car, marveling. It ran up the block away from us. The Mr. locked the car doors. We turned to go inside, and realized the critter was on our side of the street now.
“Honey, unlock the car doors”
“What, he’s over there now”
The demon had now run past us and was heading towards the water again.
“Dude, unlock the car doors, I need to get in”
The Mr. remotely unlocked the door, which makes a honking sound. This frightened Satan-raccoon, and he turned back towards us. Dear husband now locked the doors again. I jumped up on the rear bumper of the car, no easy task in clogs, and considered climbing on top of the car. While the poor, frightened, confused, evil animal turned back towards us, a yard or two away, his eyes caught the light, and as they do, glowed red. Finally Lil’ Human Eater decided to run towards the water, and I decided to run inside.
I spent the rest of the evening with crazy-Gemini emotions, going from “oh that poor, poor creature, he’s so out of his element, he’s so scared, he’ll never make it here!” to “what the fuck has that raccoon been eating and why is it here and why must he be so huge, and trying to eat me!?”
We did a little research, and well -
This happened...
Then THIS happened!
AND OH MY EFFING GOD THIS IS A BLOCK AWAY!!!
I NEVER should have done that research! Now I’m afraid to leave the house!
Only in New York
The first time I heard the phrase "Welcome to New York" I was 18, and sitting with a friend on a people-packed pier overlooking the Hudson on the 4th of July in 1991.
Tom and I had arrived a few weeks earlier on a Greyhound bus. Our journey had begun at the bus depot in Portland, Oregon two weeks before, and after three sweaty, sleepless, smelly, crowded and delirious days sitting vertically, we rolled into Port Authority with awe, fear, and a sense of destiny.
I was a hopelessly naive dreamer with little sense of self and I new one thing, and one thing only: this is where I want to be somehow, someday. Tom felt the same, though as he was soon to find out, he had more practical know-how when it came to navigating our dream adventure. I hadn't much experience thinking for myself, so I was content to follow his lead.
We were staying with family friends in Rutherford, New Jersey, and they took very good care of us, treating us like family. There are only two times I can remember being remotely uncomfortable wrapped in their family fold - one instance was accepting their generous hand-out of an unlimited supply of bus fares. They had a huge roll of red carnival tickets that they left sitting out on the banister for us each morning. We chose to spend the 80-cents-each on our daily journeys to "the City" as they called it.
The other time I recall feeling odd was when the family's two teen-aged sons tried to coerce Tom into a game of basketball in the driveway court. He refused each time, to their dismay and confusion. Tom was preternaturally tall and lanky, a seemingly perfect candidate. I remember how uncomfortable and embarrassed Tom became with their repeated invitations. I understand now that as a gay 17 year old, Tom was being invited into his own personal hell. I vaguely recall him telling me that he took PE in the form of summer school, and only because it was required for graduation.
But we were on our dream trip. I had found in Tom the perfect pal to sing along with to every musical, to dream about our futures on Broadway, and to pretend I had a boyfriend. We even talked about getting married. His vision included a boyfriend that lived in a room above the garage.
We had given ourselves a month to experience New York, using 3 days to get there, and 3 days to get back, and a few days visiting Tom's grandmother in Santa Cruz. Each muggy summer day was spent meandering the mean streets between Central Park and the East Village.
What a treat to be in NYC on the 4th of July. We felt like we were part of something important, and part of history. I imagine that every tourist wandering the maze of Manhattan feels the same way.
We were sitting on the splintery pier, sardines exchanging sweat with strangers, waiting for those colorful explosions that summon nostalgia and romance. The problem was that there was only one way on and off the pier, and to leave the pier meant abandoning our front row seats. We looked over our shoulders to the street below, and realized we hadn't eaten dinner. Our meals in general were sharing a "stuffed slice" from Sbarro (the best pizza ever! Why didn't this exist everywhere!?) and a Snapple (the best drink ever! Why couldn't we get this everywhere!?). But our growling stomachs were making us desperate, and the hot dog vendors on the street behind and below were desperately out of reach.
I said aloud to Tom "why can't one of those hot dog carts come up here - on the pier? I'm sure they'd sell tons!"
From the swelling crowd, a sardine said "Ha. Fat chance. Welcome to New York!"
His sarcasm was effective, and we were embarrassed into solemn silence.
About a half an hour later, a hot dog vendor labored his cart down the pier, setting up shop 3 yards away. So there. Welcome to New York, indeed.
That man's comment, so oft repeated in the bodegas, subways, sidewalks and streets of New York is the very essence of New York. It is the attitude, the smugness and the buttinskyness that rubs against us and gets under our nails every day. It is synonymous with the phrase "Only in New York", and uttered with the same contempt towards others and the City itself.
I have now lived in New York for 10 years. I experience daily what it means to be a New Yorker - the ethereal highs and devastating lows. In this city of extremes, each individual asks themselves alternately "how on EARTH can I continue to live here?!" and "how on EARTH can I imagine living anywhere else?" on a daily basis.
We are smug, jaded, tired, rude, cranky, pushy, opinionated, opportunistic, driven, selfish, impatient know-it-alls and we and we alone know what it takes to make it here day to day; All of the extremes above mixed with extreme tolerance and awareness which we derive from rubbing literal elbows with every race and class of people, nearly every moment of every day. We live on top of each other, and somehow find a way to maintain our autonomy. We mind our own business, but passively observe everybody elses. We speak our minds when it matters, and force our brethren to open theirs. We've seen it all, or so we think - because every day there's a moment, an occurrence - some strange thing that forces us to say "huh - only in New York!"
Tom and I had arrived a few weeks earlier on a Greyhound bus. Our journey had begun at the bus depot in Portland, Oregon two weeks before, and after three sweaty, sleepless, smelly, crowded and delirious days sitting vertically, we rolled into Port Authority with awe, fear, and a sense of destiny.
I was a hopelessly naive dreamer with little sense of self and I new one thing, and one thing only: this is where I want to be somehow, someday. Tom felt the same, though as he was soon to find out, he had more practical know-how when it came to navigating our dream adventure. I hadn't much experience thinking for myself, so I was content to follow his lead.
We were staying with family friends in Rutherford, New Jersey, and they took very good care of us, treating us like family. There are only two times I can remember being remotely uncomfortable wrapped in their family fold - one instance was accepting their generous hand-out of an unlimited supply of bus fares. They had a huge roll of red carnival tickets that they left sitting out on the banister for us each morning. We chose to spend the 80-cents-each on our daily journeys to "the City" as they called it.
The other time I recall feeling odd was when the family's two teen-aged sons tried to coerce Tom into a game of basketball in the driveway court. He refused each time, to their dismay and confusion. Tom was preternaturally tall and lanky, a seemingly perfect candidate. I remember how uncomfortable and embarrassed Tom became with their repeated invitations. I understand now that as a gay 17 year old, Tom was being invited into his own personal hell. I vaguely recall him telling me that he took PE in the form of summer school, and only because it was required for graduation.
But we were on our dream trip. I had found in Tom the perfect pal to sing along with to every musical, to dream about our futures on Broadway, and to pretend I had a boyfriend. We even talked about getting married. His vision included a boyfriend that lived in a room above the garage.
We had given ourselves a month to experience New York, using 3 days to get there, and 3 days to get back, and a few days visiting Tom's grandmother in Santa Cruz. Each muggy summer day was spent meandering the mean streets between Central Park and the East Village.
What a treat to be in NYC on the 4th of July. We felt like we were part of something important, and part of history. I imagine that every tourist wandering the maze of Manhattan feels the same way.
We were sitting on the splintery pier, sardines exchanging sweat with strangers, waiting for those colorful explosions that summon nostalgia and romance. The problem was that there was only one way on and off the pier, and to leave the pier meant abandoning our front row seats. We looked over our shoulders to the street below, and realized we hadn't eaten dinner. Our meals in general were sharing a "stuffed slice" from Sbarro (the best pizza ever! Why didn't this exist everywhere!?) and a Snapple (the best drink ever! Why couldn't we get this everywhere!?). But our growling stomachs were making us desperate, and the hot dog vendors on the street behind and below were desperately out of reach.
I said aloud to Tom "why can't one of those hot dog carts come up here - on the pier? I'm sure they'd sell tons!"
From the swelling crowd, a sardine said "Ha. Fat chance. Welcome to New York!"
His sarcasm was effective, and we were embarrassed into solemn silence.
About a half an hour later, a hot dog vendor labored his cart down the pier, setting up shop 3 yards away. So there. Welcome to New York, indeed.
That man's comment, so oft repeated in the bodegas, subways, sidewalks and streets of New York is the very essence of New York. It is the attitude, the smugness and the buttinskyness that rubs against us and gets under our nails every day. It is synonymous with the phrase "Only in New York", and uttered with the same contempt towards others and the City itself.
I have now lived in New York for 10 years. I experience daily what it means to be a New Yorker - the ethereal highs and devastating lows. In this city of extremes, each individual asks themselves alternately "how on EARTH can I continue to live here?!" and "how on EARTH can I imagine living anywhere else?" on a daily basis.
We are smug, jaded, tired, rude, cranky, pushy, opinionated, opportunistic, driven, selfish, impatient know-it-alls and we and we alone know what it takes to make it here day to day; All of the extremes above mixed with extreme tolerance and awareness which we derive from rubbing literal elbows with every race and class of people, nearly every moment of every day. We live on top of each other, and somehow find a way to maintain our autonomy. We mind our own business, but passively observe everybody elses. We speak our minds when it matters, and force our brethren to open theirs. We've seen it all, or so we think - because every day there's a moment, an occurrence - some strange thing that forces us to say "huh - only in New York!"
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