I thought picking the last petal would be a relief... it's not.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The results
He got it, didn't say anything for two months, and doesn't like me. At least he had the manners to feel mildly bad about it.
July 28
H'okay, so I'm going to finally make an entry about my Friday and Saturday in the city, which for some reason I have been able to put off on account of my busy schedule of xeroxing and pancake-making.
After my morning at the LES Tenement Museum, I started thinking about how little time I had left in the city and planned an ill-timed trip to Coney Island that afternoon. I was scared I wouldn't get to go to the beach / site of most of WG's songwriting in the late '40s and '50s, so I packed my swimsuit and took the subway (which after awhile, actually emerged above ground) about an hour out to the island. It was cloudy and cool when I got there, and the boardwalk was almost deserted. The beach and amusement park were practically ghost towns, and it quickly became apparent why: it was raining. Oh well. I came here to see a beach and I was going to see a beach. Despite the weather, I went down to the ocean to wade and hunt for shells. I found Mermaid Avenue but couldn't find 3520, unfortunately.
After my beach adventure I hurried back to get ready to see Tragedy. Allegedly the show was starting at 8 at the Brooklyn Bowl (a bar/concert venue/restaurant/bowling alley... really), but it's free if you roll up before 6. I figured I could kill two hours to save some cash. I ended up sitting on a bench in front of the stage for very cold and boring wait. Bought a Tragedy t-shirt, bypassed the Tragedy thongs for sale, and settled back into my corner as the opening bands start playing some redonk music. The audience started to fill up and some people were sharing my table. Eventually the skinny guy across from me leans in and shouts in my ear, "So why are you here alone? I think it's absolutely ridiculous that we're both here alone and sitting in silence." We chat for a little while, but it becomes clear that nothing exciting is going to happen as soon as he realizes I'm a Tragedy groupie and I realize he's gay. Oh well.
The show was hysterical and awesome, as expected, although not as long as the one in York and Jake didn't end up in any compromising bondage gear. They played almost all the songs from the first album and a few new ones, including a metal version of the terrible Olivia Newton John tune "Xanadu" as their alter-ego band, The Xanadudes. There was glitter, profanity, and a huge, lyric-singing crowd mobbing the stage that I weaseled my way to the front of. For the last song, they pulled all the girls up on stage and despite my best efforts (ducking behind dudes while "Mo'Royce Peterson" and "Andy Gibbous Waning" beckoned from the stage), I ended up there as well. It was a definite "WTF am I doing?" moment, but I just went with it.
When the show was over, the band announced that the crowd was invited to their party bus parked outside to continue the debauchery. This invite was quickly restricted to "only the ladies". They left the stage around midnight so some other band could come on, and I went back to my seat to check in with my new-found lonely friend.
NFLF: "So are you gonna go out to the bus?"
me: "I don't know... is that sketchy? Would it be fun?"
NFLF: "Well, I'm sure if you like blowjobs and cocaine, you'll have a great time."
I'm pretty sure I don't like either of those things, but I was really curious about how far the night was going to go. I exited the club and wandered past the bus like I was walking home that way so I could peek in the windows and make an assessment. As I walked by, someone inside shouted "Come on the bus!". So, that was pretty convincing.
I stepped onto the bus and it was one member of Tragedy (conveniently, the one I stalk) and a few... dudes. Despite the call for "ladies only" on the bus, everyone that actually got on was a dude. The girls were probably motivated to decline based on the same concerns expressed by NFLF above. But never one to turn down an opportunity to have an awkward interaction with multiple 30-something year old men, I got on the bus. There were pitchers of beer near the front and someone poured me one. I took baby sips to look normal, but it was terrible. I loitered in the background and make small talk with whatever dudes came on the bus. Eventually Jake walked by and noticed a new face and started talking to me. I held his attention (not) with some super exciting stories of how I was from Nash but cat-sitting in Manhattan and I realized yet again why I should just not talk to strangers. He drifted away but would periodically see me standing by myself in the corner and extend his hand for me to... high five? Shake? What was I supposed to do here? I clearly missed the memo and ended up just awkwardly holding his hand in a horizontal position for a few seconds. Smooth.
I talked to the bus driver and the band's assistant and some Israeli dude named Avi before figuring I should try to get out of Brooklyn before daylight. I slapped Jake on the back as I walked by but he didn't turn around. Alas -- rejected by a man wearing a bedazzled spandex jumpsuit!
Got home, collapsed, slept til noon, woke up and went to Coney Island again, this time on a sunny day. The beach was packed, I got burned, Eastern Europeans everywhere, some dude was laying in the surf with a snake... glorious. Boss texted me they were coming home early, so I beat it back to the apartment and cleaned up. Came home Sunday morning.
So finally that's the entire NYC week. Haven't been back since, but going tomorrow since I'm off work and it's the last Tragedy show. Stay tuned.
In non-NY news, radio stalker asked me to go for a drink when I'm back in Nash and ALC keeps asking when I'm coming back. I'm ducking both of them. I'm asking about the note tonight...
... just as soon as I get some more ice cream.
After my morning at the LES Tenement Museum, I started thinking about how little time I had left in the city and planned an ill-timed trip to Coney Island that afternoon. I was scared I wouldn't get to go to the beach / site of most of WG's songwriting in the late '40s and '50s, so I packed my swimsuit and took the subway (which after awhile, actually emerged above ground) about an hour out to the island. It was cloudy and cool when I got there, and the boardwalk was almost deserted. The beach and amusement park were practically ghost towns, and it quickly became apparent why: it was raining. Oh well. I came here to see a beach and I was going to see a beach. Despite the weather, I went down to the ocean to wade and hunt for shells. I found Mermaid Avenue but couldn't find 3520, unfortunately.
After my beach adventure I hurried back to get ready to see Tragedy. Allegedly the show was starting at 8 at the Brooklyn Bowl (a bar/concert venue/restaurant/bowling alley... really), but it's free if you roll up before 6. I figured I could kill two hours to save some cash. I ended up sitting on a bench in front of the stage for very cold and boring wait. Bought a Tragedy t-shirt, bypassed the Tragedy thongs for sale, and settled back into my corner as the opening bands start playing some redonk music. The audience started to fill up and some people were sharing my table. Eventually the skinny guy across from me leans in and shouts in my ear, "So why are you here alone? I think it's absolutely ridiculous that we're both here alone and sitting in silence." We chat for a little while, but it becomes clear that nothing exciting is going to happen as soon as he realizes I'm a Tragedy groupie and I realize he's gay. Oh well.
The show was hysterical and awesome, as expected, although not as long as the one in York and Jake didn't end up in any compromising bondage gear. They played almost all the songs from the first album and a few new ones, including a metal version of the terrible Olivia Newton John tune "Xanadu" as their alter-ego band, The Xanadudes. There was glitter, profanity, and a huge, lyric-singing crowd mobbing the stage that I weaseled my way to the front of. For the last song, they pulled all the girls up on stage and despite my best efforts (ducking behind dudes while "Mo'Royce Peterson" and "Andy Gibbous Waning" beckoned from the stage), I ended up there as well. It was a definite "WTF am I doing?" moment, but I just went with it.
When the show was over, the band announced that the crowd was invited to their party bus parked outside to continue the debauchery. This invite was quickly restricted to "only the ladies". They left the stage around midnight so some other band could come on, and I went back to my seat to check in with my new-found lonely friend.
NFLF: "So are you gonna go out to the bus?"
me: "I don't know... is that sketchy? Would it be fun?"
NFLF: "Well, I'm sure if you like blowjobs and cocaine, you'll have a great time."
I'm pretty sure I don't like either of those things, but I was really curious about how far the night was going to go. I exited the club and wandered past the bus like I was walking home that way so I could peek in the windows and make an assessment. As I walked by, someone inside shouted "Come on the bus!". So, that was pretty convincing.
I stepped onto the bus and it was one member of Tragedy (conveniently, the one I stalk) and a few... dudes. Despite the call for "ladies only" on the bus, everyone that actually got on was a dude. The girls were probably motivated to decline based on the same concerns expressed by NFLF above. But never one to turn down an opportunity to have an awkward interaction with multiple 30-something year old men, I got on the bus. There were pitchers of beer near the front and someone poured me one. I took baby sips to look normal, but it was terrible. I loitered in the background and make small talk with whatever dudes came on the bus. Eventually Jake walked by and noticed a new face and started talking to me. I held his attention (not) with some super exciting stories of how I was from Nash but cat-sitting in Manhattan and I realized yet again why I should just not talk to strangers. He drifted away but would periodically see me standing by myself in the corner and extend his hand for me to... high five? Shake? What was I supposed to do here? I clearly missed the memo and ended up just awkwardly holding his hand in a horizontal position for a few seconds. Smooth.
I talked to the bus driver and the band's assistant and some Israeli dude named Avi before figuring I should try to get out of Brooklyn before daylight. I slapped Jake on the back as I walked by but he didn't turn around. Alas -- rejected by a man wearing a bedazzled spandex jumpsuit!
Got home, collapsed, slept til noon, woke up and went to Coney Island again, this time on a sunny day. The beach was packed, I got burned, Eastern Europeans everywhere, some dude was laying in the surf with a snake... glorious. Boss texted me they were coming home early, so I beat it back to the apartment and cleaned up. Came home Sunday morning.
So finally that's the entire NYC week. Haven't been back since, but going tomorrow since I'm off work and it's the last Tragedy show. Stay tuned.
In non-NY news, radio stalker asked me to go for a drink when I'm back in Nash and ALC keeps asking when I'm coming back. I'm ducking both of them. I'm asking about the note tonight...
... just as soon as I get some more ice cream.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
July 21 for July 8, pt. 1
Well, two weeks later, I guess it's time to tell you the whole last Friday in New York story.
Long story short (although I am going to tell you the long story anyway), it might have been the best day of my life. It was like what some kid (albeit a nerdy one) would've described if you asked them to tell you their idea of a perfect day. "I would go to a museum, and a beach, and a concert, and a bowling alley, and..." And you'd probably be tempted to crush his or her little dreams by saying that there is impossible, because there is no place where you can do all of that. But you'd be wrong. That place is New York.
I started off at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, a site I've been scheming to visit since approximately fifth grade and the release of this book. The set-up of this one is kind of weird: 97 Orchard Street is a restored tenement house in a historically Italian and Jewish neighborhood that at one time was the most crowded neighborhood in the world. It was inhabited from about the 1880s through the Depression, when new housing regulations the landlord couldn't afford caused him to evict everyone and shut the place down. They've restored various apartments to reflect different time periods and families and to offer a personal and affecting window into the lives of poor immigrants at the turn of the century. It's only open for guided tours, and unfortunately you can only go on one for the price of admission (an unusually steep $15) instead of lurking around all day and taking them all, like I was hoping.
I signed up for an hour tour called "Piecing it together" that focused on a (real) family of Jewish Poles that lived in the tenement in the early 1900s. The husband was a tailor and ran his own small shop with two or three employees out of the front room of the apartment. The only other rooms were a tiny kitchen and a bedroom that was just big enough for the double bed. The husband, wife, and three or four children lived here, although it was pretty difficult to see how. Cramped, no electricity, no air conditioning or running water, no indoor plumbing -- and they lived here for 13 years. The only lighting was gaslight (which also gave off heat), and the stove had to be burning to keep the pressing irons hot during the work day. It was pretty uncomfortable on an early July day in a t-shirt and shorts -- I couldn't imagine working here ten hours a day in a long dress.
The tour was run by an intern (I looked at this place but had missed the deadline -- maybe someday) and was really well done, I thought. A big point, aside from the sheer number of people that passed through this building (around 7,000 in 50 or so years) and the incredible things found during the restoration (30+ layers of paint and wallpaper in some places) was the acculturation of immigrants to America, even if it was involuntary. For example, millions of Jewish immigrants had to regularly violate their religious laws by working on the Sabbath, because the American work week ran from Monday through Saturday (this was decades before the five week and eons removed from the forty hour work week. Workers as late as the 1910s were still striking to get their week down to just over fifty hours).
This museum was kind of similar to, or maybe presented a sequel to, Ellis Island. Whereas EI's story kind of leaves off once a person was passed through to the U.S., the TM tells and shows you what happened next, which was, more often than not, kind of awful, even by 19th century standards. Anytime you've got three kids sleeping in the parlor with their heads on the sofa and their feet on chairs, or a pregnant woman hauling water up three flights of stairs, you've got an uncomfortable situation.
The story of this family was not too depressing, rhough. The sewing operation eventually prospered and the family moved to a bigger apartment after 97 Orchard.
Continued later when I'm not so tired and worn out from the appearance of actual summer (high 90s -- now they can complain).
Long story short (although I am going to tell you the long story anyway), it might have been the best day of my life. It was like what some kid (albeit a nerdy one) would've described if you asked them to tell you their idea of a perfect day. "I would go to a museum, and a beach, and a concert, and a bowling alley, and..." And you'd probably be tempted to crush his or her little dreams by saying that there is impossible, because there is no place where you can do all of that. But you'd be wrong. That place is New York.
I started off at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, a site I've been scheming to visit since approximately fifth grade and the release of this book. The set-up of this one is kind of weird: 97 Orchard Street is a restored tenement house in a historically Italian and Jewish neighborhood that at one time was the most crowded neighborhood in the world. It was inhabited from about the 1880s through the Depression, when new housing regulations the landlord couldn't afford caused him to evict everyone and shut the place down. They've restored various apartments to reflect different time periods and families and to offer a personal and affecting window into the lives of poor immigrants at the turn of the century. It's only open for guided tours, and unfortunately you can only go on one for the price of admission (an unusually steep $15) instead of lurking around all day and taking them all, like I was hoping.
I signed up for an hour tour called "Piecing it together" that focused on a (real) family of Jewish Poles that lived in the tenement in the early 1900s. The husband was a tailor and ran his own small shop with two or three employees out of the front room of the apartment. The only other rooms were a tiny kitchen and a bedroom that was just big enough for the double bed. The husband, wife, and three or four children lived here, although it was pretty difficult to see how. Cramped, no electricity, no air conditioning or running water, no indoor plumbing -- and they lived here for 13 years. The only lighting was gaslight (which also gave off heat), and the stove had to be burning to keep the pressing irons hot during the work day. It was pretty uncomfortable on an early July day in a t-shirt and shorts -- I couldn't imagine working here ten hours a day in a long dress.
The tour was run by an intern (I looked at this place but had missed the deadline -- maybe someday) and was really well done, I thought. A big point, aside from the sheer number of people that passed through this building (around 7,000 in 50 or so years) and the incredible things found during the restoration (30+ layers of paint and wallpaper in some places) was the acculturation of immigrants to America, even if it was involuntary. For example, millions of Jewish immigrants had to regularly violate their religious laws by working on the Sabbath, because the American work week ran from Monday through Saturday (this was decades before the five week and eons removed from the forty hour work week. Workers as late as the 1910s were still striking to get their week down to just over fifty hours).
This museum was kind of similar to, or maybe presented a sequel to, Ellis Island. Whereas EI's story kind of leaves off once a person was passed through to the U.S., the TM tells and shows you what happened next, which was, more often than not, kind of awful, even by 19th century standards. Anytime you've got three kids sleeping in the parlor with their heads on the sofa and their feet on chairs, or a pregnant woman hauling water up three flights of stairs, you've got an uncomfortable situation.
The story of this family was not too depressing, rhough. The sewing operation eventually prospered and the family moved to a bigger apartment after 97 Orchard.
Continued later when I'm not so tired and worn out from the appearance of actual summer (high 90s -- now they can complain).
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
July 20
Three months later, my thesis is archived online, although I will not be "sharing the link with my family" as Heidi suggests. Honestly I can't read it without remembering what a hellish year and a half of work accompanied it, but maybe in the future it'll be a less terrifying trip down memory lane.
http://hdl.handle.net/1803/
http://hdl.handle.net/1803/
Sunday, July 17, 2011
July 17
I'm not quite dead yet.
After the holiday week's flurry of activity and posts, I haven't felt much like posting (which is a shame, because I totally need to finish the week and telling you that Tragedy story). It's not because I don't still love to write this blog, or because nothing interesting has happened (although last and this week's entries will be dull compared to the NYC week:). Frankly I would enjoy writing such posts as "Today I went to the A&P for groceries! Stores here will give you cash for plastic and aluminum to recycle, and at much higher rates than the 45 cents a pound you were getting for coke cans in high school. Looks like the bottle merchant is back in business;" and "Today I beat the hell out of a can of soup because I can not operate a can opener properly. Eventually I punctured the top and cut it open with a pair of scissors like a freakin' M*A*S*H surgeon or EMT wielding the Jaws of Life, a feat which made me feel like a total badass. Eff a stubborn soup can!"
Like I say, I would enjoy writing these, although I don't know that anyone would enjoy reading them. The little unremarkable moments of life, vastly amusing as they may be to the one experiencing them, generally lose something in the retelling. It's like when I tell people about visiting the Shrine of the Infant Jesus of Prague in OK -- no one really gives a damn.
Anyway, it's not like I don't have the time either. I just spent three days down in my basement room (which is a good 15 degrees cooler than the rest of the house), knitting an entrelac sweater for my laptop and watching Dark Shadows on Netflix. Dark Shadows is described on wiki as a "gothic soap opera", which, along with the fact that it was my favorite tv show when I was 5, is pretty much all you need to know about it. But basically I've just been enjoying this quiet house in the woods and the laughably mild weather. It hardly cracks 90 -- I'm loving it so much that on occasion I promise myself to never leave the Northeast. But then I remember: winter. Buh.
When upstairs-girl and her friend are gone, everything is calm and still except for the gentle rustle of that skunk making a nest under the rock pile by the back door. Sometimes you can hear the church bells chime on the hour from way down the road.
If these are the only peaceful days I ever get in my life, it'll be enough.
Watched Moonstruck again yesterday, and had another surreal NY experience. When Cher and Nick Cage go to the opera, as part of a deal where they will discontinue their affair so Cher can marry his brother...
After the holiday week's flurry of activity and posts, I haven't felt much like posting (which is a shame, because I totally need to finish the week and telling you that Tragedy story). It's not because I don't still love to write this blog, or because nothing interesting has happened (although last and this week's entries will be dull compared to the NYC week:). Frankly I would enjoy writing such posts as "Today I went to the A&P for groceries! Stores here will give you cash for plastic and aluminum to recycle, and at much higher rates than the 45 cents a pound you were getting for coke cans in high school. Looks like the bottle merchant is back in business;" and "Today I beat the hell out of a can of soup because I can not operate a can opener properly. Eventually I punctured the top and cut it open with a pair of scissors like a freakin' M*A*S*H surgeon or EMT wielding the Jaws of Life, a feat which made me feel like a total badass. Eff a stubborn soup can!"
Like I say, I would enjoy writing these, although I don't know that anyone would enjoy reading them. The little unremarkable moments of life, vastly amusing as they may be to the one experiencing them, generally lose something in the retelling. It's like when I tell people about visiting the Shrine of the Infant Jesus of Prague in OK -- no one really gives a damn.
Anyway, it's not like I don't have the time either. I just spent three days down in my basement room (which is a good 15 degrees cooler than the rest of the house), knitting an entrelac sweater for my laptop and watching Dark Shadows on Netflix. Dark Shadows is described on wiki as a "gothic soap opera", which, along with the fact that it was my favorite tv show when I was 5, is pretty much all you need to know about it. But basically I've just been enjoying this quiet house in the woods and the laughably mild weather. It hardly cracks 90 -- I'm loving it so much that on occasion I promise myself to never leave the Northeast. But then I remember: winter. Buh.
When upstairs-girl and her friend are gone, everything is calm and still except for the gentle rustle of that skunk making a nest under the rock pile by the back door. Sometimes you can hear the church bells chime on the hour from way down the road.
If these are the only peaceful days I ever get in my life, it'll be enough.
Watched Moonstruck again yesterday, and had another surreal NY experience. When Cher and Nick Cage go to the opera, as part of a deal where they will discontinue their affair so Cher can marry his brother...
... it's the Met, where I saw the ballet.
"I love two things: I love you and I love the opera. Now if I could have the two things that I love together for one night, I would be satisfied to give up the rest of my life."
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
July 12
Just a quickie post to say I'm back in Kisco and miraculously didn't die on a street corner in NYC, despite my best efforts. I finally got my pictures, so the next post (covering Fri., Sat., and Sun.) will include photos. I'll go back and add some to the old posts as well. Right now I'm pretty exhausted, needing to catch up on all the sleep I passed up while on vaca and to readjust my eyes to being able to see more than ten feet in front of me. For real -- the city messes up your eyes and orientation. My boss and her husband also remarked on it when they came back from the Vermont countryside into the heart of Manhattan: "I changed my glasses and I still can't see!"
The big news here is that the German girl has arrived and moved in upstairs (along with her visiting friend). They both seem nice if a bit priss, but I really don't see much of them. The original one is a friend of the family (since the house owner's husband is German), but she's just come here for the summer to hang out, basically. I have no idea what she does all day or how she affords it. But whatever -- it's none of my business.
In more depressing news, the cat you may remember from the post where I complained she wouldn't eat is now desperately ill. Not eating for that long has put her into some sort of intensive care for cats and my boss is super-worried because she loves that cat a lot. I was pretty horrified to find all this out -- even if I wasn't the cat's biggest fan, I can definitely understand feeling like a pet is a member of your family. When they came back to the apartment and I told them she'd only been picking at her food, they said she would sometimes do that while they were gone (which confirmed my thinking that she was just pouting about being left with a stranger). Apparently it was something more serious than that, and it takes some sort of sickness or malfunction to make a cat stop eating like that. I told my boss that I certainly would've called them if I thought anything was seriously wrong, and she seemed to accept it.
On the one hand, I don't feel particularly guilty because I know I didn't do anything to cause this and could not have prevented it. On the other hand, I don't want my boss to feel like I killed her cat. So we'll see what happens.
Yesterday it was 98 degrees in Nashville, with a heat index of 111. What the actual eff? It was 87 here, 93 today, and everyone is complaining like it's the end of the world. I just shake my head and roll the windows down. I've started parking at the A&P grocery store about a half mile from the office rather than pay the ridiculous $3.50 per day meters across the street, but the walk to and from is really the only time I'm exposed to this "summer". Still got a redonk tan in the city, though.
Til tomorrow, check out this dude, who, besides being a blues king, was also the inspiration for a character in O Brother, Where Art Thou?:
Wish I still had Radio South!
The big news here is that the German girl has arrived and moved in upstairs (along with her visiting friend). They both seem nice if a bit priss, but I really don't see much of them. The original one is a friend of the family (since the house owner's husband is German), but she's just come here for the summer to hang out, basically. I have no idea what she does all day or how she affords it. But whatever -- it's none of my business.
In more depressing news, the cat you may remember from the post where I complained she wouldn't eat is now desperately ill. Not eating for that long has put her into some sort of intensive care for cats and my boss is super-worried because she loves that cat a lot. I was pretty horrified to find all this out -- even if I wasn't the cat's biggest fan, I can definitely understand feeling like a pet is a member of your family. When they came back to the apartment and I told them she'd only been picking at her food, they said she would sometimes do that while they were gone (which confirmed my thinking that she was just pouting about being left with a stranger). Apparently it was something more serious than that, and it takes some sort of sickness or malfunction to make a cat stop eating like that. I told my boss that I certainly would've called them if I thought anything was seriously wrong, and she seemed to accept it.
On the one hand, I don't feel particularly guilty because I know I didn't do anything to cause this and could not have prevented it. On the other hand, I don't want my boss to feel like I killed her cat. So we'll see what happens.
Yesterday it was 98 degrees in Nashville, with a heat index of 111. What the actual eff? It was 87 here, 93 today, and everyone is complaining like it's the end of the world. I just shake my head and roll the windows down. I've started parking at the A&P grocery store about a half mile from the office rather than pay the ridiculous $3.50 per day meters across the street, but the walk to and from is really the only time I'm exposed to this "summer". Still got a redonk tan in the city, though.
Til tomorrow, check out this dude, who, besides being a blues king, was also the inspiration for a character in O Brother, Where Art Thou?:
Wish I still had Radio South!
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
July 7
The days are starting to back up on me and now I'm writing retroactively about two days, when I can hardly keep track of everything that happened to me just today -- oh no! I think it'll be okay, since I plan on filling out the posts with details and pictures once I'm back in Kisco, a move I'm both dreading and awaiting. While it'll be nice to get back to a town I can afford to buy groceries in, Kisco simply doesn't have great museums or bars that are also bowling alleys.
Yesterday I tried a few letterboxes, went to the Metropolitan Opera box office, and went to Central Park. Naturally, it was hella hot. I think I was 2/5 on the 'boxes, but there's still loads more to investigate next time I'm here. I'll write more about this when I get the pictures, since the Park was pretty much an all-day action packed venture.
At the MO, you can get cheap student tickets the day of a performance. Taking advantage of the fact that I still have my VU i.d. and look about eighteen years old, I got a ticket in the orchestra section: right on the floor, basically, and this is in a building with five floors of balconies and a "standing room" section in the back -- yes, this is a venue so popular that you can buy a ticket that doesn't even have a seat. There are three rows of rails in the back; if you get the back row, I doubt you can even see. That popular.
Student price was $25, whereas that section usually sells for $90. Oh heck yes. There were no opera performances this week (I think they're done til fall), but the American Ballet Theatre was doing "The Sleeping Beauty" so I jumped on that right away. Going to see ballets is one of my top five favorite things to do. If I were rich, I'd do it every night. It's a portal to another world of exciting music, dazzling costumes, and feeling just grown-up enough to pretend you belong there. As things have been going, I think I've seen one about seven years if not less often. Which isn't great, but that's how it is.
Anyway, around 5 I rushed home from the park to get ready for the show at 7:30. I hadn't brought any nice clothes, but luckily my stop at the Goodwill my first day in Manhattan had been productive. I bought two dresses and washed one in the sink in preparation for the night. Hurried over on the subway and jumped in my seat seconds before the lights dimmed.
Long story short, it was wonderful. All ballets I've seen are good, but nothing can compare to the artists (and funding) available to a world-class establishment like this. Each of the four acts had a scenery change, and when the curtains drew back people in the audience would literally gasp at the scale and skill of the staging. At one point there were fireworks onstage to signal the approach of the evil fairy. The dancers -- holy moses. American Ballet Theatre is a really well-regarded company and the leads in this production were simply astounding. Even the lesser players were just shockingly good. I remember specifically when the Bluebird character (a male dancer) did a short solo piece at the wedding scene that was just incredible (you could hear murmurs of 'oh my god' and people holding their breath as he executed eyebrow-raising jumps and incredibly difficult sequences): when he finished, people jumped out of their seats and yelled "Bravo!"
That good.
Obviously I couldn't take pictures of the production, but here is one I found from the finale wedding scene.
I stayed there all day, and of course had to come home and die afterwards. I had planned to go to another museum, or to the beach (a city where you can visit a museum and a beach in the same day -- NY, I will never leave you), but the constant running around is taking its toll and I'm developing some impressive heel calluses that will be difficult to explain.
On the subject of complaints: my boss's cat. What initially seemed to be a normal sweet cat is driving me nuts. She won't eat her food which I put out at great personal risk (I hate cat food so much it's unreal) and will undoubtedly make it look like I wasn't taking care of her. She sleeps on the bed with me, but walks around (on me) in the night and jumps on and off in an effort to give me a heart attack at 3 a..m. If I try to pet her to placate her midnight restlessness, she turns around and bites me and leaves a mark. While this undoubtedly seems like normal cat behavior, I would like to point out that this cat has no teeth.
No teeth.
They got them extracted or something because of some infection, and now this no-teeth cat has to have its food watered down and uses its handicap as an excuse to act like a total rat bastard towards me. I tried really hard to fake her out tonight by brushing her and talking cat-talk, but to no avail. There's no garbage disposal, so you have to dump the uneaten cat food in the toilet to get rid of it. I thought I would be okay with this, not really being a squeamish person thanks to a stint in a YMCA kitchen, but it is effing gross and I'm beginning to suspect batcrap crazy as well. Just eat your food, cat. How hard could it be? It's not organic and contains meat. Give me another week here and I'll be eating it.*
Tomorrow I'm going to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, another destination I've always wanted to visit thanks to Dear America and similar books of my childhood. And then... the Tragedy concert in Brooklyn. Huzzah!
* probably an exaggeration
Yesterday I tried a few letterboxes, went to the Metropolitan Opera box office, and went to Central Park. Naturally, it was hella hot. I think I was 2/5 on the 'boxes, but there's still loads more to investigate next time I'm here. I'll write more about this when I get the pictures, since the Park was pretty much an all-day action packed venture.
At the MO, you can get cheap student tickets the day of a performance. Taking advantage of the fact that I still have my VU i.d. and look about eighteen years old, I got a ticket in the orchestra section: right on the floor, basically, and this is in a building with five floors of balconies and a "standing room" section in the back -- yes, this is a venue so popular that you can buy a ticket that doesn't even have a seat. There are three rows of rails in the back; if you get the back row, I doubt you can even see. That popular.
Student price was $25, whereas that section usually sells for $90. Oh heck yes. There were no opera performances this week (I think they're done til fall), but the American Ballet Theatre was doing "The Sleeping Beauty" so I jumped on that right away. Going to see ballets is one of my top five favorite things to do. If I were rich, I'd do it every night. It's a portal to another world of exciting music, dazzling costumes, and feeling just grown-up enough to pretend you belong there. As things have been going, I think I've seen one about seven years if not less often. Which isn't great, but that's how it is.
Anyway, around 5 I rushed home from the park to get ready for the show at 7:30. I hadn't brought any nice clothes, but luckily my stop at the Goodwill my first day in Manhattan had been productive. I bought two dresses and washed one in the sink in preparation for the night. Hurried over on the subway and jumped in my seat seconds before the lights dimmed.
Chandelier in the lobby.
That good.
Obviously I couldn't take pictures of the production, but here is one I found from the finale wedding scene.
Imagine that, onstage, in front of an audience of four thousand people. I laughed, I cried, I was amazed at the kind of artistry the human body proved capable of -- in short, I had the time of my life.
On the way home, I stopped at Times Square for a few minutes, since it was on my way and I didn't know when I'd be here at night again. Whoa -- square is not sufficient to describe it. Maybe in the day time, but at night when all the lights are lit you can see it stretching away for miles in every direction. it was like Oxford Street in London (actually, almost exactly), but I was paranoid and overdressed so I didn't venture too far.
Today I went to the American Museum of Natural History (again a twin of a London establishment). I had only meant to go there for the morning, but it quickly became apparent that this thing could suck up your entire life. Four floors of dinosaurs, models, meteorites, and flashbacks to every anthropology course I ever took.
Some highlights:
Life-size blue whale model.
Hominid evolution tree! Fond memories of anth...
Cast of Lucy fossils
Model of Sipan archaeological site in Peru
Reproduction of an Easter Island head, although all the kids
insisted it was a character from "Finding Nemo"
"It's a dino 'sorus line'!"
10 points for anyone getting that ref.
Although unlike London and Washington, D.C., museums here do cost money, so far everywhere I've been has a "suggested donation" price only. Which means you can just pay what you're able, with no stigma attached. This is the best idea I've ever heard. Overwhelmingly, people (well, tourists) seem to pay the recommended price, but it's a nice option for people like me who could buy a week's groceries with the money it would cost to enter this museum regularly. I paid less than 1/4 the suggested price for this museum, and it was perfectly fine.
I stayed there all day, and of course had to come home and die afterwards. I had planned to go to another museum, or to the beach (a city where you can visit a museum and a beach in the same day -- NY, I will never leave you), but the constant running around is taking its toll and I'm developing some impressive heel calluses that will be difficult to explain.
On the subject of complaints: my boss's cat. What initially seemed to be a normal sweet cat is driving me nuts. She won't eat her food which I put out at great personal risk (I hate cat food so much it's unreal) and will undoubtedly make it look like I wasn't taking care of her. She sleeps on the bed with me, but walks around (on me) in the night and jumps on and off in an effort to give me a heart attack at 3 a..m. If I try to pet her to placate her midnight restlessness, she turns around and bites me and leaves a mark. While this undoubtedly seems like normal cat behavior, I would like to point out that this cat has no teeth.
No teeth.
They got them extracted or something because of some infection, and now this no-teeth cat has to have its food watered down and uses its handicap as an excuse to act like a total rat bastard towards me. I tried really hard to fake her out tonight by brushing her and talking cat-talk, but to no avail. There's no garbage disposal, so you have to dump the uneaten cat food in the toilet to get rid of it. I thought I would be okay with this, not really being a squeamish person thanks to a stint in a YMCA kitchen, but it is effing gross and I'm beginning to suspect batcrap crazy as well. Just eat your food, cat. How hard could it be? It's not organic and contains meat. Give me another week here and I'll be eating it.*
Tomorrow I'm going to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, another destination I've always wanted to visit thanks to Dear America and similar books of my childhood. And then... the Tragedy concert in Brooklyn. Huzzah!
* probably an exaggeration
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
July 5
Quickie update about yesterday and today, before I go into late night planning frenzy of early morning activities I can do tomorrow before gate-crashing the Metropolitan Opera House to try to get a student ticket to tomorrow's ballet. Oh yeah.
I spent all, and I do mean all, day of the Fourth in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC's answer to the British Museum, which was just as chock full of flashbacks to high school as that establishment was. Oh hello, cover of various Latin and lit textbooks. Nice to see you again. Just like the other one, it's freakin' giant: I bet it takes up a whole block on the "Museum Mile" by Central Park (further explorations forthcoming).
It was different from the British Museum in that it was much louder in the galleries for some inexplicable reason, and navigating was like trying to find your way in the corn maze from hell. Random rooms and halls were blocked off with ropes and benches, ensuring I could never get where I wanted to go except by accident. Finally figured out the American wing I was aiming for (and the Madame X portrait, in particular) was entirely closed for renovation or some crap. The collection of American art closed on Independence Day -- what?! I'm surprised there weren't riots in the streets. It's reopening around the 22nd of this month, so I'll have to make a repeat visit.
Some highlights:
After that I had to come home to regroup and put my feet up on the couch til I felt less like death. I had read that the big Macy's firework show was on the Hudson River, so around 8 I took the subway as far west as it would go and then kept walking til I hit water. Luckily there were tons of people to follow, so I ended up on a pier (back in the shady Meatpacking District) out on the water to see the fireworks. They weren't spectacularly huge or better than what I've seen before, but they did have a lot more variety as far as different kinds and novelty fireworks that everyone got a kick out of. It was like a bowl of pyrotechnic Lucky Charms in the sky: "Look, it's a smiley face!" "A heart!" "Saturn!"
There were cops everywhere, and I didn't really know what to expect from this New York crowd. But everyone was really polite and genuinely excited. At one point during the fireworks, some guy yelled "Happy Fourth of July, everybody!" and everyone cheered him. Overall, it was a memorable experience that afforded ample opportunity for me to stop and reflect on how good my life is right now.
This morning I got up ungodly early because I had a ticket to go to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. You have to take a boat to get to both islands, and it's a two-fer deal with the EI Immigration Museum fee included in the price. I took the subway down to the Battery (mental directions courtesy of Leonard Bernstein) to pick up my ticket, catch the ferry, and generally act like a competent human being. That's not something I usually get to do.
You can see the statue from the tip of Manhattan (which is what the Battery area is), but only from the side and distantly. It was surreal, like seeing someone across the room you think you recognize, but aren't sure of because you don't think it's possible that you're both in the same place. When the ferry's out in the water approaching the island and leaving Manhattan behind, everyone crowds to the back of the boat to see New York disappear, just a bunch of tall buildings on a tiny piece of land.
I didn't get to go up in the statue, although they let you go up to the crown now. But the view from around it and the surrounding park were pretty good. I hopped onto a ranger-led tour of the island with a guide who got his degree at the James Brown/ fiery preacher school of enunciation, which was ten kinds of amusing.
Among the points he reiterated was that the first immigrants "came here to build the roads, so their children could design the cities." I wasn't really sure what he was on about, but it sounded good. Seeing the statue, especially from a boat, is kind of emotional when you stop to think about the millions of people who have been in that spot over the past 125 years (when Ellis Island opened) and what they were thinking when they saw it. For people who had given up literally everything to come to America, and who could never go back home even if they were rejected, and who had probably never seen anything taller than a two or three story building, I can't imagine what coming into the harbor and seeing the statue and Manhattan must have been like.
The Immigration Museum on Ellis Island was even better, because it gave life and voices to the kind of nebulous concepts of freedom and liberty that are floating around the statue. I had definitely always wanted to visit, thanks to a childhood full of historical fiction (does anybody remember Dear America? Those are still good, by the way). But it was way more emotional than I was anticipating. It wasn't personal, specifically (the B's were kickin' it in the woods of Polk County a century before EI even opened), but the museum really cuts to the heart of you and feel as if these people's story is your own, or that of someone you loved. They really downplay the perception (driven by Hollywood?) of EI as a dark, unforgiving place where families were torn apart by uncaring officials and focus on the hope of the people that came through of building a new life in a country free of the persecution and corruption they had fled.
They have a pretty good number of exhibits, and a lot of donated items from immigrants and their descendants that really bring things into perspective. It's one thing to talk about how many millions of people entered America during the huge turn of the century wave of migration, but it's another to see a pair of shoes and realize a person used to stand in them. The photos are also really cool, along with the scant info (regarding nationality, occupation, fate) available along with them.
The ones with interesting dress or origins in countries that no longer exist were my favorites, but it was hard to look back into the eyes of a picture when you saw the note at the corner that said 'deported'. That is, for some reason they were denied entry to the U.S. and sent back to their native country. If, like many, they were fleeing persecution and had sold all their possessions to afford a steamship ticket, I have no idea what could've happened to them in the end.
There's a film they have that will make any decent-hearted person cry like a baby, introduced by a park ranger who eventually reveals that his own grandparents came through Ellis Island. It's not that the film is overwhelmingly sad, exactly, but that it really makes you understand what the ranger was talking about on Liberty Island. Immigrants were drawn by stories of America as a fairy tale land where the streets were paved with gold and anyone could find work and live like a king, but what they found was usually much different, especially in the cities. The work was hard, incessant, paid poorly, and necessitated living in terrible conditions in tenements that were breeding grounds for disease and crime. But, they did it, and many counted themselves lucky. The surprising lack of "America blows" protests and literature was probably only because most immigrants were not used to a country where one could openly criticize the situation. But why was America an upgrade? Because living poorly was still better than living under tyranny, I guess. But what else?
Because they accepted that although things were going to be bad for them, things would be better for their children. And maybe this was enough. If the parents had to work a crappy job six days a week and save every penny so their child could have more schooling then they ever had, that was how it had to be. With education, their child could get a better job, move to a better area, and hopefully live better. The American dream for immigrants was a dream deferred to subsequent generations, and I think most just had to learn to accept that.
I can't imagine that kind of sacrifice. If I came to a foreign country in hope of an improved life and found things to be so crappy, I'd be mad as hell. I might even give up and go home, if that were possible. I can't imagine sticking it out knowing that I'd never reap the benefits. To continue on living a miserable existence, to benefit those I loved more than myself and counted as more important than myself, even if they hadn't been born yet -- I just can't imagine it.
But I think they could, and maybe that's why they stuck around. Maybe accepting that progress is incremental and all you can do in your lifetime is lay the foundation and hope for the best is the key to it. Maybe I could stand to build the roads as an unskilled laborer if I knew my children would get the chance to design the cities as architects, if I just kept on doing what I had to do. Maybe, but I don't know.
I spent all, and I do mean all, day of the Fourth in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC's answer to the British Museum, which was just as chock full of flashbacks to high school as that establishment was. Oh hello, cover of various Latin and lit textbooks. Nice to see you again. Just like the other one, it's freakin' giant: I bet it takes up a whole block on the "Museum Mile" by Central Park (further explorations forthcoming).
It was different from the British Museum in that it was much louder in the galleries for some inexplicable reason, and navigating was like trying to find your way in the corn maze from hell. Random rooms and halls were blocked off with ropes and benches, ensuring I could never get where I wanted to go except by accident. Finally figured out the American wing I was aiming for (and the Madame X portrait, in particular) was entirely closed for renovation or some crap. The collection of American art closed on Independence Day -- what?! I'm surprised there weren't riots in the streets. It's reopening around the 22nd of this month, so I'll have to make a repeat visit.
Some highlights:
Hall of Greek statues.
Ridiculously tiny and intricate wood carving -- the height of the center bar was maybe an inch.
This is stained glass by Tiffany. Glass! It is colored glass! How-- ccchhhhh?!
How do you know you museum is huge and important?
It absorbs other buildings.
Okay, not really. They just thought the front of this bank
was a cool design exhibit and transported it to the museum.
How do you know your museum has too much money?
"Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte" by Georges-Pierre Seurat
After that I had to come home to regroup and put my feet up on the couch til I felt less like death. I had read that the big Macy's firework show was on the Hudson River, so around 8 I took the subway as far west as it would go and then kept walking til I hit water. Luckily there were tons of people to follow, so I ended up on a pier (back in the shady Meatpacking District) out on the water to see the fireworks. They weren't spectacularly huge or better than what I've seen before, but they did have a lot more variety as far as different kinds and novelty fireworks that everyone got a kick out of. It was like a bowl of pyrotechnic Lucky Charms in the sky: "Look, it's a smiley face!" "A heart!" "Saturn!"
There were cops everywhere, and I didn't really know what to expect from this New York crowd. But everyone was really polite and genuinely excited. At one point during the fireworks, some guy yelled "Happy Fourth of July, everybody!" and everyone cheered him. Overall, it was a memorable experience that afforded ample opportunity for me to stop and reflect on how good my life is right now.
This morning I got up ungodly early because I had a ticket to go to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. You have to take a boat to get to both islands, and it's a two-fer deal with the EI Immigration Museum fee included in the price. I took the subway down to the Battery (mental directions courtesy of Leonard Bernstein) to pick up my ticket, catch the ferry, and generally act like a competent human being. That's not something I usually get to do.
You can see the statue from the tip of Manhattan (which is what the Battery area is), but only from the side and distantly. It was surreal, like seeing someone across the room you think you recognize, but aren't sure of because you don't think it's possible that you're both in the same place. When the ferry's out in the water approaching the island and leaving Manhattan behind, everyone crowds to the back of the boat to see New York disappear, just a bunch of tall buildings on a tiny piece of land.
I didn't get to go up in the statue, although they let you go up to the crown now. But the view from around it and the surrounding park were pretty good. I hopped onto a ranger-led tour of the island with a guide who got his degree at the James Brown/ fiery preacher school of enunciation, which was ten kinds of amusing.
I said-a, HA, who can tell me, why the, why the statue's-a green, HA?
Among the points he reiterated was that the first immigrants "came here to build the roads, so their children could design the cities." I wasn't really sure what he was on about, but it sounded good. Seeing the statue, especially from a boat, is kind of emotional when you stop to think about the millions of people who have been in that spot over the past 125 years (when Ellis Island opened) and what they were thinking when they saw it. For people who had given up literally everything to come to America, and who could never go back home even if they were rejected, and who had probably never seen anything taller than a two or three story building, I can't imagine what coming into the harbor and seeing the statue and Manhattan must have been like.
The Immigration Museum on Ellis Island was even better, because it gave life and voices to the kind of nebulous concepts of freedom and liberty that are floating around the statue. I had definitely always wanted to visit, thanks to a childhood full of historical fiction (does anybody remember Dear America? Those are still good, by the way). But it was way more emotional than I was anticipating. It wasn't personal, specifically (the B's were kickin' it in the woods of Polk County a century before EI even opened), but the museum really cuts to the heart of you and feel as if these people's story is your own, or that of someone you loved. They really downplay the perception (driven by Hollywood?) of EI as a dark, unforgiving place where families were torn apart by uncaring officials and focus on the hope of the people that came through of building a new life in a country free of the persecution and corruption they had fled.
Although even in the 19th century, dorm life was hell.
Ruthenian woman at Ellis Island, c. 1906. By Augustus F. Sherman
The ones with interesting dress or origins in countries that no longer exist were my favorites, but it was hard to look back into the eyes of a picture when you saw the note at the corner that said 'deported'. That is, for some reason they were denied entry to the U.S. and sent back to their native country. If, like many, they were fleeing persecution and had sold all their possessions to afford a steamship ticket, I have no idea what could've happened to them in the end.
There's a film they have that will make any decent-hearted person cry like a baby, introduced by a park ranger who eventually reveals that his own grandparents came through Ellis Island. It's not that the film is overwhelmingly sad, exactly, but that it really makes you understand what the ranger was talking about on Liberty Island. Immigrants were drawn by stories of America as a fairy tale land where the streets were paved with gold and anyone could find work and live like a king, but what they found was usually much different, especially in the cities. The work was hard, incessant, paid poorly, and necessitated living in terrible conditions in tenements that were breeding grounds for disease and crime. But, they did it, and many counted themselves lucky. The surprising lack of "America blows" protests and literature was probably only because most immigrants were not used to a country where one could openly criticize the situation. But why was America an upgrade? Because living poorly was still better than living under tyranny, I guess. But what else?
Because they accepted that although things were going to be bad for them, things would be better for their children. And maybe this was enough. If the parents had to work a crappy job six days a week and save every penny so their child could have more schooling then they ever had, that was how it had to be. With education, their child could get a better job, move to a better area, and hopefully live better. The American dream for immigrants was a dream deferred to subsequent generations, and I think most just had to learn to accept that.
I can't imagine that kind of sacrifice. If I came to a foreign country in hope of an improved life and found things to be so crappy, I'd be mad as hell. I might even give up and go home, if that were possible. I can't imagine sticking it out knowing that I'd never reap the benefits. To continue on living a miserable existence, to benefit those I loved more than myself and counted as more important than myself, even if they hadn't been born yet -- I just can't imagine it.
But I think they could, and maybe that's why they stuck around. Maybe accepting that progress is incremental and all you can do in your lifetime is lay the foundation and hope for the best is the key to it. Maybe I could stand to build the roads as an unskilled laborer if I knew my children would get the chance to design the cities as architects, if I just kept on doing what I had to do. Maybe, but I don't know.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
July 3
Finally planned my week this morning, since it was raining and I could make that excuse as to why I was still on the couch. Every day is going to be chock full of touristy goodness that will probably leave me in need of a podiatric surgeon by the time Sunday rolls around.
After prioritizing my list of spots to visit (museums! Parks! More museums!), I went out in search of some authentic NY pizza and was cruelly jipped when this place that got good reviews was serving up some pretty average slices, if you ask me. How am I picking such crappy places that Nashville cuisine is coming out ahead (see yesterday's cupcake episode)?
Anyway, continuing on: I got my subway card (7 days unlimited rides for $29 -- good deal, considering each ride normally costs about $2.25) and rode it a couple stops to the vicinity of Chinatown. There was a random breakdancer on the train, who turned on his boombox for one stop and hung upside on the bars before asking for tips. Once there, I of course got distracted by other things. Of course I had to make detours to Bleecker Street (for the Simon and Garfunkel song) and the Bowery (of APUSH fame for riots and dudes acting like total 19th century douches), only to then see a sign for the Williamsburg bridge, which leads from Manhattan to a section of Brooklyn and features in one of my fave books, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. There's a pedestrian walkway over the bridge so potentially you can cross the East River by foot. I kidded myself that I could do this, but quickly saw the error of my ways when I realized I'd been walking on the "bridge" for half an hour and still hadn't hit water. I went far enough on to get a picture and then turned my sad self around.
Eventually found my way into Chinatown, which was basically a touristy riot of souvenir shops and restaurants. But most people there were Asian, so maybe it's legit?
Finding the "Little Italy" marked on my map was way more difficult, and after many miles I figured out why: it's been taken over by Chiantown, and the current "Little Italy" is in Brooklyn. This one, which was a few blocks of restaurants with names like "Mambo 'taliano", was designated "historic Little Italy", which is a bit of a con if you ask me. Then I thought about the conception of Little Italy that's been percolating in my mind since I was seven, and I realized I should've sensed something fishy way sooner: there's no way Tony Manero was living in Manhattan. Well, not until Staying Alive, anyway.
After that I wandered further south in search of the African Burial Ground, which is always talked about in American archaeology and even pops up in history texts sometimes. Basically what's going on is a huge African-American cemetery from the 17th and 18th centuries (like, > 20,000 people, more or less the slaves who built New York), that was uncovered during construction and set off enormous controversy. As the guard told me, this site is often surprising to people who generally conceive of slavery as a purely Southern institution -- you're telling me! New York, instead of a city built on rock 'n roll, is a city built literally on the graves of the people that constructed it. I'm not really sure what I expected, since obviously the site was minimally excavated, but there's a nice little memorial park there.
Following this, I limped south towards the financial district, but the rain that had been going all day got a little more serious and I thought I'd better head back up the island. Not before stopping in the "meatpacking district" (what? I'd ask, but it doesn't sound like the kind of thing I'd really want explained), which is apparently very trendy judging from the shops of exclusively one designer that even I'd heard of. They also built this thing called the High Line there, which is like a park converted from an old elevated train track that goes above the neighborhood and looks out on the Hudson River.
Finally made it home, and managed to find the nearest grocery store. Food is weirdly expensive here, even the normal non-organic environment-destroying stuff, and I have no idea why. It's not like they're shipping it huge distances -- surely these places have headquarters and distribution centers somewhere in the vicinity of this metropolis. Yoplait yogurt, which is like 60 cents at home, is $1.15 here. It's $8 for a brick of Breyer's ice cream -- are you for real?! I settled for a $4 half-gal of store brand chocolate and trucked it home. It's like VU munchie marts on crack.
Actually, the whole NY experience is very Vandy and dorm-like, if you ask me. Laundry in the basement, redonk security to get in your home, munchie marts that are convenient but bleed you dry,
Tomorrow... well, I'll have to look at the schedule I made, but I think it's the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which is supposed to be glorious and will fill up my day pretty sufficiently. Then scheming to find a spot for possibly the sweetest fireworks ever.
After prioritizing my list of spots to visit (museums! Parks! More museums!), I went out in search of some authentic NY pizza and was cruelly jipped when this place that got good reviews was serving up some pretty average slices, if you ask me. How am I picking such crappy places that Nashville cuisine is coming out ahead (see yesterday's cupcake episode)?
Anyway, continuing on: I got my subway card (7 days unlimited rides for $29 -- good deal, considering each ride normally costs about $2.25) and rode it a couple stops to the vicinity of Chinatown. There was a random breakdancer on the train, who turned on his boombox for one stop and hung upside on the bars before asking for tips. Once there, I of course got distracted by other things. Of course I had to make detours to Bleecker Street (for the Simon and Garfunkel song) and the Bowery (of APUSH fame for riots and dudes acting like total 19th century douches), only to then see a sign for the Williamsburg bridge, which leads from Manhattan to a section of Brooklyn and features in one of my fave books, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. There's a pedestrian walkway over the bridge so potentially you can cross the East River by foot. I kidded myself that I could do this, but quickly saw the error of my ways when I realized I'd been walking on the "bridge" for half an hour and still hadn't hit water. I went far enough on to get a picture and then turned my sad self around.
My expression in this picture is due to the fact that
it is raining and I am dying, but I'm having fun.
Eventually found my way into Chinatown, which was basically a touristy riot of souvenir shops and restaurants. But most people there were Asian, so maybe it's legit?
Finding the "Little Italy" marked on my map was way more difficult, and after many miles I figured out why: it's been taken over by Chiantown, and the current "Little Italy" is in Brooklyn. This one, which was a few blocks of restaurants with names like "Mambo 'taliano", was designated "historic Little Italy", which is a bit of a con if you ask me. Then I thought about the conception of Little Italy that's been percolating in my mind since I was seven, and I realized I should've sensed something fishy way sooner: there's no way Tony Manero was living in Manhattan. Well, not until Staying Alive, anyway.
After that I wandered further south in search of the African Burial Ground, which is always talked about in American archaeology and even pops up in history texts sometimes. Basically what's going on is a huge African-American cemetery from the 17th and 18th centuries (like, > 20,000 people, more or less the slaves who built New York), that was uncovered during construction and set off enormous controversy. As the guard told me, this site is often surprising to people who generally conceive of slavery as a purely Southern institution -- you're telling me! New York, instead of a city built on rock 'n roll, is a city built literally on the graves of the people that constructed it. I'm not really sure what I expected, since obviously the site was minimally excavated, but there's a nice little memorial park there.
Following this, I limped south towards the financial district, but the rain that had been going all day got a little more serious and I thought I'd better head back up the island. Not before stopping in the "meatpacking district" (what? I'd ask, but it doesn't sound like the kind of thing I'd really want explained), which is apparently very trendy judging from the shops of exclusively one designer that even I'd heard of. They also built this thing called the High Line there, which is like a park converted from an old elevated train track that goes above the neighborhood and looks out on the Hudson River.
The view was not great due to the rain, and I also can't use it tomorrow as home base for the fireworks, unfortunately. I heard they set them off on both rivers surrounding the island, so I'll have to scope out a good spot somewhere tomorrow.
Check it, you can see the old tracks!
Finally made it home, and managed to find the nearest grocery store. Food is weirdly expensive here, even the normal non-organic environment-destroying stuff, and I have no idea why. It's not like they're shipping it huge distances -- surely these places have headquarters and distribution centers somewhere in the vicinity of this metropolis. Yoplait yogurt, which is like 60 cents at home, is $1.15 here. It's $8 for a brick of Breyer's ice cream -- are you for real?! I settled for a $4 half-gal of store brand chocolate and trucked it home. It's like VU munchie marts on crack.
Actually, the whole NY experience is very Vandy and dorm-like, if you ask me. Laundry in the basement, redonk security to get in your home, munchie marts that are convenient but bleed you dry,
Tomorrow... well, I'll have to look at the schedule I made, but I think it's the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which is supposed to be glorious and will fill up my day pretty sufficiently. Then scheming to find a spot for possibly the sweetest fireworks ever.
The Bowery at Night, W.L. Sontag 1895
Saturday, July 2, 2011
July 2
Another exciting day in the city that never sleeps or wears sensible shoes.
Every day I wake up and get options paralysis thinking about all the possibilities of the day. Then I hit upon a plan and get excited to get started. Then I remember my boss is a vegetarian who also thinks gluten is the devil so all she has in her apartment for breakfast is this god-awful organic oatmeal and that Greek yogurt stuff. Yeah, yeah, I understand that American yogurt is all sugared up and this is what natural yogurt tastes like, but the first time I had it I ended up frantically searching the container for the expiration date because I was convinced it had gone bad. I never found the date but since there were no adverse side effects, I'm guessing it's still okay. The daily consideration of my free but horrifying breakfast options kind of puts a damper on my morning.
Listen to me, complaining about free food -- oh how things have changed.
I haven't bought my subway pass yet (procrastination in the name of cheapness lives on!), so today I just walked for a billion hours. I went to St. Patrick's Cathedral, which was awesome and beautiful. Across the street I accidentally stumbled upon Rockefeller Center, but I'm saving that for another day/night, depending on how I feel that day about being mugged. Because I am secretly a ten-year-old girl I also went to the American Girl store on 5th Avenue. It was like a store/museum of all the dolls and stories. I used to read about it every month in the magazine when I was kid, but now it's officially real. I was definitely the only person unaccompanied by a child on the premises, but what can I say -- I'm a nerrrrrrd.
After that, I went on a guided history tour of Union Square led by a historian/ teacher woman, which was really cool despite the ever-looming danger of sunburn from walking around any open spaces in the summer. I put my plastic Wal-mart lunch bag over the back of my neck, figuring accurately that with all the crazy fashion and generally crazy people all around, no one is ever looking at me. I think that is what I like most about cities: anonymity and freedom to be/look/act however you want, because everyone is preoccupied with more important things.
Anyway, after learning all about the statues and fountains, I had to come home and collapse for awhile, then make dinner. My lack of culinary skills becomes even more apparent and disastrous when all I have to work with is food I'm not familiar with. I fried some Trader Joe's Sausageless Italian Sausage and threw some kidney beans in the pan with it. Clearly I need someone to look after me. Like everywhere I've encountered in NY, the stove is gas and thus I have no frame of reference for how long things should cook. The directions on the back of the package were unnecessarily complicated as well and I almost had a breakdown yelling "Trader Joe's? More like Traitor Joe's!!" when the pan started smoking after I tried so hard to follow the 'cook on medium heat for five minutes, turning every minute' step.
After that I felt obligated to go to the bakery down the street and procure an overpriced cupcake to settle my nerves. It was a mistake: everything in there looks good, but after Gigi's nothing can compare. Manhattanites, do you think this is chocolate buttercream? Let me tell you about chocolate buttercream.
Okay, how did I just write an entire paragraph about my dubious kitchen prowess and some dry fake sausage substitute when I spent an exciting day touring Manhattan? And another rant before that about crappy yogurt? It must be because I love to complain, and am only funny when doing so. If my life were always awesome I wouldn't have anything to say ever again.
What am I doing tomorrow? I don't know! When am I planning it? Not tonight! Huzzah!
Every day I wake up and get options paralysis thinking about all the possibilities of the day. Then I hit upon a plan and get excited to get started. Then I remember my boss is a vegetarian who also thinks gluten is the devil so all she has in her apartment for breakfast is this god-awful organic oatmeal and that Greek yogurt stuff. Yeah, yeah, I understand that American yogurt is all sugared up and this is what natural yogurt tastes like, but the first time I had it I ended up frantically searching the container for the expiration date because I was convinced it had gone bad. I never found the date but since there were no adverse side effects, I'm guessing it's still okay. The daily consideration of my free but horrifying breakfast options kind of puts a damper on my morning.
Listen to me, complaining about free food -- oh how things have changed.
I haven't bought my subway pass yet (procrastination in the name of cheapness lives on!), so today I just walked for a billion hours. I went to St. Patrick's Cathedral, which was awesome and beautiful. Across the street I accidentally stumbled upon Rockefeller Center, but I'm saving that for another day/night, depending on how I feel that day about being mugged. Because I am secretly a ten-year-old girl I also went to the American Girl store on 5th Avenue. It was like a store/museum of all the dolls and stories. I used to read about it every month in the magazine when I was kid, but now it's officially real. I was definitely the only person unaccompanied by a child on the premises, but what can I say -- I'm a nerrrrrrd.
One of these things is not like the other...
After that, I went on a guided history tour of Union Square led by a historian/ teacher woman, which was really cool despite the ever-looming danger of sunburn from walking around any open spaces in the summer. I put my plastic Wal-mart lunch bag over the back of my neck, figuring accurately that with all the crazy fashion and generally crazy people all around, no one is ever looking at me. I think that is what I like most about cities: anonymity and freedom to be/look/act however you want, because everyone is preoccupied with more important things.
Union Square is the open area you cannot see in this picture,
because it is filled with people for the Farmers' Market.
Anyway, after learning all about the statues and fountains, I had to come home and collapse for awhile, then make dinner. My lack of culinary skills becomes even more apparent and disastrous when all I have to work with is food I'm not familiar with. I fried some Trader Joe's Sausageless Italian Sausage and threw some kidney beans in the pan with it. Clearly I need someone to look after me. Like everywhere I've encountered in NY, the stove is gas and thus I have no frame of reference for how long things should cook. The directions on the back of the package were unnecessarily complicated as well and I almost had a breakdown yelling "Trader Joe's? More like Traitor Joe's!!" when the pan started smoking after I tried so hard to follow the 'cook on medium heat for five minutes, turning every minute' step.
After that I felt obligated to go to the bakery down the street and procure an overpriced cupcake to settle my nerves. It was a mistake: everything in there looks good, but after Gigi's nothing can compare. Manhattanites, do you think this is chocolate buttercream? Let me tell you about chocolate buttercream.
Okay, how did I just write an entire paragraph about my dubious kitchen prowess and some dry fake sausage substitute when I spent an exciting day touring Manhattan? And another rant before that about crappy yogurt? It must be because I love to complain, and am only funny when doing so. If my life were always awesome I wouldn't have anything to say ever again.
What am I doing tomorrow? I don't know! When am I planning it? Not tonight! Huzzah!
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