¡Pobrecito!

Our cat hurtled himself off the window ledge yesterday. He took a nose-dive into the empty air and crash landed in the ally, three flights below. Giles, the furry comet.

Typically, the ally is home to a ’round-the-clock soiree, where Dominican gentlemen congregate to smoke pot, drink El Presidente, and listen the same mariachi song over and over. Had it been warmer, the ally revelers would’ve had some spice added to their party routine, something new to tell to the wives back at home:

A howling cat falling headlong from the heavens. A white boy leaning from a window ledge above, eyes wide with despair, his voice a shot in the dark: “Giles!”

Had it been warmer, our cat’s limp body would’ve been encircled by the ally revelers once it hit the pavement. The mariachi song would draw to a close; no one would dare hit repeat. Quiet, sensitive Manuel would be the first to crouch down and run calloused hand over furry flank. Never to be outdone, Victor would mournfully remove his Mets cap, turn his face to the sky and cry: “¡Pobrecito!”

Seconds later, Shaun would pound the ally gate with both fists. Jose would break from the group to let him in. Smelling the familiar scent of his owner, life would stir back into the cat’s body. His eyelids would flutter, a pathetic meow would issue from his mouth. The cat would move himself to all fours, slow but steady, resurrected.

The ally revelers would cheer and offer Shaun a beer, a hit, a mariachi song. “No,” he’d say, “thank you. I’d better get this little guy home.”

But it was unseasonably cold yesterday. A dirty clamminess clung to the air like a strand of greasy hair. There were no ally revelers. There was no soiree. There was only a cat sprawled on pavement, a locked ally door, and a frantic Shaun banging on it, unable to get in.

Shaun called the super, who did not answer. He called the building owner, who promised he might swing by to help, but not until Monday. In pigeon-Spanish, Shaun asked neighbors if they knew anyone in the building with a key. After all, someone must have one, seeing as how our ally is party-central. But as white people, as non-Dominican people, as non-Orthodox Jews, as people for whom English is their first language, whose parents were born in this country: we are not to be trusted.

We don’t know what happens here, how things work. We don’t know why there are at least two plains-clothes arrests every night on our block. We don’t know why every corner has a candle-lit memorial site to a slain teenager, where friends leave poetry and bags of the victims favorite snacks. We don’t know the characters in the murals. We only know that mail trucks and city services won’t come above 148th street, where most maps of Manhattan inexplicably end. We live on 186th.

We are outsiders here. We are constantly aware of our skin, our language, our dress, our walk, our music, our shows, our water bottles, our hair, our inability to access the ally where our cat’s injured body is sprawled: this is how the Dominicans and the Orthodox Jews in this neighborhood must feel if they go anywhere outside of it. We can only ever be observers in this place. We are lingering guests, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

After running around the building like mad, someone must have taken pity on Shaun and unlocked the ally door for him. There, he found our cat, face bloodied and swollen. But alive. The vet office took him in early this morning for cat x-rays and mending.

I was away, working yet another double-job, 14-hour Friday when this all happened. I came home to find an unravelled husband, a cat sipping shallow breaths, and a feeling that I was missing my life, letting down everyone I loved, and selling small chunks of myself just to keep living in a city I’ve grown to hate.

Many people say that pets and their owners mirror each-other. While neither Shaun nor I are as cute as Giles, we do share personality traits with him. Giles is one of the friendliest cats I’ve ever met. He rushes, indiscriminately, to anyone who enters our home—-family, friends, repairmen—-for cuddles, conversation, and play. Giles is also a gusty, brave cat. He loves racing out the door, tearing into the unknown, blindly trusting that it will be nothing more than a fun lark. And last night, rushing headlong onto the street, Giles hadn’t the faintest idea that NYC would knock the wind out of him and leave him wondering why he ever thought it wise to do such a foolish, painful thing.

The Verdict

The NYPD officers who murdered Sean Bell were found not guilty of all charges today.

For those who’ve not been following this story, plain clothes NYPD cops were undercover investigating a prostitution ring at a strip club in November of 2006. It just so happened that Sean Bell and his friends were out at the club for Sean’s bachelor party. Boys. Strippers. Booze. The cops, inexplicably, proceeded to shoot 50 bullets into Mr. Bell’s body. The cause? Black. Rowdy. He must be violent, right?

There are those who say that Mr. Bell’s death is not an issue of race. Two of the cops who riddled this man’s body with bullets were “of color” (God, I hate that phrase—what does it even mean, anyhow?!). But the fact is this: the police system is dominated by white men. The officers, while not blameless, are working within a racist system. There promotion, survival, and job security depends on them acting just like the good ole boys. While I can’t pretend that I know the motivations of men who needlessly fire 50 bullets into another man’s body, I cannot pretend that this verdict, this act of violence, is not racially motivated. This violence—this sick and symptomatic violence—would never happen to a pack of white boys out on the town.

I can’t stop thinking of Sean Bell’s fiancé. Hearing today’s verdict must have made her feel as if her groom died all over again.

Click here for the NY Times article.

Click here for the Village Voice article.

Little known fact: You can get up to 30 days in jail for calling an officer a pig. Meanwhile, they can shoot 50 bullets into your body to no consequence.

Head Above Water

I woke last Sunday, yawned and said, “lets go to the ocean.”

An hour later—-without plans, expectations, or a particular destination in mind—-my husband and I were in a rented compact with an East Coast guide book.

Before turning the key in the ignition, we quickly flicked through the guide book, a childhood chant on our tongues: “Where, oh where, oh where will we go? Where will we go? Nobody knows!”

The book settled on page 70: Westport, Connecticut. A seafood pub address was listed. We plugged it into the GPS system and were on our way.

Flying down the interstate, the city clung to the landscape for a surprisingly long time. The outskirts were particularly grim, yielding acres of industrial waste, fields of high-rise public housing projects. But soon the natural world took hold again. Yellow stalks of marsh grasses extended upwards towards a rabbit-gray sky. Springtime buds dotted the gnarled twists of ancient branches. In an hour’s time, we were in Westport. Birdcalls and the gurgle of the Saugatuck River were the loudest sounds around.

We strolled the town, side-by-side, un-rushed, natural, talking. We did not have to compete for breathing space, nor shout above the roar of the city. No one asked us for our spare change nor shit their pants in front of us. No one was arrested. The dodgiest rodents around were squirrels.

We lunched at the Riverside Tavern, where we dined on sea creatures and grilled sandwiches of fancy cheese. Manhattan has a way of making everything else seem cheap.

We walked along the shore of the Long Island Sound, the soles of our feet rejoicing under the squish of unpaved earth. I put my palm in the cold water and held handfuls of slimy seaweed just for the feel. I took pictures and stole shells. It felt good to see the sky again.

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We’ve been working a lot lately. Like most young people we’ve met who live in NYC, Shaun and I both hustle second jobs (the ones we do after our regular office 9-5 gigs) just to stay afloat—-book selling (me) and freelancing (Shaun). This, in addition to the creative projects we’re involved in. We finish work close to midnight each night, eyes tired and twitching, often with a long subway commute home still in front of us. I miss my own husband. I miss my bed. New York is aging us, introducing a bitter world-wariness that’s difficult to keep at bay. This city is not a sustainable place. And escapes like this one are necessary to keep the shreds of ourselves we love the most alive.

Uphill Battle

There is an extraordinarily steep hill in my neighborhood that I trek at least twice a day. The hill is 185th Street, west of St. Nicholas Avenue. At the bottom of the hill, burrowing deep into the guts of Washington Heights, is an A-train entrance, my transport of choice to work and downtown in general. My favorite grocery store, Key Foods, is also nearby.

Like many residents, I can often be found lumbering up the hill at 185th clutching grocery bags bloated with heavies—-a gallon of milk, a sack of cat litter, a six pack. Circulation compromised under the strain of plastic bags, my fingers ache, pudgy and purple. From the stiff crook of my elbow, precariously draped plastic sheaths of dry cleaning threaten to slip. My work bag thumps against my hip with each step. My thighs ache. My shoes slip.

I once told my mom that having a good day in Manhattan feels like you’ve conquered something huge; I very well may have been thinking of this hill when I said it. While I enjoy hiking in the mountains and my morning run has me racing daily up the slopes of Ft. Tyron park, there is something daunting about climbing a peak while burdened with the stuff of every day living. The task seems unwieldy and burdensome. However, each time I arrive breathless at the summit, I am rewarded for my efforts with a surge of gratitude and relief. In a city where a person is required to jump through a million impossible hoops every day, this hill is usually the day’s last obstacle keeping me from the warm snug of home. And I feel a small coin of happiness each time I overcome it.

I Poop New York

There is nothing more lonesome than eating a packet of mini cheese Ritz for dinner. But by 11 pm—-after a 9-6 in the office, followed by a shift at my second job selling books at author events—-I’m starved. I buy the crackers from the platform vendor while waiting for my train home. I cram the greasy disks into my mouth with germy subway hands. I am exhausted. I am beyond caring. Chewing, I watch the rats scurry in the tracks below.

My ride is exactly 1-hour long and at an hour where more normal people than not are tucked away in bed. Sometimes I can’t resist the compulsion to buy something to eat before I am home. Oftentimes my journey takes such an unappetizing twist that eating after it is out of the question.

For example, a man shit before my very eyes a few weeks ago. We were on the subway. It was late. Across the aisle from me, the man was badgering a woman for money. When she refused to give him anything, his tirade began.

He paced up and down the car, muttering: “I’ll show you! I’ll show you!”

After a time, the man stopped directly in front of the woman, popped a squat, and pushed. By some grace of God, he did not bother to remove his pants.

It’s rare that I ever see what a human face looks like whilst a shit is in progress. I don’t know many infants and my bathroom mirror is above my sink, not across from my toilet.

When defecating, the human brow furrows, then eases. The mouth puckers, then smiles. The smile is not big nor toothy, but a relaxed expression. It is a self satisfied grin that simply says: I pooped.

When his crap was fully expelled, the man exhaled as if in a soda commercial, although I doubt the steaming load in his pants was carbonated or refreshing. I do not have to tell you how bad this smelled.

After, the man sat down between us on the subway floor, laughing. The woman and I changed cars at the next stop, leaving him to fester—-the only pair of pants he owned filled to the brim with shit.

Pub & Hike

I have a few itineraries up my sleeve, all of which are guaranteed to deliver a perfect day. There’s the Sick Day Matinee, where you call in sick and go see a daytime movie by yourself (use sparingly). There’s Bike to the Beach, which includes ample reading, swimming, and a popsicle. There’s Night Baking & Podcasts (baking apple pie or date cookies while listening to This American Life or Radio Lab are my favorite combinations). There’s Farmers’ Market & Frisbee; Fish Tacos & a Museum; and Forget the Laundry & Write. Last but certainly not least, there’s Pub & Hike.

While all of the itineraries make me smile, the Pub & Hike does more. It keeps me sane. If I don’t escape the city with Shaun at least once every two months or so, I begin to turn strange. I need to be away from the entire world. Or rather, I need to fill my senses with a world that I feel most connected to: a world of rivers, trees, and great sweeping landscapes.

On our hikes, I like the smell of mud and the sound of Shaun’s hiking stick tapping the ground with each step. I like lunchtime on the trail, sitting in the hollows of rocks and reading beat-up old paperbacks, retrieved from the crumpled depths of my backpack. I like the sting of wind and the warmth of the sun. I like the way my limbs tingle after 10 miles, like alkazelser fizzing in my veins.

Perfect hikes end inside a warm pub. There, Shaun and I take off our hats and gloves. Our hair stands up, crazed with wind and sweat. Our cheeks are rosy and our noses are running. The world is glowing in that love-struck way. We order hot toddies to warm up. We eat shepherds’ pie and spit a slice of pecan pie for dessert.

A few Sunday’s ago, to celebrate my birthday weekend, Shaun and I scheduled a little Pub & Hike in Cold Spring, New York. The village of Cold Spring is only 50 miles north of Manhattan but is an entirely different world. Best of all, its just over an hour away on the Metro North train line. Little Stony Point State Park, where most of the trailheads for the area’s hiking are located, is a short walk from the train station - the locals are happy to point you in the right direction.

For our hike, we chose Mt Taurus. The trail was rigorous. The weather was very windy, but mild and sunny. We saw massive birds of prey and from the mountain top, watched the longest train we’ve ever seen snake its way along the Hudson River below. After the hike, we dined at The Cold Spring Depot. The entire day was exactly what I needed.

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Towards the end of the trail, we came across the ruins of a Cornish estate. I’ve yet to investigate the history of this place, but it was fun to poke about in. It was haunted for sure.

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What is your itinerary of choice? What are some things that you do just for you?

The Hibernating Blog Awakens

This winter has been rife with change. In December, I was offered a job at a Creative Writing school in the city. The job is fair, just, and tolerable. This is more than can be said for the dull office temp jobs that I took out of sheer desperation when we first got back to the country (not to mention that insane producer job that went tits up within weeks!). I am more than happy to work at the Creative Writing school until our time in NYC is up.

As for Shaun, he’s been busy tending to his exploding freelance career and working at a well-suited day job in academic publishing. He’s also been diligently networking in an effort to pair his fiction with an agent. He travels for work a lot; a publication recently sent him to San Francisco to cover a convention. He is in DC to lobby for first amendment rights for work this week. It’s a wonder to me that he finds time to write. But he does, every weekend. Such discipline!

Also this winter, our apartment has transformed from a storage space of dusty boxes to a furnished, cozy refuge from the outside world. I’ve made a small handful of friends and re-connected with people from the past who’ve also wound up here in the city. I’m taking writers’ workshop again, dusting off some old works of short fiction that I’d been neglecting. We’ve discovered a favorite neighborhood restaurant. I’ve established a running route. I make bi-weekly treks to the library. We’ve been busy getting into a groove, something that is emotionally difficult to do in a city that we don’t see ourselves living in for very long (another story for another time). But we’ve been doing it. And there have been more than a few dazzling moments. I just haven’t had the time to blog about them.

One warm weekend in January, Shaun and I wondered Central Park for hours. That was a beautiful day.

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Over President’s Day weekend in February, our Baltimore friends Beth and Jay came for a visit.

We dressed up the cat…

…and walked around the city.

We also took the free ferry to Stanton Island. There, you can glimpse the Brooklyn Bridge and the Statue of liberty. We were going to walk the Brooklyn Bridge, but we ran out of time and nice weather. Next time!

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Staten Island has a totally and completely different feel than Manhattan, Brooklyn, or Queens. It feels like a small, separate city, nearly suburban. A bit shabby, but quiet. We walked around for a bit, I took a few snaps, and then we were back on the ferry. I discovered more than a few cool things to check out on Staten for the next time I go, including a huge park with hiking trails, a museum of Tibetan art, and an authentic Chinese garden. Also, next time, I want to eat at this restaurant with killer bird murals painted all over it:

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More pictures from Staten:

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The Manhattan skyline on the ferry back home:

Beth, Jay, Shaun, and I strolled through the city some more the following day, Sunday, February 17th. The morning started in Times Square and meandered uptown, through Central Park, to spend an afternoon at The Met.

Usually, Times Square makes me want to seizure. The belly rumble of the subway underfoot underscores the shill noise of buses breaking, taxis honking, street vendors hawking, pop music blaring, and a million different cell phone conversations at once. There’s beggars, TV crews, tourists, hot dog vendors, pick pockets, models. The working poor and the unemployed rich. We are all bodies in motion here. From a distance, we are one lump human sum, streaming together down sidewalks and cross streets. The appearance of cooperation soon disintegrates: once you’re in the throes of it, Midtown is a mosh pit. We clutch our belongings tight and elbow past each other with gritted teeth. We weave through crowds. We cut each-other off with our wheely suitcases. We shed hot cigarette ash on one another’s thighs. We get hit by cars and bikes in our desire to get where we’re going and get there first. We struggle against millions of neon lights screaming millions of meaningless advertisements. In Times Square, capitalism reaches a frenzied pitch. It is usually a nauseating showcase of humans at their worst.

Still though, when visiting NYC, a walk through Times Square is a must. Unlike many tourist activities, you do not simply sight-see in Times Square. You have a visceral experience. We could never deprive Beth or Jay of this.

However, to my complete surprise, the noise of the square had purpose that morning: to celebrate Kosavo’s independence from Serbia. It was really beautiful to stumble upon something like this. For the first time, the square was focused and friendly. Crowds cheered and wrapped themselves in flags. An impromptu parade unfolded in front of our eyes - immigrants drove through the square, hanging out of their car windows, honking their horns, cheering, jubilant. For the first time since I arrived in New York, the humans around me were not stepping over each other; they were sharing something positive. The power of it overwhelmed the hustle and flow of commerce in the square. No flashing advertisement or aggressive promoter could compete with the force of those happy humans. I’m glad our friends got to see NYC at its triumphant best.

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Have you ever been to Times Square? What was your reaction to it?

Travel Tip: To cleanse your pallet after any Times Square rendezvous, I recommend a visit to one of the city’s nearby vest-pocket parks: The Plaza on 6th Avenue, between 48th and 49th Streets. There, a tall pebbly waterfall runs the width of a lot; a short glass tunnel slices through the center. Walking through the cool tunnel completely refreshes the senses. Beneath it, the sounds of the city disappear. All you can hear is cascading water, all you can see is its bubbling surf raining down atop you. As far as I can tell, though, this park isn’t open on the weekend, so plan your post-Times Square lobotomy accordingly.

Break for Lunch. Break for Sanity.

At the moment, I work in a dull, gray job in a dull, gray office in Lower Manhattan. No crazy, interesting stories to tell about Devil Wears Prada bosses. Just a lifeless job that utilizes none of my strong suits (writing, event planning, brainstorming, coordination of big, beautiful things) and exclusively focuses on mindless duties (data entry, data entry, data entry). A very viable escape route is in the works, but in the meantime, I’m just thankful to earn a secure source of income. I’m grinning, bearing it, and making an active effort to give myself something to look forward to everyday. My favorite treat? The lunch time stroll.

There are buildings in that neighborhood, particularly around City Hall, that have managed to survive the century with dignity and grace. I love walking around during my lunch break, looking up at the details and finesse of these structures. I’m not yet familiar enough with the architecture of this city to know the buildings by name like some people do, but I’m looking forward to getting better acquainted. Last Friday, I brought my camera with me for you to take a look too.

This may be my last picture of pretty autumn leaves this year; I woke this morning to find the city nestled under a blanket of fluffy snow. Like a kid, I wanted to rush out into the stuff straight away; I missed snow last winter, as I spent the year living in Scotland.

Although Scotland is so far north, the climate is temperate for the most part; in Glasgow, it rains more than snows. Last year I remember it snowing once, and nothing stuck. While I had lots of fun ducking out of the rain and into cheerful pubs, I missed the sharp cold of the northern United States, the kind that can nearly knock the wind out of you some mornings. I missed stepping onto a snowdrift and sinking until the snow reached all the way up to my knees. Today wasn’t that chilly, but the snow was a welcome sight. A homecoming of sorts.

City Hall

This fountain in City Hall Park is flanked by pretty lanterns in which little warm flames flicker.

See that glass bay window atop the pale building? I always look up to that and wonder who sits in that office. I like to think it is a thinly mustachioed mogul in a red velvet smoking jacket. While I walk around taking innocent pictures on my lunch break, he slips inky caviar into his slithery lips; he strokes an emerald iguana on a wicked leather leash.

Ha!

In all likelihood, its an elevator. Or a viewing platform. But a girl can daydream, right?

I like the stoic ladies decorating this building a great deal; they make me think of Greece and Athena’s columns at the Acropolis in Athens. Gazing up at them, I’m transported back to my August holidays, experiencing this for a blissful moment:

See what I mean?

A great spot for brown bag dining.

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There is a Green Market in my office ‘hood every Tuesday and Friday. I’ve managed to make friends with Andrew, the beekeeper.

Sometimes I like to think about my husband Shaun and I quitting city life and becoming beekeepers or organic spinach farmers. We’d have pet lamas, a blackberry patch, and a fainting goat that lives in a red doghouse and eats the lawn so that we never have to mow it. In this daydream, there is barn that is transformed into a loft/studio and we rent it out to artists on retreat. Our big farm house has loads of haunted guest rooms for visiting friends and family, and for writers looking for a nice, natural place place to work. My writing space is in the attic and there is a round window that sheds golden light onto the unfinished wood there; Shaun will have an office with a monolithic, mahogany desk.

Shaun tends to shake his head and look at me like I’m a crazy person when I bring this daydream up. Most of the time, I tend to agree. For the foreseeable future, I’m thrilled with city living, exploring Manhattan, and buying yummy jars of Andrew’s Local Honey. Like I said, daydreams are just a part of the lunchtime Stroll for Sanity.

There is another vendor at the Green Market who is too shy to chat with me much, but she bakes a mean gingerbread man.

While peeking around the internet in an attempt to learn more about City Hall, I stumbled upon an amazing blog project of NYC walks. There are maps and beautiful pictures taken by the blogger on his journeys. For all you procrastinators out there, take a few more moments and check it out.

A Walk in the Park

While we have a few parks within walking distance, Fort Tryon Park is my favorite. Not only do the massive hills of its grounds pleasantly remind me of happy hikes in Scotland and Colorado, but Fort Tyron is also harbors two hidden NYC gems.

Nestled in its pretty grounds, hides a warm, glowing, little establishment called New Leaf Cafe. While the menu is pricey, the atmosphere is so relaxed, welcoming, and casually sophisticated that I’m looking forward to devoting to it a sliver of my first paycheck. The dinner courses may break the rules of my budget, but I can certainly put aside a bit for a glass or two of mellow wine and a shared plate of luscious calamari.

Just around the bend from New Leaf is a beautiful branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Cloisters. During a walk this weekend, partner and I uncovered this gorgeous museum a half hour before its 6 pm closing. With such little time to explore, we were not charged the $20 admission fee. But the brief sample made me want to go back for more time, regardless of the steep admission. The medieval art was creepy in that deliciously good way; the ancient calm of the place washed over me like a warm bath.

New York, beneath the concrete, skyscrapers, and neon, seems to be a beautiful natural wonder. I’ve not spent any time on the east coast, aside from a few short trips to NYC prior to moving here. I’m looking forward to taking some long weekends to explore this charming coast of my country. If I love the glimpses of the natural world I see in the NYC parks, I can only imagine what the landscape looks like in the state’s rural places - in land unspoiled by concrete, noise, and the careless human activity of the city.

This is a photo of our general neighborhood, taken from atop a hill in the park.

That’s the George Washington Bridge in the distance.

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The Hudson River.

This is the George Washington Bridge at dusk. At night, the bridge is so bright and twinkling (every bit of it is lit up) that it startled me the first time I rounded a city block and saw it up close.

It’s Turkey Lurkey Time!

With love, from Truly.

We had a true Indian summer this Thanksgiving: it was sunny, golden, and warm. We spent the entire day soaking it all up, wooed by our first holiday in NYC.

Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade

Turkeys love the people who eat them.

So do pumpkins.

Here comes Ronald, seething through the trees. “Don’t think you can escape me, little America. You think I don’t know you’re gorging yourself on something other than my burgers today? Well now I’m HUGE and I’m going to chase you all the way to the golden arches. I’m going to smash humid burgers and limp fries down your gullet. Eat America, EAT!”

I think this is that Snoop Doggy Dog. He’s one of those gangster rappers.

Welcome to the Jungle.

 

The Spectators

A good portion of the crowd enjoyed the view from Daddy’s Shoulders.

Some enjoyed the view from big Department of Sanitation trucks parked at the edge of Central Park.

Many sat atop the stone boundaries of the park.

Still others brought ladders to perch atop.

A Walk Around Central Park
Once we had our fill of parade and people watching, we took advantage of the beautiful day and wandered around the lungs of Manhattan: Central Park.

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After peeking around the park for a few hours, we found ourselves in the fancy, fancy part of Midtown. While we were seeing about finding some coffee and restrooms, we came across…

The Funniest Window Display I’ve Ever Seen

I call it: Tit Shoe.

This year, I’m thankful to be living in a city where Tit Shoe is embraced and accepted; I like living in a place where the person who made the Tit Shoe display was probably not fired, but praised.

HA!

Seriously, though, this Thanksgiving, I’m going to defer to the advice of comic book author Warren Ellis:

“Give your neighbors an infected blanket this Thursday and then move into their houses after their dead.”

Boo! Not really. Just thought I’d throw in a bit of colonist guilt for balance.

For real this time: a heartfelt Thanksgiving message. I am thankful for my friends and family, scattered as they may be across the globe. I send my love to you all.