¡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.

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.