'This American Life' on the City Streets

Photo by myself on 13th Street and University Place.

I was walking along when I found this gentleman cutting beautiful paper animals on the sidewalk. I'd love to know his story.

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You meet all types on the street, often by accident: dog walkers, transvestites, women with triplets, men in clown suits, veterans, gangs.

There are teachers, students, people from every country imaginable. People walk with their dogs, their cats, their parrots, their musical instruments. It's a little like The Breakfast Club.

There are commoners and there are celebrities, too. Like Jackie Onassis.



The graphic artist Chris Ware created a lovely animation for This American Life on just such a situation: running into a celebrity on the streets of New York.

Enjoy.

Related posts: The Sublime and Ridiculous, Or Why I See Few Celebrities in New York and A Bit More on Celebrity, Past and Present

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The Low Down on Walk Ups

Photo by myself on the Upper West Side, at 78th Street and West End Avenue.

I love the variations you can find among townhouses. Here, a gracious arch frames an opening. There is a sculptural quality to this entrance that I find compelling.

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Townhouses were called tenement buildings at one time. They are called 'walk-ups' by New Yorkers, to mean that the building is divided up into apartments on each floor that you walk up to.

Having a townhouse to yourself is a lovely fantasy. The New York Times recently printed that single-family townhouses comprise between 3 and 4 percent of the available habitable real estate in Manhattan. So good luck on having a whole townhouse to yourself!

Widthwise, these buildings were made to be just wide enough for a parlor and a straight run of stairs. They're typically four or five stories high. Five floors are just enough to make it humanly possible to come home with a bag of groceries, trudge upstairs and then find that you forgot the milk.

I knew someone who lived on the seventh floor of a walk-up, who routinely threw large parties (!). His poor guests trudged up the six flights and the poor smokers soon trudged all the way down again to get their fix.

Five floors are also an ideal distance for plumbing, because New York City water is just pressurized enough within the pipes to get to the fifth floor without relying on a pump.

Buildings taller than five floors use water tanks located on the roof. You see these water tanks silhouetted on top of older buildings. A pump in the basement pumps water up to the rooftop tanks, which use gravity to get the water down to apartments when needed.

The above photo shows a handrail that is completely illegal by today's US building codes. These days the vertical struts of any railing have to be at most 4 inches apart, which is about the size of a baby's head.

Other countries have their own building codes. You see improbable railings in Europe that would allow babies, the sight impaired and their households to fall through.

Related posts: Building for a Greener Environment, 42nd Street and Things to Come.

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Cheers

Photo by myself in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

One of the many bars in Williamsburg. There's an old-timey feel to this place.

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My Dad has a fantasy of traveling to China and eating at a different restaurant for every meal. He could travel from town to town and could go on forever.

So I bought him the Lonely Planet guide to China a couple Christmases ago. It's enormous, about two inches thick. Of course he hasn't gone yet, and when (and if) he ever goes, the book will be out of date. But it's the thought that counts, right?

In the same way, you could have a drink each night in a different bar in New York and Brooklyn and not run out of places until your liver gave out.

There are sports bars and old timey bars and very, very trendy bars. There are hotel bars and tacky theme bars (airplane interiors, beauty parlors, thatched tiki huts, old railway cars).

There are underground bars without signs. There are wine bars and champagne bars. And on and on.

Related posts: Pub Crawl.

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The Cycle of Decay

Photo by myself in Red Hook, Brooklyn.

Behind a series of warehouses near the water, there is a ruined building from a different time. There's a mysterious and sculptural air about it, like a Rube Goldberg contraption.

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There's a community garden a few streets from us in Park Slope, Brooklyn, where members pay yearly dues to work a plot of land. People plant flowers and vegetables, landscape gardens and create little ponds with koi.

Most neighborhoods have a community garden. It seems as if there are quite a few in Red Hook for instance, for whatever reason. There are some prominent ones in the East Village, along Houston Street. You're welcome to wander off the street and walk inside, provided you stay on the paths.

As a city dweller it's great to be able to get your hands dirty or compost your food stuff. Mark and I feel like we're doing our little part.

We haven't joined the garden near us, but we're going there to compost. On weekends, we dump a week's worth of odds and ends into the bin. People are there constantly, shifting the heaps from one bin to another, then using the final, rich compost for their gardens.

Last weekend, I was in such a rush, I brought the wrong bag with me. When I emptied the bag in the bin, I was surprised to find a pair of shoes I was going to leave out on the stoop. Egad!

The woman tending the compost pile and I were both surprised. I made some sort of lame-o half-funny comment, then took the shoes and skedaddled.

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Could You Keep It Down?

Photo by myself in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

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When we first walked by this fellow lying across a stoop, he was out cold. I don't know if he was homeless, but he looked like he'd had a rough night out. It was Saturday afternoon, a brightly sunny day. I took a few photos from behind the railing.

'You should stand above him and take a photo,' Mark said, making the universal hand gesture for picture taking.

It'd make a great shot, but I didn't have the courage to do such a thing. We went about on our errands. When we returned, the man had rolled onto his side.

I snapped a few photos while Mark talked about whatever he was talking about. Then suddenly the man woke up, looking confused and a little annoyed.

My heart pretty much just leaped out of my body and bounced on the ground. I walked away very quickly, pulling Mark by the elbow.

Related posts: Castaways and The Underclass.

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Where the Kids Are - Williamsburg, Brooklyn

Photo by myself in Williamsburg, Brooklyn around Wythe and North 7th Streets.

Mark and I visited Williamsburg today. We ran some errands and toured our favorite furniture stores. This old wooden door had personality and caught my eye.

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Fellow Daily Photo blogger Fredrik in Sweden had asked me about Williamsburg a while back.

Some of our favorite furniture stores are in Williamsburg. The Future Perfect is inventive and expensive, a little like an art and product museum. Next door, its cousin A&G Merch sports more affordable items. And down the road is our all-time favorite, The Golden Calf, which offers antiques, Thomas Paul pillows and cool tableware. Mark and I just love to go and look at stuff.

Williamsburg has great restaurants, too - a modern Vietnamese place, a couple upscale bars, a delicious Italian wine bar, and a French bistro. There are a couple extremely popular Thai places, too, that are packed on weekend nights.

I liken Williamsburg to Cambridge, Massachusetts. There's an informal vibe. Select surfaces are covered with graffiti or stickers, and the kids there dress in that shlumpy hipster way.





We encountered an old fashioned record store abuzz with customers, and an independent movie in the making. Parts of the neighborhood look sketchy, with their old warehouse buildings, but it's all very safe. New condo buildings are under construction near the water and real estate prices have escalated hugely over the last few years.


Other posts on Williamsburg: Hipster Douchebags, Artsy Fartsy.

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If You're Happy, Clap Your Hands

Photo by myself on the subway tonight.

After a long day, it was something else to witness someone singing to himself and shimmying on the subway. This dude was twirling about, chanting and twitching frantically in front of his reflection in the subway window.

You see all sorts on the train. People are usually sullen, or tired, or angry, or crazy, or neutral. This person was so obviously happy. I've never seen anyone like him. How refreshing after a tough day.

Other passengers felt the same and broke out into giggles. Some looked about to cry. I tried to take photos, but it was useless. I was hanging onto a pole with one hand, tottering around in heels while the train went stop-go.

I didn't get any good pictures, but I felt this one captured the feeling of the train tonight: energized, fun and a little nuts.

Related posts: Au Secours, My First Run-In With the NYPD, and The Rules.

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Every Day is Kid's Day

Photo by myself in Bryant Park, at 42nd Street and Sixth Avenue.

There are a couple areas for bocce games at this park. This gentleman was among a few sharing a serious game the other day.

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TGIF, everyone. By the way, it's Mother's Day this weekend.

We'll be in Lawn Guyland to see Mark's mom. Plans are vague. Hopefully we'll have nice enough weather to drive near the water and have a nice lunch.

And I'll call my Mom in California. It'll be nice to chat with her.

When I was little I asked my Dad why there wasn't a 'Kid's Day', since there was a Mother's and Father's Day. Of course he told me that 'Every day is Kid's Day'.

I was disappointed by his response, but I now share his thinking. Oh to be a kid. They can run around, have fun and generally not worry too much.

I hope everyone is either spending time with his or her mom or is wishing her well. And if you can't be together, well, I hope you're thinking of her.

Related posts: Tricks are for Kids.

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Clever Cat (Not)

Photo by myself around Sixth Avenue and 32nd Street, I think.

I actually don't recall where I took this photo. There are many kiosks that sell papers, cigarettes, gum and snacks on the sidewalks and in subway stations.

I was drawn to this kiosk because it was particularly tiny. The owner knew I was taking a photo and hid behind the displays, to my frustration.

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Sorry for digressing from New York to my cat, but I cannot resist. I posted earlier about my cat Dida, who had a peeing problem.

For the longest time, Dida had trouble peeing inside the box. We had to move the litter box into the bathroom because she always missed. It didn't matter if the box were in the middle of the room or in the corner. There was always a puddle on the floor.

Mark was tempted to explain to the vet that Dida's 'pee hole' was located incorrectly. We did take her in to see if there was a physical problem, but I couldn't say such a thing without giggling.

It turned out there is nothing physically wrong, even though she's gone through two bouts of bladder stones. The peeing is a psychological issue.

Fortunately, Mark saved the day by changing the litter box. Ironically, the box for the cat that can't pee correctly is called a 'Clever Cat'. It's basically a very deep plastic container, so deep that there's no way Dida could pee out of it, no matter where her pee hole is.

After using the litter box a few days, we placed the lid on, which is solid but for a large hole. Theoretically, Dida jumps up and through the hole, does her business and hops out.

We've never seen this happen, though. The whole phenomenon is a little like the Loch Ness Monster. We're so happy there's no more mess in the morning and are considering setting up a hidden camera.

Related posts on Dida: Tempting Fate and Our Extended Family.

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The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

Photo by myself on Prince and Greene Streets in Soho.

Just across the street from the Apple Store is this historic cafe with its distinctive neon sign. I've never been there but I have the feeling they serve great desserts.

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Sometimes I feel that I present New York as this amazing place to live.

Well it can be. Sure.

But then I worry that I'm misrepresenting this place. Because while you can find the greatest people and experiences, you can also find the worst.

Mark swears that the most virulent strains of people live here. I agree. You find often them in leadership positions, because they'll do anything to succeed. They yell at their employees and then turn around and schmooze their clients.

You find them driving crazily on the roads without signaling, stopping in the middle of crosswalks, and making pedestrians walk around them. You find them littering. You find them sitting on the subway, not thinking about the elderly or pregnant women standing nearby.

Every place has its share of awful people. But what makes the horribleness disappear at the end of the day is coming home to a nice dinner with Mark. Then I sit on the sofa between him and the cat.

I power up the computer, respond to comments on this blog and try to figure out what to write next.

You can survive any place if you have a little refuge. I hope everyone has theirs.

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It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

Photo by myself in Riverside Park on the Upper West Side, around 69th Street.

This structure, with its winches and chains, must have been used to load ships. Now it looks about to topple over. The Hudson River and New Jersey are in the background.

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We've had some beautiful days here in New York.

Yesterday for the move, it was gloriously sunny. Mark and I were walking to his apartment in Greenpoint when we encountered two of his neighborhood buddies. One is an artist who works as a creative director by day. The other escaped a tough life in LA and will soon be a Greenpoint restauranteur.

We all stood on the sidewalk, reminiscing about how empty the neighborhood had been just three years ago. Now it's hopping.

'It's become Williamsburg,' one of the fellas said, referring to the trendy neighborhood next door.

'You get out of the subway and there's a ton of people,' said the other, holding his hands out wide.

I said goodbye to the cat who lives in the corner bodega. He was asleep on a box of detergent but was good enough to crack open a yellowy eye. At the cashier, I ran into one of the women who had helped rescue the homeless cats with me last fall. The grey cat in her care has been adjusting well.

Small world. Saying goodbye to Greenpoint was bittersweet. We had our frustrations with finding consistent restaurants, and how sleepy it was at times. But the people were great. Despite what you might think about big cities, you can get to know your neighbors.

Finally, we said our farewells to Mark's downstairs neighbors, his landlord and another neighbor down the street. Then we packed up the fish and motored off.

'Well that's the last pizza we'll have in old Greenpoint,' Mark said.

I assured him he was wrong. No, we'd be back for pizza and a beer soon enough. I can't imagine never going back.

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On Japanese Food and Fish

Photo by myself on East 9th Street and Second Avenue.

Otafuku, a tiny Japanese eatery, is a standing-room only gem. There are two cooks crammed in the front, who cook pancakes or octopus fritters. The dishes are piled high with fish flakes, mayonnaise, seasonings and dried seaweed.

People will stand outside in the wintry cold to eat this stuff, it is that delectable.

I love it, I love it, I love it.

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Today Mark and I moved the last of his things from Greenpoint, his old neighborhood, to Park Slope, Brooklyn.

It happens every month - you see moving trucks all over the place. People are moving to and fro. The last couple months, we've been making little trips back and forth. Today was the last of it.

Most importantly, this morning we drove up early to get Mark's fish. Geared up with two large beverage coolers to transport them and their fish water, we looked like EMS workers ready to perform an organ transplant.

Getting the fellas (there are several little ones) and the water into the coolers was no problem. The stones, fake plants, and equipment came along too. We gingerly placed everything in the back of Clive, Mark's Mini Cooper, leaving the fish until the last possible minute. A lid covered the cooler so the water wouldn't splash out.

Then we were off. We soon discovered that many of Greenpoint's streets were closed off because of the Five-Boro Bike Tour. Thousands of cyclists biked through all five boroughs, starting in Battery Park City and ending in Staten Island.

The police had blocked many of the streets with wooden sawhorses, and there were no signs directing anyone. I could hear the water sloshing around as we tried to figure a way out of Greenpoint.

Eventually, we made it out (yay!), taking several detours and back roads. In the end, fish, water and equipment were delivered and re-installed intact. The fellas are now swimming around quite gaily in their tank, as if nothing happened.

Note to everyone - if you're planning a move, check whether parades or races are going on.

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Decisions, Decisions

Photo by myself around 14th Street and Fifth Avenue, today.

The ice cream truck with its familiar tinkling jingle is a symbol of suburban summer. You'd be surprised how many of these trucks litter the streets of New York, when the weather is nice.

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Today Mark and I ventured into the East Village. While walking around, we noticed a couple of movie theaters participating in the Tribeca Film Festival.

Very, very informal queues were arranged on the streets, between metal police barricades. A cool drizzle of rain made the scene especially unglamorous.

Still, I told Mark that we should try going to the Film Festival next year. In our years living here, neither of us has managed to go.

I think part of the trouble is that since many of the films shown are equally unknown, it's tough to figure out which of the 250+ films to watch. A quick look at the movie roster is overwhelming. I feel like I'd have to sit down for a few hours before making my educated choices.

Anyway, we have a whole year to figure out which movies to see. Hopefully, it won't be raining.

Related posts: The Arts - Live and on Videotape and For Your Viewing Pleasure.

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Lost in Translation

Photo by myself in Koreatown, on 32nd Street and Sixth Avenue.

There is always an assembly of smokers outside this building. Mostly Korean businessmen while away their stress, regardless of the weather.

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After a long week of quiet dinners and drinks relaxing with Mark, last night we went a little nuts (hence the delayed post).

An old coworker friend was leaving her job, and a group of us went out for drinks, followed by a few hours in a karaoke booth. A couple of martinis, beer and sake later, I was giggling uncontrollably, watching Mark belt out 'Hotel California'.

If you're interested in a surreal, 'Lost in Translation'-like experience, karaoke is the solution. Every city with a strong Korean or Japanese population has these places - small karaoke booths where you can sing and celebrate and embarrass yourself.

Each booth is individually climate controlled. There are unlimited drinks and food. People pay a set fee per hour to have free reign over the karaoke machine. Meanwhile, cheesy dated images of couples and sunsets play on the video screen with subtitles.

In New York, there are some random bars that have Karaoke night, but the individual booths in Koreatown are the real deal. Walking down the hall to the ladies room, hearing the various parties around me, I felt like I was in another land.

Even though the experience was tame, the place felt seedy and transient. Everyone was engaged in pure excess - food, drink, enjoyment.

I'm not sure Mark and I would ever do it again. We'll have to recover from last night first.

Here's the trailer of 'Lost in Translation':

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Food for Thought

Photo by myself on East 10th Street and Second Avenue, in the East Village.

A typical pretty street shows stoops, trees and quaint sidewalks. There are even little iron things that cordon off the trees.

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The other night, Mark and I had dinner in a small place with an open kitchen. We had front row seats to the cooks and the grill.

The head cook was reading the tickets in a sharp tone. The others bent to work, heads down, with a quiet intensity. It was a treat to watch.

The cooking shows on TV have elevated line cooking to a new level. The restaurant business has always been a macho profession, but because of Anthony Bourdain and Gordon Ramsey, everyone now knows exactly how macho - late nights, stress, competition and the hint of danger. There's a performance aspect to the whole thing as well.

Speaking of cooking, has anyone noticed the following tendency among Top Chef contestants?

The nervous chef describes his or her dish: 'I've made a honey-glazed (whatever) with a little bit of (whatever), over a bed of (whatever). It's tossed with a little bit of (whatever), covered in a (whatever) gelee, a little bit of (whatever) and finished with a (whatever) jus. Enjoy.'

The operative phrase is not the 'whatever', nor the French terms thrown in, but 'the little bit of'. And when the nervous contestant speaks, the phrase is reduced to 'alittlebitta', over and over.

I just want to get on the show to have the chance to say, 'I cooked a whopping amount of (whatever). Enjoy.'

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Signs of Hope

Photo by myself at Union Square, at the Farmer's Market.

This chalkboard sign advertising fresh, local meat drew appreciation from the crowds this afternoon.

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Thanks again to everyone for the kind wishes for my dear cat, Dida. She is humbled to be in the spotlight. Hopefully Dida will get used to her new feeding schedule before her owner keels over.

I've been listening to podcasts at work. It's my small attempt at multitasking and maximizing what few brain cells I have left. Today, an episode of Fresh Air, an NPR favorite, moved me to tears.

The story is set in LA. Steve Lopez, a columnist for the LA Times, met a homeless man named Nathaniel Ayers. Ayers turned out to be a musician. In fact, he also once lived in New York, where he trained at the Julliard School of Music, but dropped out due to mental illness.

I know how many readers of this blog love street musicians. Here was one who was homeless, who could play the violin and picked up the cello and trumpet. And here was Lopez, a writer just trying to do the right thing, who didn't know much about classical music but was learning about it through his new friend.

Lopez published articles in the Times about the homeless man, and his readers donated musical instruments in response. Lopez used the instruments as rewards to try to get his subject off the streets and into rehabilitation.

I don't want to give too much away, but you get the point. Lopez has written a book about the experience, and a movie is in the making. Called 'The Soloist', it stars Jamie Foxx and Robert Downey Jr. It's that good a story.

Should you hear the podcast, be prepared. It's moving.

Well, I was moved. I sat there at my desk, sniffling away. All the elements are there - the talented man tortured by inner demons, the ardent writer trying to save the situation, the lessons learned on both sides.

If every one of us were as actively involved in our cities as Steve Lopez, what kind of world would this be? Or if every one of us had a Steve Lopez to watch out for us and help us reach our potential, what then?

The possibilities are beyond our imagination.


For the Fresh Air podcast, click here.

For the articles Lopez wrote in the LA Times, click here .

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Tempting Fate

Photo by myself on the subway platform during the rush hour commute.

Some people stand awfully close to the edge of the platform. The painted yellow line and tactile warning bumps guide passengers where to stand.

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This weekend, Mark and I went to Whiskers, an alternative pet store on Second Avenue and 9th Street in the East Village.

Good friends of ours had recommended the place to us last year. They have two cats, and after initiating a new diet, the cats have lost weight and their previously scaly skin is back to normal. Happily, too, they're not shedding as much.

Our friends had told us to talk to Phil. When I walked in and looked around, I spotted an older guy perched in the corner with his chin in his hand. We locked eyes and he waved me over. This was Phil Klein, the pet guru.

I was whisked into the world of homeopathic pet dieting. My way of feeding my poor cat, Dida, has been completely wrong. I walked away with vials of enzymes and vitamins for Dida's rehabilitation. (Last week, after what we thought was a pulled muscle, we took her into the vet. She was diagnosed with a heart condition and was given medication for a blood clot in her hind leg).

Phil advocates feeding your cat limited amounts of food several times a day, and fresh foods, if possible. Earlier this month, Phil was interviewed on NPR about his holistic approach. Phil gives advice to dog owners too. A friendly woman with a miniature dachshund was next in line for a consult.

Little does she know, Dida is now my science experiment. Already she's grumbling about the feeding schedule. Food is taken away just before we go to bed, so there is no snacking. At 4:30 in the mornings, I am awakened by her meowing and standing next to me, stamping her foot. Eek.

I'm hopeful for the whole process. Tests from the vet show that she has a heart murmur but that there's no immediate danger. Her heart is clear of blood clots, which is great news.

I'll post about her progress from time to time. It would be amazing to have Dida's tests come back next year clear of a murmur.


For Phil's interview on NPR, click here.

For a recent post on Dida, click here

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Behind the Curtain

Photo by myself on Prince Street in Soho.

It was drizzly outside on Sunday morning, a typical rainy New York day.

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I walked through Soho the other day to get to the Film Forum.

It was drizzly outside and early for a Sunday. All the shops were closed. Virtually no one was out, save for residents walking their dogs and a couple tourists.

It was wonderful.

I walked quickly down Prince Street, crossing a few cobblestone streets on the way that were wet with rain. Someone was sweeping the sidewalk, clearing away evidence from the night before. I felt like I was backstage just after a performance.

When I reached the Film Forum, I found my friend James inside with a mimosa in hand.

'I walked through Soho just now,' I said, still a little breathless. 'It's so quiet. No one's there.'

'I love that.'

James knew exactly what I meant. It's a familiar feeling, walking through the city when it's just waking up. It's a sliver of time when the city is yours alone.

For my experience at the Film Forum, click here.

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For Your Viewing Pleasure

Photo by myself at the Film Forum at Houston and Varick Streets.

This arty New York institution shows classic, foreign and independent first-run films.

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This morning I met my friend James at the Film Forum.

Every spring, members are invited to a brunch and movie showing. I've been James' guest for the last few years. I must be the only one of his friends who is awake at 10 am on a Sunday.

We were lucky enough to see the most recent movie by Werner Herzog, 'Encounters at the End of the World', a documentary Herzog made of his trip to Antarctica. I highly recommend it.

Herzog has directed a number of movies over the last thirtysome years, including Nosferatu. He recently became more known to the mainstream with 'Grizzly Man', a documentary about the (crazy) man who thought he could communicate with grizzly bears.

Herzog is an incredible narrator, full of philosophical and quirky insights. The movie features stunning footage underwater below a heavy crust of ice and at the edge of an arctic volcano. Herzog also interviews the characters he meets at the end of the world, a motley assortment of scientists and wanderers.

Luckily this movie will be released to a larger audience, soon. If you're in New York, Encounters will be playing at the Film Forum, beginning June 11th.


Lower photo by myself, showing the line outside the Film Forum this morning.

Related posts: The Arts - Live and on Videotape

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A Pedestrian City

Photo by myself at the subway station at 34th Street, Penn Station.

These gentlemen drew a small crowd with their enthusiastic jazz performance.

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Saturday Mark and I drove to the city. We planned to do some errands in the East Village, then drive up to Hell's Kitchen for some grub.

We should have taken the subway.

Around 14th Street and 8th Avenue, traffic came to a stop. Gridlock.

Cars were trying to make a turn when the light changed, but cars were already stopped in the middle of the intersection. People were honking and there was no movement for several minutes.

The reason for the hold up? Another one of those street fairs. Several blocks of Eighth Avenue were blocked off for kiosks selling hot dogs, fajitas and hats. Apparently we'd encountered the 'Chelsea Visiting Neighbors Festival', whatever that is.

I'm not vehemently against street fairs. They're a symbol of summer and as a pedestrian, they can be nice. It seems like there are so many of them though, and they all look the same. Traffic is terrible as it is. Why intentionally make things worse?

A quick look at the NYC.gov calendar shows that every Saturday and Sunday, several neighborhoods will be shut down for fairs and parades.

My advice? Walk, don't drive!

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Among Beautiful Things

Photo by myself on Riverside Drive, around 76th Street.

Many precious architectural details can be found on the old buildings on the Upper West Side. Here, a beautifully curved double hung window is protected with an elaborate metal grille. Carved brackets support a balcony overhead.

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Today, my coworker Cheryl and I went to survey an apartment for renovation.

Our clients, a lovely middle-aged couple, own a spacious apartment on the Upper East Side at 85th Street. The building fronts Gracie Square, which is a park along the East River with views out to Roosevelt Island.

The clients are avid collectors of traditional art. Framed Impressionist oil paintings and ink drawings were hung on every wall. I've been in some very fancy homes before, but this was fancy. There were bronze statues and marble fireplaces. There were heavy curtains at every window, each trimmed with colorful ribbon and tassels.

The apartment spanned two floors. There were several bedrooms, a media room, Living Room, Library, Dining Room, Powder Room, his and her bathrooms and dressing rooms. The Master Bedroom had a spacious sitting room. There was a maid's room, laundry room and crafts room. A graceful internal stair in the front hall connected the two floors. On paper, the place resembled a spacious two-story home except that it was on the high floors of a Manhattan apartment building.

Cheryl and I worked all afternoon, tip toeing around little tables arranged with bric-a-brac. We carefully measured all the walls and doors and windows. I had visions of little tables toppling over, spilling priceless objects to the floor.

Of course, our day was emergency-free. At the end of several hours, Cheryl and I measured all the rooms and documented the apartment with plenty of photographs.

The job was exhausting. Even though we were surrounded by ornate beauty, all we wanted to do was hurry home, pour a glass of wine and put our feet up.

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All That Glitters

Photo by myself at Columbus Circle, at Central Park West and 59th Street.

The fountain in front of the AOL Time Warner Building is lit up in the evenings. This glamorous location makes you feel like you're in the midst of everything.

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The other night I was watching the last episode of The Real Housewives of New York City, which I'd recorded. What can I say? I couldn't help myself.

Mark settled on the sofa next to me. After a couple minutes he asked, 'Who are these people?'

Obviously he can't understand us girls. Even though I started out resisting this show, these women grew on me. I admit it. They're a bit ridiculous. Some should just get over themselves. But like so many of Bravo's reality shows (Top Model, Top Chef, that tattoo show in LA), Real Housewives is seriously addictive.

No, these five women don't represent New York in the least. Their experiences and concerns reflect a very small demographic. I doubt any of them have taken the subway in years. What makes the show addictive are their personalities, which are strong, over-the-top and a little nuts.

Incidentally the top random keyword search that is referred to this blog is for the name 'Bethenney', for Bethenney Frankel, a natural foods chef on the show. Bethenney is the wittiest one of the bunch. Her troubled childhood and unsettled relationship status makes her the 'housewife' most women would find compelling, I think.

Anyway, Season 1 of Real Housewives is over. Mark has a reprieve.


For earlier posts on the show, click here or here.

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A Glimmer of Nature

Photo by myself at a Turkish market on 41st Street and 5th Avenue.

A salad bar and fresh produce are nicely presented to customers. Incidentally I was with coworkers when I took this photo, who don't know about this blog. One turned to me with a big grin on her face and said,'You're really crazy, you know that?'

One woman's bushel of zucchini is another woman's photo-op.

--
Thanks for all the kind wishes yesterday. Dida is very touched.

Mark and I will be going to a holistic pet food store in the East Village this weekend for advice. Thanks Brooklynite Kizz for making the suggestion. We'd heard about Whiskers from friends who radically changed the diets of their two cats, which are now sleek and happily interested in their food. We'll keep you posted!

It's been beautiful here these last few days. One great thing about living in Brooklyn is that many of the subways travel over bridges in the mornings. They emerge from dark tunnels to an expansive view of the Brooklyn Bridge and lower Manhattan skyline.

I hope to get a photo from the train one of these mornings. Usually people are too busy making cell phone calls or checking their messages to even look outside, the instant they see sunshine.

It's too bad. They're missing the best part of the ride.

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Our Extended Family

Photo of Dida by myself last year, in one of Dida's favorite locations.

Dida, our calico, likes to hide between the shower curtain and the shower liner when she's nervous. She thinks that no one can find her there.

--
Lately, Mark and I are dealing with our cat Dida, who is going through some health issues.

Dida suddenly started limping this weekend. She had a spazz attack Friday night in front of us, where she gallivanted all over us and the furniture. The next couple days, she had trouble getting up on the couch. She looked nervous and frankly a little weird. She spent a lot of time sleeping and alone which is unusual - she is usually very sociable.

Monday morning, Mark persuaded me to take Dida to the vet, since she was still acting strange. I'd call her name and try to make eye contact, but she'd stay sitting, hunched over, looking off into the distance.

Well, long story short, Dida has heart trouble. One of her hind legs was injured by a blood clot. It's my theory that Mark and I were witnesses to the exact moment of the clot, that is, when she had the spazz attack Friday night.

I raised two of Dida's kittens until they were around 7 years old, when they passed away suddenly a couple years ago. It's now coming together that all three have had congenital heart trouble.

Missy, a beautiful tiny calico that was so sweet and dear probably had an aneurysm. Suzy, an equally beautiful grey calico that was adventuresome and spirited had a blood clot to her hind legs. I had to put her to sleep after a long, distressed night at the emergency room.

Dida is lucky in comparison because we can try to medicate her condition. She's not an easy cat, however, and giving her pills or getting her in the carrier means a half-hour run around the apartment, much hissing and a wrestling match.

It's the plight of every pet owner - you commit yourself to your pet, making decisions for her best interest without knowing if you're doing the 'right' thing. I'm realistic about Dida's future. I'm prepared to keep her comfortable, pamper her, but not go to any extreme lengths where her dignity is compromised.

Tonight, Dida is extremely happy to be home from the vet, and is settled beside me on the sofa. She's forgiven me for our earlier wrestling match and is purring, with full knowledge that she's very much cared for.

Dida and her original litter of five kittens were rescued from the rail yards near Hell's Kitchen, around 42nd Street. Since the rescue, she hasn't stepped outside. She loves to watch birds and squirrels in her spare time.

Dida considers herself to be a true New Yorker.



Lower photo by myself last week. Dida rested comfortably on Mark's leg, while he slept.

For earlier posts about Dida, click here or here.

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The Cost of Living Here Part II or, Life in Playland

Photo by myself at Times Square at 42nd Street and 7th Avenue.

--
Yesterday, I wrote that The New York Times reported that rent for an average Manhattan studio apartment reached $2,200 a month. I remember when the rent for a studio apartment reached $1,400, which seemed like a lot.

By the time I moved from my apartment on the Upper West Side three years ago, the rent for my rent stabilized two room studio reached $1200. It was a good deal and I managed to save a little money, which went toward a down payment for my apartment in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I wound up moving after I met Mark, since the place was claustrophobic for more than one human.

I know people who've shacked up with several roommates in loft apartments until their 40's. I have to wonder whether people in New York aren't very different from people in other parts of the world. It seems like our chronological age here might be 35, but we act as if we're in our mid-20's.

No offense to New Yorkers who read this blog, because being young at heart isn't a bad thing. We don't have to have many responsibilities beyond ourselves. We can party til the wee hours every night, and there's always a party going on. We don't have to own a car or a house.

Welcome to Playland.

Related posts: The Cost of Living Here, It Takes a Village and The Rat Race.

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The Cost of Living Here

Photo by myself in Park Slope, Brooklyn.

The dogwoods and magnolias are blooming now. The streets are pretty and springlike, lined with brownstones and flowering trees.

--
One of my new coworkers, Cheryl, has a dilemma - find a home for her dog or move out.

For whatever reason Cheryl's landlord is no longer permitting dogs in her building. She has a young Maltese, Sammy, who barks when nervous.

Cheryl's parents live an hour away in New Jersey and they can't have dogs in their apartment either. So poor Sammy shuttles to and from New Jersey, staying wherever it's safe for the moment. The apartment across the hall is being shown to prospective renters, so Sammy's in New Jersey for the next couple weeks.

If Cheryl didn't live in a rent-stabilized apartment, where her rent is guaranteed not to rise beyond a certain percentage each year, she'd consider moving. Cheryl feels guilty about leaving Sammy home all day during work hours, so she's pursuing other options. So far, one of the contractors we work with may give Sammy a home with a yard in the suburbs.

By the way, there's an article in this week's New York Times about prices for rental apartments. The average studio apartment in Greenwich Village is now going for $2,200 a month. If you're planning on living there with someone else, you should know each other really well.

The average prices for a Manhattan one-bedroom is $3,100 a month. And then you have to factor in the security deposit and the broker's fee, if you can't find the apartment on your own.

Yipes!

Related posts: It Takes a Village and The Rat Race.

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Lost In the Crowd

Photo by myself outside Madison Square Garden.

Yet another photo from my walk around Midtown the other day. The crowd is made up of tourists and commuters, which makes for an uncomfortable mix of fast walkers and saunterers.

--
In the Talk of the Town section of a recent New Yorker Magazine, there was a short article about the building crane that collapsed on March 15. A townhouse near the United Nations was seriously damaged and there were seven fatalities.

One of the tenants at 305 East 50th Street, Jhon Gallego, fell through the floor of his apartment was pinned in the rubble for a few hours. The friend that was staying with him was killed. After several hours, Gallego was pulled from the rubble with few injuries.

Now here's the rub. Not only was Gallego rescued, but he won the Mega Millions lottery exactly two months before the accident. Crazy, eh?

Hey, you never know.

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Basta Cosi (Enough)

Photo by myself, at Bowling Green near Wall Street.

Italian tourists horsed around on the life sized bronze bull sculpture, a symbol of the Financial District. The bull represents a 'bullish' or prospering market.

--
As I wrote last night, Mark and I have been working hard and rewarding ourselves as a result.

It's an easy pattern to fall into - you give a lot to your job and your family. You stress out over other people's concerns. You work toward perfection in situations which are far from perfect.

There's always another opinion to win over, client to please, deadline to attain. Isn't life just stressful? It's easy to then think that you deserve more in return.

You eat more, drink more, indulge a bit more. Curiously, I feel that it's in these times of stress that one should scale back. While indulging less, I feel that one should actively value things (your loved ones, your job, your situation) more.

It's just my opinion, of course, an opinion that comes at the end of yet another long week. With the risk of sounding like a complete sap, I'll say this: all I need is a moment to stop in my tracks, close my eyes and tell myself that life is good. I don't need anything more. I already have enough.


For an earlier post about Zen, click here .

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Chin-Chin

Photo by myself at a restaurant in Park Slope, Brooklyn.

To decompress from our jobs, Mark and I have taken to eating out and having a drink with our meals to relax.

--
Today, the weather turned out to be absolutely beautiful. It was fully Spring-like, with bright sunshine and a cool edge to the air.

People were out strolling about during lunch hour and eating on the sidewalk. Anyone visiting New York is really fortunate. These are perfect days to visit the city, with low humidity and the ideal temperature.

Anyhow, Happy Friday everyone. Cheers!

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One Place Serves All

Photo by myself in front of Madison Square Garden at 34th Street and 8th Avenue.

Raised above the street, this public plaza is busy at all times of the day. There can be a basketball game occurring inside alongside a three ring circus. The outdoor digital screen brings a bit of the arena outside.

--
I have to admit that I went to the cat show at Madison Square Garden several years ago.

There, I said it. I like cats, I thought it'd be fun, so I went.

It was a while ago, but I remember walking by rows and rows of tables with cat contestants. Some were in cages, some were in their carriers. Some were being preened and prepped for judging.

One woman was brushing a long haired white cat, fluffing its fur and sprinkling it with baby powder. Then she would lift the cat a couple feet above the table and let the cat drop and gently land on its toes. The whole process was repeated several times.

There were signs advertising cat breeders. There were cat products for sale. There were cat breeds I'd never heard of before, and a special group of cats that audience members had brought in to show. It was overwhelming and interesting.

And on the way out of the arena, I dropped in on the New York Rangers hockey game. Woohoo.

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Life's Seedy Underbelly

Photo by myself on West 33rd Street near 8th Avenue.

Not all of Manhattan is glamorous. There are still little pockets of an older, seedier New York still around, but you really have to look. Times Square, which used to be populated with strip clubs and x-rated video stores, is located only a few blocks north of this location. Now of course, Times Square is squeaky clean.

--
I was going to write about a certain place tonight because of the above photo. Various online searches went nowhere.

'Damien Hirst strip club 25th Street', I typed. '25th Street 6th Avenue New York x-rated'.

Nothing.

I was trying to remember the name of a place near one of my old offices. Years ago, a coworker had told me that Damien Hirst, the British artist whose work includes a cow cut in half, used to visit this x-rated place. But I couldn't remember the name.

So I turned to Mark on the off chance that he knew.

'Okay, do you know of this place, around 6th Avenue and 24th Street? It was x-rated, and it had a funny name. Something Something. Then they added and 'S' so it wouldn't be so obviously...x-rated?'

Mark put his head down and laughed. 'Oh, Billy Stopless?'

Holy cow. Yes.

'Billy Stopless' was not the anonymous hole in the wall that I thought it was. It turns out that Billy's was a quirky, local landmark. Mark had gone in once with a bunch of buddies years ago. He found it to be a strange and grungy place, with not the most attractive dancers. (He didn't stay long!)

Billy's was originally called 'Billy's Topless', until Guiliani cracked down on adult establishments in the late 90's. Since the letters in the sign were all capitals, the owners only had to move the apostrophe for the name to be acceptable. I used to chuckle every time I saw the sign because of the silly name.

Billy's closed sometime around 2001.

For more about Billy Stopless, including a very small picture of the facade, click here.

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It's That Time of Year Again

Photo by myself of one of the banners suspended from the ceiling of the Main Post Office, at 34th Street and 9th Avenue.

On April 15th, the place is usually mobbed with camera crews, massage therapists and people offering tax advice. I stood on line one April 15th a few years ago (ah, never again).

--
I walked over to the Main Post Office tonight, to take some photos. On the way, I had to get through the crowds at Madison Square Garden. People were flooding the front steps, hawking tickets to the Knicks game (they lost to the Celtics, 99-93). Tourists were taking photos, commuters were headed home via Penn Station. Traffic was a mess.

Meanwhile, the sun was setting, casting a golden glow on the tops of the older buildings. I stood on the street corner and looked north - there was the top of the new New York Times Building, and the glimmering lights of Times Square.

It was a nice moment in the middle of the turbulent melee. People were shouting, cars were honking. Quietly, the sun set.

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Working It Out

Photo by myself of the Empire State Building, in the morning light.

It was overcast today, so I'm showing a photo from several days ago. The Empire State Building rises above all other buildings. By night, the lights in the lantern change color to commemorate holidays and events. When Frank Sinatra passed away, for example, the lantern glowed a distinct shade of blue.

For the current ESB lighting schedule, click here.

--
The new job turns out to be much more stressful than the last job, due to politics. Oh dear. I'll give things a few months to play out before making any rash decisions.

I went to the gym tonight, since exercise helps you deal with stress better. I have to wonder about the percentage of New Yorkers who have gym memberships. I'm sure it's pretty high, since there are so many gyms and so many reasons for going: job stress, health and vanity.

After a mere 30 minutes on the elliptical machine, I felt absolutely amazing, I mean, really startlingly sublime. I came home to find Mark heating up some dinner and gave him an enormous hug. So if you haven't gone to the gym in a while, give it a try. Your friends and family will thank you for it.

Later, we caught today's episode of CBS Sunday morning, which we'd recorded. Guess what? There was a segment on exercise, with a celeb of yore.

Jack LaLanne was shown lifting weights, swimming and running around. The man is turning 94 years old this year and still works out two hours a day.

Inspiring? Oh yes. Time to strap on those running shoes!

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What are the Chances

Photo by myself, outside one of the new public toilets installed on the New York City streets.

Finally, public toilets have been installed for use on the streets. The icons transcend all languages: Unisex toilet, handicap accessible. Adults, please supervise your children. No smoking, and please, no more than 15 minutes to do your business.

I haven't dared venture in one of these things yet, and probably won't unless absolutely necessary.

--
Friday after seeing the Free Tibet peace rally in Union Square, I met Mark at a Bar 119, where he was having a drink with a buddy. It's a loud bar on 15th Street with cheap drinks and a pool table. Lo and behold, we wound up at the same bar as some of my ex-work friends who were playing pool.

What a small world it is. How many bars are there in New York, and what are the chances that you'd be in the same place at the same time as people you know well? The world is a very small place. I'm convinced of it.

These last couple months, I've been contacted by several ex-classmates, ex-coworkers and old friends. It's a nice feeling, and I can't help but wonder whether the trend is happening because recent shifts in the apartment. Could this be the result of feng shui?

Well, if you're in town tomorrow (Sunday) for the AIPAD show (Association of International Photography Art Dealers, I'll see you there. More than 75 art dealers and museums are displaying photography for purchase at the Park Avenue Armory at 67th Street and Park Avenue.

Mark and I are a little starved for visual inspiration. What better thing than to visit one of the largest exhibits of vintage and current photography for sale?

For more on the exhibit, click here.

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Peace to All

Photo by myself in Union Square.

Yet another peace rally on behalf of Tibet took place Friday night in Union Square. Monks chanted while people lit candles to form the words 'Free Tibet', along with a peace symbol.

--
Tonight I walked through Union Square and was surprised to find another peace rally going on. The candles created a delicate, vibrant atmosphere. There was a good crowd standing around, watching the candles being lit.

Monks were meditating and chanting a low tone in the background. I overheard someone say how magical the moment was. Then I looked at my watch and realized I was running late.

I walked around the south end of the square. Within just a few steps, I could no longer hear the monks chanting, since they'd been uttering such a low tone. The candles had disappeared from view. Just like that, I was immersed in the traffic and bustle.

I thought the moment was a poetic way of expressing something deeper, about Buddhism and meaning and other points of view, that can so easily slip away from us. You may just be on the brink of another world and not know it.

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Here's to the Human Condition

Photo by myself, on the Upper West Side, at Broadway and 78th Street.

The Apthorp comprises a whole city block. A courtyard in the middle provides space for cars to turn around on the ground floor, and allows in air into apartments far from the building exterior.

While I was taking this photo a passing pedestrian asked me what I what kind of building this was. He probably thought I was taking a photo of an embassy.

Ah no, it's just a lowly apartment building.

--
Today I was finally able to listen to the complete NPR podcast about Buddhism from the other day. That was followed by a podcast about a man talking about the lobotomy that was performed on him when he was 12 years old.

Listening to both these interviews, one concerning the Dalai Lama's philosophy and the other concerning one man's childhood experience, was illuminating. It helped me take my life in perspective.

We all have our situations, our shortcomings, challenges and fears. We have our strengths and the issues we're trying to overcome.

It's really just the human condition. The key is to remember that no one has it easy, even though it may seem that way from the outside.

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On the Job

Photo by myself of a policeman in Herald Square.

It must be hard to be on your feet all day. This gentleman was taking probably a much needed break, as pedestrians, traffic and all else whirred by.

--
I've been listening to NPR podcasts at work lately, my small attempt at learning a few things while I still have brain cells.

Yesterday my ipod conked out in the afternoon, in the middle of a Fresh Air podcast, where Terri Gross was interviewing a reporter close to the Dalai Lama. I'd been entranced with what they were saying, about the Lama's non-violent philosophy in the face of such turmoil between Tibet and China. Then I suddenly found myself in silence. Gah!

The next couple hours were pretty tough to get through. I was doing some intense, detailed work and it was dead quiet around me.

I know there is a Buddhist lesson to be learned here. I know it. I was supposed enjoy the silence and hear the one hand clapping or the pitter pattering of each moment as they ticked by.

Patience, grasshopper.

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Slowing Down to See the Details

Photo by myself of one of the bronze statues near Herald Square.

Owls supposedly scare away pigeons, so you see a lot of them around the city in the attempt to curb pigeon droppings. In the olden days, stone masons carved them into building facades.

There are several bronze owl statues in a little park near Macy's. They're hard to see if you're in a rush.

--
There was a cute little blurb in The New Yorker magazine last week about some cross-pollination between Italy and New York.

A small group of Italians who call themselves L’Arte del Vivere con Lentezza, or The Art of Living Slowly, visited New York recently. They attempted to persuade New Yorkers to slow down and not compete so much.

I'm not sure how far they got, but their intentions were wonderful. Why kill yourself for first place, when you can settle for third place, or even last?

I have to say there's something to the Italian lifestyle that is eternally appealing. The idea of walking around the city after a late dinner, chatting with a loved one is brilliant.

Who needs the rat race?

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It's a Big World In There

Photo by myself inside the Haier Building in Midtown.

This building used to be a bank and to my knowledge is no longer publicly used. I was walking by one day when its giant bronze doors were wide open. A couple of technicians were inside, installing some equipment. I'm not sure what they were doing but it looked complicated!

--
I was browsing around online last night when I ran into an article about street photography that mentioned this blog.

Publicity is a wonderful thing, and unsolicited publicity is even better. I was flattered to read the article, especially since I consider myself very much a beginner.

As for photography, I've been astounded at how broad the art form is. There's 'street photography', which relies on chance timing in the field. There are posed scenes with or without people. There are portraits, there are landscapes, there are extreme closeups.

Photography seems to have room for everyone, and any scene has the potential to yield a zillion different interpretations. I happen to be more spontaneous with my picture taking, while others prefer to stage the scene or adjust the light.

This brings me to one of the concerns I had when I began this blog. I was worried that if I wrote down my thoughts, I'd run out of things to say. What then?

The amazing thing is that just about every day, I have had something to say. Well, except those days when I've been too tired or busy to say anything, lol. Of course, knowing there are readers out there who actually read this blog helps motivate me when I'd rather just veg out.

How successful or interesting those thoughts are vary, of course, but they're still there. There are no limits to what there is to communicate.

I'm happy to say I haven't gotten to the bottom just yet.

Related posts: Inspiration and The Arts - Live and on Videotape.

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Finally Home

Photo by myself of the Statue of Liberty from the edge of Red Hook, Brooklyn.

--
I apologize in advance for my brain deadness tonight. It's been a long week and I'm in need of rest!

It's wonderful to have Mark back from his business trip. He was away for nearly two weeks in Buenos Aires, for work. The return trip took 11 hours on two planes, and he has to be in the office tomorrow. Fortunately the weather was sunny and wonderful, since it's late summer in South America.

Mark found Buenos Aires cosmopolitan and the people friendly, but in the end, he was a little homesick. Meat plays a big part in the Argentine diet, which we're trying to eat less of, and there isn't a whole lot of variety to the food.

There were also two strikes going on: one with the farmers, affecting all the restaurants, and one with the major Argentine airline, which canceled his initial flight home.

The cat and I are just happy that he's back. Hooray.

Happy Monday, everyone!

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Out Getting Some Air

Photo by myself in Madison Square Park, at 23rd Street and Fifth Avenue.

I ran into this threesome on their daily walk. Both miniature pinscher and house cat were sniffing at everything.

Note: I received an email later from the Owner who was very nice and said his cat is much more adventuresome than his dog!

--
We had nice sunny weather today. The sidewalks and subways were packed with visitors from abroad. I have the feeling that it's going to be very crowded in the city this summer.

I'm not keen on the idea. Don't get me wrong. I think tourism is great for New York businesses. It's just that traffic gets tough during rush hour or when you're in a hurry to get places.

Many New Yorkers get out of the city on the weekends in the summer months, especially because of the heat and humidity. Mark and I will most likely take little trips or remain in Brooklyn. We're not one for crowds.

Incidentally, Mark returns from abroad tomorrow. Woohoo!

We're going to Long Island to see his mum and pick up Clive, Mark's Mini Cooper. I cannot believe how time has flown by. How can it be April already? That's one third of the year!

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The Walls Have Ears

Photo by myself in Midtown.

Typically in this region, garages are located on the side streets, which run east-west. The smaller scale buildings are found there as well, for residences and the occasional restaurant or store. The longer avenues, running north-south, are left for shop fronts, businesses and major skyscrapers.

There's a logic to how different types of buildings are situated, based on general foot traffic. I can't help but appreciate this logic, because after a while, it makes New York understandable on an intuitive level.

--
Today one of my new coworkers and I bonded over a long lunch. She told me all the gossip, and I'm sure there's plenty more to be had.

Once piece of info was particularly flabbergasting. I can't say what it is, of course, since the world is such a small place. Let's just say it's in the x-rated category. She told me as an old-timer letting the new generation in on one of the major office milestones. Isn't verbal history amazing?

So later I was off to happy hour where two other new hires were, and I let THEM know. But then they let one of the new hire's husbands know, who then announced it to EVERYONE at the happy hour.

When you have x-rated information, how could you not say anything? That kind of stuff is like wildfire. It's like knowing (and here's a purely hypothetical situation) that one of the male staff members wears female panties. That kind of thing.

To be sure, I'll be doing some crowd control immediately. I will issue a major shush. No one must divulge sources, though I'm sure all the other old timers know about the tidbit.

Every place has its skeletons, of course. Aren't the skeletons what make a place interesting?

As long as the skeleton isn't yours.

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TGIF

Photo by myself in front of the main branch of the New York Public Library at 42nd Street and 5th Avenue.

Daffodils are blooming in the giant urns outside this striking landmark, even though the weather is currently chilly.

--
TGIF everyone. What a long week.

Tonight I worked late, my first late-ish night. I hate panicking at the last minute, and all this is the mere attempt to panic early and avert certain disaster.

I'm no spring chicken, though and long hours are hard on my body. What's worse is that I have a couple young uns near me, who work quite hard. They work late each night and come in late in the mornings. It's like they've formed a team to make feel extremely old and has-beenish.

So as a result of the late-ish night, I have nothing really to say. I leave you with the above photo, which is the glimmer of a shred of hope that Spring is here. At last!

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Not Your Average New Yorker

Photo by myself in Union Square.

Several chess tables are located outside in Union Square for anyone to use. You can often see strangers challenging each other to a quick game. Bring your own chess set!

--
Last night I caught a little of the television show, Real Housewives of New York City, yet another reality-based television show on the Bravo channel.

I'd previously promised myself not to watch the show because I knew it'd make me mad. Actually, I was first mad, then a little depressed.

I wouldn't want to be any of the privileged women on the show. The people shown are not even close to an average New Yorker. One 'housewife' admitted that raising a child in the private school system in New York costs a million dollars. And that's only from birth to high school. Ahem.

I wanted to tell all the women to get over themselves. On the other hand, I started feeling sad less for myself and my own non-millionaire status, than for them. The lives of these women sounded tough. There was the constant awareness of scarcity in the midst of plenty. It must be difficult to go around thinking that everyone wants to be in your shoes. You must always be fearing failure.

One twelve year old girl, the daughter of one of the 'housewives' says,'My mother tells me that I have to find a way to make my own money. Because you never know what's going to happen to your relationship. So you need your own money.'

Ouch.

Tough to hear from the mouth of so young and obviously not in a relationship. But I suppose it's good, realistic advice. In another episode (yes, I was sucked into watching a couple shows), her mother asks what she thinks she'll do after college.

Hello, this is a twelve year old girl who hasn't even started high school!?

Details, details.

Here's a sneak peek for those who might be curious:

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Au Secours

Photo by myself near the Park Avenue Armory at Park Avenue and East 66th Street.

The annual Whitney Biennale is on display there until June 1st, 2008. The event shows current work from around the world. The Whitney Museum is located several blocks away in a striking Brutalist building by architect Marcel Breuer.

For more information about the Biennale, click here

--
This morning I had my nose buried in the latest New Yorker. The subway was lurching along between the first stop in Brooklyn stop and Manhattan.

Suddenly out of nowhere, a woman yelled out, 'Is there a doctor on this train? Is anyone a doctor?! Does someone know CPR?!!'

My view was obscured from the sick passenger. Fifteen feet away from me, most people seemed calm. I doubt there were many doctors on a subway at nine in the morning, but there could have been an EMT, who knows.

Not to alarm anyone, but no one rushed over to the troubled end of the train. In fact, some riders went back to reading their magazines, or closed their eyes to get back to napping.

I was shocked. Maybe people decided that since they didn't know CPR, they could do whatever they pleased? Maybe they judged the lack of panic (aside from the shouting woman) as a sign that everything was okay?

The woman who shouted explained that the person had had a seizure. At that point, the train emerged from the tunnel to cross the Manhattan bridge. A couple passengers whipped out their cell phones.

I felt guilty. Should I do something? Should I have done something? How could I be shocked by people napping when I was equally inactive?

When the train pulled into the station a couple minutes later, an MTA guy jumped into our car. By then, the sick person had come to and was fine, refusing medical help. The train doors closed and we were off to the next stop. I quietly promised myself never to get sick on a train.

On my way home tonight, I saw a man trip on the sidewalk in the semi-darkness. A couple older men nearby came over to help. One rescuer picked up the man's hat, the other helped the man get on his feet.

I shouldn't give up my faith in New Yorkers quite yet.

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Life in the Balance

Another photo from my quick walk through Times Square the other day, at 42nd Street and 8th Avenue.

Hm...I suppose that's a Chase Bank across the street?

--
Mark says Argentina is wonderful. He's there for another week for his job, filming a commercial for a major airline.

Usually Mark's here to answer my questions - is this photo better, or this one? What the name of that restaurant again? And he's always asking me the same question: 'Are you blogging? You're blogging, aren't you. You're blogging?'

I'm both enjoying and disliking this time while he's gone. It's great to be free to do anything that I want to do. But it's tough after being with someone most of the time to suddenly be on your own.

Finding a middle ground has been tough. Time is limited and after subtracting all the time spent at work, you're left with just a little bit to divide up between being together and doing your own thing.

Now that Mark is moving in, things will be better. Less time will be spent commuting back and forth, and having to remember whose clothes are where. We'll be able to cook more and make our own lunches, since we'll be stocking just one fridge.

For the last few days, the cat has tried to fill Mark's shoes but it's not the same. I fear our language differences are getting in the way.

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