soho

brooklyn, ny

every transplant in a city with a robust tourist sector knows those places. they are the ones that when mom and dad, the college roommate, the girlfriend's cousins, or the recently discovered long lost fraternal twin inevitably want to see when they come visit or just happen to be passing through. its generally worse when they're visiting for the first time.

i would say that i take a better attitude than most, maybe going so far as to suggest that i am in the top percentile. the fact is that i like going to a lot of those places. i enjoy going to see the statue of liberty, waiting to get to the top of the empire state building, walking through a frenetic times square, strolling through central park, and even taking the circle line boat around the island of manhattan. for one, it reinforces that i rolled the dice and moved to a city that fascinates so many people. most of it is that i simply appreciate the spaces that make new york so well known throughout the world.

but every rose has its thorn and every rule its exception. mine takes form in a little neighborhood found north of canal street on the west side: soho. before i hone my dagger and go for blood, a few caveats need to be explained. for one, i love much about what soho was, everything that it could be, and even a fair amount of what it is. the neighborhood named for its zoning south of houston street has the vibrant history that i only wish ken burns would tackle. brothels, violence, artists, addiction, and any vice known to man can be found across multiple decades. stick a thumbtack in just about any tick on this city's inhabited timeline and you will encounter a year in which soho would fit snuggly in the proverbial place-you-do-not-want-to-be genre. up until a couple decades ago, there would have been many a ma and pa who would drive straight and without rest from kenosha if they learned their daughter was spending her nights among the district's inspiring cast iron architecture. like most places of ill-repute, the negative connotations spread among the masses overlooked the wonderful creativity and energy found within its borders. that soho once existed.

just as the places where artists live and work are the polar opposite of where their successful work is displayed and purchased, so too is the present form of soho the exact opposite of the creative space it once was. i never took karate and abhor confrontation, but i walk through soho and am pretty sure i could kick every single person's ass. it is the place you go to carry your dog in a designer bag. it is the place you go to get a haircut that matches the grooming of the dog you carry in your designer bag. it is the place you go to complain about the cappuccino you ordered only to serve as a segue to mention your most recent trip to milan. it is the place to see the people who need to be seen in the places where people think they need to be in order to see and be seen.

i think the best way to understand the people is to understand the place. i took a recent visit through the lovely cobblestone streets of soho to learn a bit more about what it is that makes the neighborhood tick. what i discovered was very simple: consumerism. this is not a discovery on par with the key on a kitestring, but a closer inspection exposed a very particular and fairly formulaic approach to attracting this very discerning fauna. because a best buy or a pottery barn will not yield the designer crowd, the local merchants need to put in just a little more effort. but not too much. i found that it really comes down to no more than nomenclature and signage. if you stop to think about it, you'll be stunned that you hadn't seen this formula all along. with great glee and forethought, i present to you the four ways to name your boutique so as to make it in soho, in pictoral form. [note: these categories are not mutually exclusive]

1. your boutique's name is monosyllabic, perhaps even slightly suggestive in some coquettish manner

2. your boutique's name is bisyllabic, but only four letters long










3. your boutique's name is in another language, or just something entirely indiscernible

4. your boutique announces that it has another location in an international city, as if anyone had asked











only some of the reasons why last evening was enjoyable
good food
great people
meeting a white guy named leon, then hearing an anecdote about another white guy named leon
hearing the following quotation: "zinedine zidane was the django reinhardt of soccer"

washington heights

brooklyn, ny

the beautiful, somewhat rustic, occasionally gritty, and always interesting neighborhood of washington heights lies just below the uncircumcised tip of the island of manhattan (the metaphorical foreskin is, oddly enough, known as inwood). the etymology of the neighborhood is simple enough: it occupies the highest ground on the island and it was the site of the fort named for a somewhat famous u.s. american figure from the revolution. dear old g.w. has lent his name to a state, a city, and now a neighborhood full of dominicans. i even think he'd even be proud of both the former and the latter (the middle...hmm, not so sure).

whereas one glance over its east river shoulder will spot a borough full of puerto ricans, this neighborhood is home to the other major subset of spanish-speaking caribbean island dwellers. throughout the blocks lined with pre-war buildings can be found mangu, delicious rotisserie chicken, and enough barber shops to cater to every member of the armed services, here and abroad. baseball games blare from speakers on stoops and sidewalk gatherings, dominoes slap onto streetside plastic tables, bachata pulsates from slow moving minivans. for the enlightened traveler who would appreciate the dominican republic that traded away its beaches and palm trees and drinks with cute little bamboo umbrellas for pavement and litter and the high asthma rates attendant to a polluted urban area, this is your place. and i do not at all mean that in a bad way.

on a personal level, the neighborhood is where i spent one of my first nights when i moved to the city and met some of my first new york city friends. i now have the distinct pleasure of passing two evenings per week in the vicinity of 182nd street where i perform job #2. already familiar with the environs, my work teaching the citizenship exam to dominican immigrants has introduced me to the true fabric of a neighborhood: its people. i share with them the historical facts needed to pass the exam, they share with me pointers on improving my spanish. i try to introduce them to my own country through playing neil diamond, explaining the louisiana purchase, playing the 'i have a dream' speech, and inculcating a deep hatred for the university of nebraska's football team. they shower me in smiles.

the rewards of this job are no different from the proverbial satisfaction always cited by those in the teaching profession. however, there is something a little more tangible with this work. there have been the gifts and effusive gratitude and firm handshakes from newly minted citizens who return to class to thank me and encourage their classmates. but in the grand scheme, while the news streams the events and aftermath of xenophobic legislation in arizona, i take no small measure of pride in being a white guy lending his time and energy to help a room full of immigrants in becoming u.s. american citizens. but then i can't help but think that if some folk in arizona could take the time to do the work that i do and see immigrants for who they really are, human beings pursuing a dream of self-betterment, then maybe we could all go forward with one less thing to worry about. borders tend to do no more than insulate our own thinking and limit our exposure to the beautiful world and people beyond. i am content that i only need to take the a train to find a happy space in one of this planet's borderless nooks.


i heart new york



for a better, more professional depiction of subway musicians, please support my good friend matt finlin's project at kickstarter: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/224529102/below-new-york

fever

brooklyn, ny

four years ago, i led a group of eight u.s. american college students to malawi for a summer volunteer project. as it turned out, our host ngo was little more than a way to siphon western donor money into already well-insulated pockets. many of my youthful volunteers, some clearly afraid of black people and others only comforted in the presence of english lads, seemed to project their frustration and insecurity on yours truly. one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences left much to be forgotten.

but each evening, from 4 until bedtime, there was a larger event that served as panacea for my volunteer's impertinence. rather than have to focus on the young'uns that blamed me for their misfortunes, or the ones who seized the day by reading in bed and doing laundry [it must be noted that not all of them were that bad], i could lose myself in the world cup. taking place in germany, felicitously aligned with the time zone in east africa, i could steal away to watch the matches on a 13" television next door or occasionally a bar in town.

there was something special about watching african teams compete from the continent, even if malawi was (and may never be) a participant. my fellow viewers would take sides in all the matches, but would still applaud every goal, no matter the team. it was as pure a celebration of the game as could be imagined. instead of winners and losers as we see it over here, it was more about the way the game was played.

and though i may not be there, i think that something of my previous experience is stirred in me as i watch these games. it may just be that so many rich travel experiences prevent me from watching the matches from a competitive perspective. yes, i want the u.s. side to go and to go far and i noticed yesterday that i have an affinity for the spanish side (i don't care about the loss, they play the game beautifully and remain as great a threat to win it as anybody). aside from a few exceptions, i just want to see the beautiful game played beautifully. not from a perspective of exuberant indifference, but one where i have so much love and respect for all the peoples of the world and the cultures we have been fragmented into.

there would be nothing greater than to see the hosts go far, but i just couldn't fully pull for them to best uruguay when i remembered all the friendly, mate-carrying people i met and saw a couple years back. i can't root against the north koreans, since it would be unfair to cheer against a side because their political leaders were myopic and delusioned (i grew up under reagan and a pair of bushes, after all: i can no more cheer against north korea than i can myself). the world hates france, but i still support les bleus even if zidane isn't around to be the man among boys this time around. i cannot cheer against an african side because of all the love that continent has given me, but i still have to remember the rich experiences i have had in japan and slovakia and germany and new zealand and australia. as for all countries i have yet to travel to, i don't want to enter algeria or paraguay with some sort of negative affect or deficient funds in the karma account.

i guess what i'm saying is that, for as lame as it sounds, i just want to watch great football and hope that all the players, fans, and locals have a great experience over the next month. except italy. i hate italy.

sunset park

brooklyn, ny

there were purchases of sandals that received more deliberation than that which i dedicated to choosing to live in sunset park. a three-year relationship and one-year co-habitation came to an abrupt end in early october, just before the full throes of graduate school mid-terms. i had been shuttling between friends couches with two bags: one for school, one for clothes. the system worked fine even if it was enervating physically and mentally, but i knew that winter was coming and with them finals. i had to find a place.

and so craigslist entered stage right. $400 per month. sure. it didn't really matter where, didn't really even matter that the room was wood paneled and almost entirely filled by the twin mattress provided. it would have been nice were there a common room to unwind in, but i would be too busy and generally away for that absence to come to my attention. the price was right and the roommates seemed nice enough. i unpacked.

i made it through finals, then entered a semester that included five classes, a thesis, and a part-time job in the bronx. then came graduation and a little trip to west africa and india. by the time i returned, i had lived in the neighborhood for eleven months and done little more than sleep in it. over the past nine months i have finally had the time to grow to know and appreciate the place. it may not get much attention on the pages of frommer's and its restaurants may not have any michelin stars to boast, but there's a certain charm to the place.

sunset park may be the only neighborhood where you get your mexican food cooked by mexicans and your chinese food cooked by chinese. you want to hear the slur of a real brooklyn accent on a barstool in the mid-morning hours? we got it. you can buy produce out of a rusty blue van, take a peek into a borderline chinese sweatshop within view of a mosque, buy dumplings for a dollar, step into a thinly veiled salvadorean brothel, see a legitimate police presence outside of a kfc, watch mexicans play volleyball poorly, witness lebanese wedding receptions at a catering hall, get fresh tamales from a shopping cart, take in a sociological study at off track betting, get your watch fixed or shoes resoled on the street, or just take in an exceptional sunset behind the statue of liberty from the neighborhood's eponymous public space.

though neighborhoods are rarely demarcated like the koreas, it's safe to say that this one runs from fourth avenue to ninth; thirty-sixth street to sixtieth. there is always the argument that each block or house or family is like it's own unique snowflake, but for our purposes we can break the neighborhood down by avenue.

fourth avenue
a wide, six lane road that hosts traffic for vehicles traveling locally or else intimidated by robert moses' expressways nearby. it hosts the r and n lines (the d train goes to 36th street), meaning it is an avenue dedicated exclusively to commuting. i'd liken fourth ave to an urban bus station: you wouldn't go there unless you're going somewhere else and it's considered a victory if your passage through does not involve stepping in urine.

fifth avenue
like a giant pedestrian mall that caters to the upper lower class. 99 cent stores, discount jeans, cell phone distributors, every type of fast food and every chain of shoe store that graces the land of the stars and stripes. the pedestrians are by-and-large mexican, the street food interesting and occasionally delicious, the people watching fantastic. to walk fifth avenue on a weekend is to invite overstimulation. it would make lou dobbs cry.

sixth avenue
looks like a leafy enclave for the upper crust of the lower class. aside from the aforementioned catering hall and a handful of laundromats, there is little in the way of enterprise and therefore little in the way of pedestrian traffic. as the road stops at the entrance to sunset park and is littered with potholes, there is also very little in the way of thru-traffic. it is the best avenue for the late afternoon stroll with your boo.

seventh avenue
i think this avenue is still searching for its identity. the transition from sixth to seventh is where the demographics go from latin american to asian. the two groups coexist peacefully even if there is little in the way of interaction and so the physical gray area between their respective quarters has the feel of a buffer zone that neither side really wants to take over. basically, it's the exact opposite of kosovo. there are bike lanes.

eighth avenue
brooklyn's chinatown, which just this past year surpassed manhattan's in terms of chinese population. bubble tea, noodle shops, seafood distributors, internet cafes, shuttle buses to casinos on native american reservations in neighboring states, bright signs in bad english, and frenetic produce markets. oh, and chinese people. some of them too.

as for the streets? tree-lined, brownstoned, and beautiful. i will admit that when my own financial stimulus package kicks in, i'll probably be bound for the clinton hill/bed stuy/prospect heights mix. but until that day comes, i can attest to this having been a pretty good place to live.

ny, ny

brooklyn, ny

new york city. there does not exist the superlative capable of capturing this place. call it the big apple, call it grandiose, call it intense or bizarre or frenetic or wonderful or barbaric. regardless, this city will make your superlative look like a child's flotation ring on a grown gorilla. attempting to encapsulate gotham, with its eight million souls scurrying across over around and beneath its three hundred miles of real estate, is a thankless task. there is always more to be said, both in depth and breadth of description, that it's best to not even try. instead, you should just raise a glass of whiskey and shake your head.

a day in late august will mark my fifth year as a resident of this city. i could never be a true insider, but i believe this tenure allows me to self-identify as a card carrying new yorker. in my humble attempt to relate the inside to the outsider, i can only start by saying that it's all true. all of it. to begin with, and i don't know how to say it any better way, we really do think we're better than you. if it's not said, then it's thought. if it's not thought, then it's felt. if it's not felt, then it's floating gently within the subconscious.

there are some other cities in this country, but none worthy to be its peer. san francisco? like placing the stuffiest elements of park slope in a more temperate climate. chicago? colder, more crime, less culture, and would have a severely diminished application without john hughes. boston? that's cute. los angeles? attracts people who like mirrors and traffic jams. miami? attracts the worst new yorkers. philadelphia? i keep forgetting you guys are still around down there. d.c.? enough about me, tell me your favorite story from law school. st. louis? we would sooner feign a russian accent and the inability to speak english than have a conversation with you. all the rest of you: love your airports.

it may not sound right, it may even sound cruel, but i thought you had a right to know. this does not necessarily imply truth, but things tend to get called the way they're seen around here and this forum has no room for exceptions. we could drive this ship to jupiter off the fumes of our hubris, though some of it is definitely with reason. we know that we have the biggest buildings, best food, best nightlife, best music, best public transportation (huge caveat: for this gas guzzling country), best parks and public spaces, and the list goes on. but the real reason for the swagger in our step and perhaps the best kept secret is that this city has the best people.

the young boy who dreams of being the best coke-snorting, money-grubbing banker? he moves here. the next aspiring great artist? new york. the great american novelist? new york. the best architect? yep. the best actor (the thinking man's actor, one who would never work with michael bay)? new york. singer/guitar player/drummer/cellist/trumpeter/rapper/etc? mmhmm. the quixotic teacher seeking to save the world? teaches in our board of ed. the most aspiring of attorneys wants to handle our divorces. the most type-a of restaurateurs opens their eatery to us. while we are weighed down by the quantity of long island and new jersey imports, it must be said that the hum and purr of this machine is perpetually being reinforced by the steady stream of dreamers who pour into our streets. it's not all about competition. in fact, surprisingly few of us have that mentality. instead, at many times it does feel that we are continually rubbing elbows with the starry-eyed who wish nothing but the best for us as well. at the end of the day, i think we all carry a healthy share of respect for one another.

while i can wax about the intangibles of the accumulation of so many strivers, it need be said that we are kind. we love nothing more than to help you take the right train and get to your destination fast and safe. we may be cold and cruel when passing on the sidewalk, but get us indoors and we love nothing more than your great conversation. we hold doors open, tip really well, give impromptu hugs, lend our ears, say 'this rounds on me', smile, sing, cuddle, share, and love like nowhere else. we are bright, bold, and beautiful in our humanity.


when those nights happen
five gentlemen gather in a leafy backyard, varying members of the meat subgroup from the food pyramid are prepared on a small grill. the weather is perfect. and so maybe we arrive at the governor's island ferry just a few minutes after capacity has been reached for the free yeasayer show. lesser men would surrender; the brave fenagle their way onto the day's last ikea boat and salvage an impromptu red hook bar crawl. and all goes well and every one is happy, even after the bouncer has informed you that your japanese companion appears overserved and may just need an escort home. kampai.


i heart new york
a long walk to work #3 was unexpectedly more pleasant than the usual warm air of a sunday afternoon provides. fifth avenue was marked off for blocks through bay ridge. there was the block filled with at least four deflated bouncing castles and contingent of impatient children waiting for the two frustrated adults to figure out how to use the gas-powered air compressor. one block was filled with arepas and latin american cuisine. another offered gyros and knockoff italian. one block blared the most beautiful music from a local organization dedicated to the advancement of arab-american concerns. the stage in front of the lebanese restaurant had a crowd of hundreds watching an absolutely beautiful belly dancer. dozens of blocks, thousands of people, hundreds of vendors. but the one that made me pause and take just seven minutes out of my routine to tap my foot was a stage with five fifty year olds. they were talking and thanked the crowd as i approached, but soon ripped into a very worthy rendition of deal by the grateful dead. it goes to show you don't ever know....

publish or perish

brooklyn, ny

i'm looking, i really am. there are the websites that cater to people with my education and ambition that i have bookmarked on my computer. i always write down the name of an interesting organization when i come across one in the various current events publications that i scope daily. i dedicate a good part of my morning or afternoon to researching the specific job or organization to assist in crafting the most meticulous cover letter possible. and then i ponder the waiting room and the interview and filling out a 1040 and wearing a button down long sleeve shirt with some sort of striped pattern and buying a phone with internet access and stepping out for coffee at 11 and a power lunch at 1 and maybe a quick walk to the nearby park at 4 and then falling asleep on the train ride home when the day is done.

these are not bad things. far from it. i have seen some incredibly stimulating work that serves the common good and, besides, i could use the money and the insurance. it would also be much easier to explain to the people i love and know and meet just exactly what it is i do. just exactly what role i play in the theatre of life.

but the reality is that the job search is of little concern. in fact, i think i'm secretly rooting against myself with every application i send. the reason is that i harbor an ambition that i have mentioned to few and explained to even fewer.

i am writing a novel. the idea came to me years ago, a story inspired by my experience as a volunteer teacher in namibia, and it has only metastasized with time. i wrote an introduction before thesis took over my life a year and a half ago, then continued when i returned from india in the fall. shortly after new year's, i began dedicating a couple hours to writing at least four or five nights a week. at the current pace, i anticipate being done with an initial manuscript by september. then i get to fill out cover letters of a different sort and see if any agents and publishing houses will bite.

i don't know why i feel so secretive about it. it's just something that's so quixotic and strange, the idea of writing a novel, something usually done by the suicidal or those who regard aluminum foil as a fashion accessory. i am not one to typecast myself as a novelist or really as anything, but maybe just a guy who's realized that he has a story to tell and that it needs to come out. a dream that will never cease to itch unless it's scratched in this one peculiar, torturous, enervating manner. to put it bluntly: my soul needs to take a shit.

who knows what will come of this. maybe i'll......nah, better to just focus on what needs to be done. for now. i do know that it pains me to demur each time i am inevitably asked what it is i do for a living. while i feel the pressures of acceptable ambition tugging at my lapels, not from anyone in particular but from everyone and everything in general, i keep having to remind myself that it's okay to dream. it's okay to roll the dice. i have the sinecures to pay the bills and consume enough ginger to ensure continued health. i am still young and without dependents and it is my life, after all.

to those who worry, i can only say that i have the education and experience to pick myself up and make it back to the professional starting line in the event nothing comes. to those who disapprove, i can only say that this would be one failed dream that would leave no carbon footprint. to those who still just don't get it, you're not the one who would have to live with having never tried. that would be me.

staycation

brooklyn, ny

they stare out from the bottom row of my bookshelf. ten dark spines of varying shades, adhesive lettering in gold, silver, or mother-of-pearl depending. most days they seem to reinforce my being. these ten photo albums tell me that no matter what i do or do not do from this day forward, that at least a respectable lifetimes' worth of travels are already notched in the belt. but if they're not outright mocking me, then at least it could seem that the albums are a reminder that this summer will be different. i will not be returning to africa, india, or south america. i will not be crossing the trans-siberian, casablanca-to-cairo, or southeast asian circuit off the peregrinatory bucket list. those thought bubbles must remain in the nether world of dreams. circumstances dictate that i focus a little bit more on the here and now.

it has not been a good year. i would not say that it's been a bad year, but i feel comfortable enough to ignore the societal conditioning that dictates that all wallpaper is floral and that we can paint all the years of our lives in happy stripes. personally and professionally, the walls have been peeling, even if the house still stands. they say that one door closes and another one opens, but sometimes there's a hallway or waiting room in between. and sometimes that waiting room only has magazines about bass fishing and piped-in aerosmith or maroon 5 to pass the interval. so while i hope that the next door has the inflatable castle or jungle gym behind it, there is always the fear that it could just be a dentists' drill or a colonix. but i am not one of those people and this is not one of those blogs; if you'd like to read about a twenty-/thirty-something brooklynite whining about their life, the internet is more fertile than the pampas. let this space remain the ground for other thoughts.

the circumstances dictate that the passport rest in the top drawer and that i must forego the flight and adopt the bike for this year. but before i get to feeling so sorry for myself for having to spend the first summer in the states since 2003, i must remember where i live: brooklyn. new york, new york. if the dozens of monuments/cultural centers/institutions i pass on a daily basis are not enough to reinforce the notion, then the throngs of guide book toting foreigners should remind me of how lucky i am. i live in a place where other people come. a place where people dream about visiting. though i have lived here for approaching five years, i have not spent one summer in this city. the time has come.

while i may not acquire any more ink stamps or stories about border crossings over the next few months, i will spend them in the [objectively speaking] greatest city on this planet. and i will spend it with the finest people i could ever hope to know. and with my camera in tow, i just may be able to find enough memories to fill an eleventh photo album. cause if we're not all down here collecting stories and memories, what are we all down here for anyway?

so i welcome you to join me for a summer in new york city. i hope you're as anxious to see what adventures can be found amongst the concrete and steel of the city america doesn't even begin to realize how lucky it is to have. if anything, let these months make me the first.