brooklyn, ny
it was five years ago today that i got off a plane at laguardia, caught a bus to grand central, took the 6 down to 23rd street, and walked to my first apartment in new york city. i did not pass through ellis island, but my story is no less than a more comfortable twenty-first equivalent of starry-eyed big city immigration. something inside me saw the restless streets and soaring steel as an invitation, a challenge to test my mettle. it need not be said that new york city is not for everyone. some people like their open spaces too much. some would never sacrifice the comfort of wonderful homes nor the feeling of knowing one's neighbors. for those that do move here i will not attempt to be the representative voice, partially because i know that i still cannot fully articulate my own. all i know is that there was a feeling that i had to move here. i did not know fully what i expected out of the city, just that i had to try it. i would have told you that i wanted to write my first novel and get my master's degree. i got the latter a year and the former should be done in weeks. aside from these feats, there was nothing about the past five years that has gone according to how it was envisioned. it has been everything i would have ever wanted.
had i thought it through more thoroughly, i would have moved with at least twice the financial cushion. i had roughly $3000 to my name, the promise of a month on the couch of a friend of a friend, and exactly zero connections to employment. i knew a handful of people, but i could only call one of them a friend. i was serendipitously fortunate to land a meaningful job within two weeks of arriving. nevermind that i was going to be a white colorado kid teaching science to students who left traditional school in the bronx. i would be able to remain under shelter and keep food in my belly and that was enough. the fact that i could be proud of my work was a very delectable icing.
and five years later i wake up and it's thursday. i have to teach in the evening, some emails to send in the morning, and then a couple other quotidian chores that i have already forgotten. while it is no more than any other day, it still feels special. riding the train, i decided spontaneously that i was hungry so i stopped in chinatown to buy dumplings and eat beside a soccer game off chrystie street. there was still time before work, so i took a long walk to washington square park and paid a man named 'cornbread' to give me a thorough whipping at chess. i sat across from orthodox jews on the long a train ride to my last class of this session where i am thanked profusely by twenty dominicans who are about to take their citizenship test. this was my day. my thursday. i realized that it was special, but also that it was so normal. tomorrow i will forget all about it because i will be confronted by an entire new tsunami of urban absurdity. i cannot think of any other place where the mundane events of the day are still so awe-inspiring. still so fresh. because it is a milestone anniversary of sorts, i suppose it right that i speak those words. that i shed a man's fear of intimacy and just come clean.
new york, even after all these years, i love you. we all know the t-shirt. i heart new york. tourists wear it and get their picture taken in times square and next to the statue of liberty and on the brooklyn bridge with grand piano smiles on their faces. but the shirt is a joke. it is like the radio station that overplays a good song. because i love new york.
love is not just that other person when they're funny or when they do that one cute thing or when you stare into each others candlelit eyes on the honeymoon; love is standing beside hospital beds and tolerating weird bodily noises and putting up with that old friend of theirs who you'd rather stab with a blunt object. all the same, loving new york is not just grimaldi's pizza or the statue of liberty or brushing elbows with the beautiful people at some gawdy club in the meatpacking district. loving new york is looking back fondly on that time you were dumped on the street. loving new york is walking past the aroma of the world's best restaurants and knowing you have to settle for the peanut butter sandwich in your pocket because you're still looking for work. loving new york is spending your weekend on the subway and walking around to a dozen apartments that you found on craigslist hoping that anyone, just one person, will offer you shelter. loving new york is waiting drunk and tired on a subway platform in the dead hours of morning and screaming expletives when the first light that comes is that of the garbage train. loving new york is stepping in a curbside february puddle and walking miles of city streets in wet socks. lovng new york is losing a nights sleep to a party in the apartment above or the incessant traffic outside your window. loving new york is seeing a rat in a restaurant you're eating at and laughing. loving new york is getting your bike stolen and immediately searching for another.
but loving new york is also having the best night in years on a friends stoop. it's having a bad day and then being serenaded by a mariachi band on the n train home. it's beginning a day grading papers alone and ending it with high-fives to a group of people you just met at a lively concert you never planned on going to. it's walking up to washington square park and seeing obama speak. it's falling in love. it's watching a west indian cricket game in prospect park. it's finding that hole in the wall jamaican restaurant that serves food so good you'd swear you were about to be executed. it's meeting and befriending people so goddamn wonderful you dare not pinch yourself lest you wake up elsewhere.
go through that, and a million things more, and then wear the t-shirt. not that i'm picking on tourists, just that i'm a little disappointed that those four little words are diluted to the form of catch phrase. because i love new york. i don't know how long i'll stay, could honestly be the rest of my life or only the rest of the year. i do know that every single place i go or live hereafter will immediately be compared to new york. i'm sure that most comparisons may not be favorable. it would be impossible for me to leave tomorrow and not have this city pop up in my conscious at least once per day forty years from now. tell me that's not love.
so, new york, you rat-infested money-loving dirty bike-stealing man-breaking stress-inducing terrorist-targeted unjust unkempt vomit-splattered foul-mouthed pickpocketing urine-soaked sould-crushing blood-spilling violent heartless hellhole: i love you. i love you. i love you.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
good fences
brooklyn, ny
rites of passage signify experience, though not necessarily all are of the pleasant variety. somewhere between the hours of 1 and 8 am saturday morning, my bicycle either adopted a sense of free will and embarked upon a harrowing adventure complete with soaring cliffs and plunging rapids and perhaps even a love interest with another inanimate object, overcoming obstacles great and small on their way to a whimsical quest set to an uplifting soundtrack. that, or else some asshole with a bolt cutter was walking down 58th street and saw something he liked. worse things have happened to better men, but platitudes only console so much as the heartless word suggests. it kinda stings. it really sucks.
each time i'm invited to prospect park, i now have to take the n. each time i want to meet friends in williamsburg or greenpoint, i have to stand on the stank platform of the g. each time i wake up with a monday free of work obligations and i ask myself, 'self, what do you want to do today?' i have to make a decision. before, i would just put my book, sunglasses, and music in my backpack and set out to see where my wheels would take me. now, i need a destination, which is the antithesis of my preferred motivation for travel. for this intermittent period sans roues, i am left with my metrocard. debilitating? not really. disappointing? extremely.
i will be buying another bike within the next couple weeks and can say that the experience does feel invasive, but is not one that i will allow to get the better of me. that is to say, i will not let this experience sour my experience in this great city. the easy thing to do is rush to some societal judgment about missing values and the inevitable plight of modern man. this does not mean that values have not been sliding and that we are not on a one way track to a self-inflicted cataclysm. based on global warming and the lunacy that is this country, that is the smart bet. still, one poor guy's stolen bicycle is no teleological litmus test for the world beyond. it simply reinforces that i need to haul that thing up those flights of stairs, even if i am working early the next morning.
so, dearest brooklyn, i attribute you no blemish. come and go as you please, your place in my heart is secure. i never assumed you to be flawless and, frankly, don't think i would have much interest in you if you were. i can only suggest that if you'd like to steal something, steal a car. people who drive those have money and insurance. some of us are just happy to have a few gears and a hooded sweatshirt, can't you give us a break?
rites of passage signify experience, though not necessarily all are of the pleasant variety. somewhere between the hours of 1 and 8 am saturday morning, my bicycle either adopted a sense of free will and embarked upon a harrowing adventure complete with soaring cliffs and plunging rapids and perhaps even a love interest with another inanimate object, overcoming obstacles great and small on their way to a whimsical quest set to an uplifting soundtrack. that, or else some asshole with a bolt cutter was walking down 58th street and saw something he liked. worse things have happened to better men, but platitudes only console so much as the heartless word suggests. it kinda stings. it really sucks.
each time i'm invited to prospect park, i now have to take the n. each time i want to meet friends in williamsburg or greenpoint, i have to stand on the stank platform of the g. each time i wake up with a monday free of work obligations and i ask myself, 'self, what do you want to do today?' i have to make a decision. before, i would just put my book, sunglasses, and music in my backpack and set out to see where my wheels would take me. now, i need a destination, which is the antithesis of my preferred motivation for travel. for this intermittent period sans roues, i am left with my metrocard. debilitating? not really. disappointing? extremely.
i will be buying another bike within the next couple weeks and can say that the experience does feel invasive, but is not one that i will allow to get the better of me. that is to say, i will not let this experience sour my experience in this great city. the easy thing to do is rush to some societal judgment about missing values and the inevitable plight of modern man. this does not mean that values have not been sliding and that we are not on a one way track to a self-inflicted cataclysm. based on global warming and the lunacy that is this country, that is the smart bet. still, one poor guy's stolen bicycle is no teleological litmus test for the world beyond. it simply reinforces that i need to haul that thing up those flights of stairs, even if i am working early the next morning.
so, dearest brooklyn, i attribute you no blemish. come and go as you please, your place in my heart is secure. i never assumed you to be flawless and, frankly, don't think i would have much interest in you if you were. i can only suggest that if you'd like to steal something, steal a car. people who drive those have money and insurance. some of us are just happy to have a few gears and a hooded sweatshirt, can't you give us a break?
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
brighton beach
brooklyn, ny
melting pot is an obvious analogy for this great city, but it is wrong. this city is a hastily thrown together salad. in the melting pot, the salt is broken down and integrated into the cumin into the chicken broth into each and every other ingredient until what remains is one uniform liquid in which every molecule bears the same consistency and content. we may be blended in the big apple, but it's running at a very slow speed. instead, in the salad bowl, the ingredients may be chopped and rinsed and sprinkled throughout, perhaps even tossed a few times, but that does not mean that all bites bear the same taste. we may all be soaked in the vinaigrette of pollution, congestion, of ambition, but we have not all entirely blended.
in this great salad, brighton beach is the beet. to step off the q or b train is to step into a fairly large pocket of mother russia. the cyrillic alphabet is not only the primary one in practice, in many stretches of street and in nearly all the stores it is the sole occupant on signage. the women have that untouchable beauty that feels as if they are protected by an all-encompassing sneeze guard. the men come in all shapes and sizes save for the same steely look in their eyes.
with russian roommate (r.r.) as my guide, i went down on my new found entire day off (job #2 has finally wound down) to explore this small pocket of wonder. he explained to me how most of the residents were russian jews and many came from a background of engineering, as that was favored by the soviet union (make nation strong!). through avenues and pursuits in various shades of illegality, the neighborhood and its property slowly came under russian control (if you get in even a fender bender in this zip code, your insurance company will investigate your claim). with the collapse of the soviet union, the neighborhood served as a beachhead for those fleeing the chaos behind.
to stroll down the brighton beach boardwalk or nearby ocean avenue is to almost take a space and time machine to what sociologist's term the "pre-ace of base" era. freshly released from the manacles of communism, unbridled consumerism became de rigueur. r.r. pointed out the gawdy shops and fancy clothes and even the home decorating show playing on the television at one cafe. he explained that non-russians were labeled foreigners, even americans (in our country; this would surely anger our tea-drinking pitchforkers). when i went to buy the cherry pastries at one supermarket, r.r. told me that the baker had said something to the effect, 'these foreigners never know what they want'. i didn't mind. those pastries were delicious.
what is there to do in brighton beach? i'm sure a lot, but time and a thunderous rain impeded further exploration. i will say that you couldn't go wrong with my selected itinerary of a stroll down the avenue and a trip to a 'soviet' supermarket. when you're tired of walking, i couldn't think of a more pleasant afternoon than a beer, a bowl of borscht, and a hearty sampling of people watching on the boardwalk.
felicitaciones
i begin each session of the citizenship course with some basic english. i choose a topic, introduce some verbs and words, then have the students write and present to the whole class. the other day i decided that the topic should be to recall one of the happiest moments in their lives, be it their wedding day, birth of a child, or just a special moment, etc. i was disappointed that m. answered her cell phone during someone else's presentation, but she quickly stepped out of the room to take the call. when she came back some minutes later, she informed us all that she had just become a grandmother to a healthy, beautiful girl back in buenos aires.
existential realization
as exceptional as i may think myself, i recently realized that i have a beard, a blog, a mac, ride a bike, do not own a television, drink copious amounts of coffee, carry my own shopping bags, and am way overqualified for all of my jobs. i am an exact stereotype of brooklyn man.
melting pot is an obvious analogy for this great city, but it is wrong. this city is a hastily thrown together salad. in the melting pot, the salt is broken down and integrated into the cumin into the chicken broth into each and every other ingredient until what remains is one uniform liquid in which every molecule bears the same consistency and content. we may be blended in the big apple, but it's running at a very slow speed. instead, in the salad bowl, the ingredients may be chopped and rinsed and sprinkled throughout, perhaps even tossed a few times, but that does not mean that all bites bear the same taste. we may all be soaked in the vinaigrette of pollution, congestion, of ambition, but we have not all entirely blended.
in this great salad, brighton beach is the beet. to step off the q or b train is to step into a fairly large pocket of mother russia. the cyrillic alphabet is not only the primary one in practice, in many stretches of street and in nearly all the stores it is the sole occupant on signage. the women have that untouchable beauty that feels as if they are protected by an all-encompassing sneeze guard. the men come in all shapes and sizes save for the same steely look in their eyes.
with russian roommate (r.r.) as my guide, i went down on my new found entire day off (job #2 has finally wound down) to explore this small pocket of wonder. he explained to me how most of the residents were russian jews and many came from a background of engineering, as that was favored by the soviet union (make nation strong!). through avenues and pursuits in various shades of illegality, the neighborhood and its property slowly came under russian control (if you get in even a fender bender in this zip code, your insurance company will investigate your claim). with the collapse of the soviet union, the neighborhood served as a beachhead for those fleeing the chaos behind.
to stroll down the brighton beach boardwalk or nearby ocean avenue is to almost take a space and time machine to what sociologist's term the "pre-ace of base" era. freshly released from the manacles of communism, unbridled consumerism became de rigueur. r.r. pointed out the gawdy shops and fancy clothes and even the home decorating show playing on the television at one cafe. he explained that non-russians were labeled foreigners, even americans (in our country; this would surely anger our tea-drinking pitchforkers). when i went to buy the cherry pastries at one supermarket, r.r. told me that the baker had said something to the effect, 'these foreigners never know what they want'. i didn't mind. those pastries were delicious.
what is there to do in brighton beach? i'm sure a lot, but time and a thunderous rain impeded further exploration. i will say that you couldn't go wrong with my selected itinerary of a stroll down the avenue and a trip to a 'soviet' supermarket. when you're tired of walking, i couldn't think of a more pleasant afternoon than a beer, a bowl of borscht, and a hearty sampling of people watching on the boardwalk.
felicitaciones
i begin each session of the citizenship course with some basic english. i choose a topic, introduce some verbs and words, then have the students write and present to the whole class. the other day i decided that the topic should be to recall one of the happiest moments in their lives, be it their wedding day, birth of a child, or just a special moment, etc. i was disappointed that m. answered her cell phone during someone else's presentation, but she quickly stepped out of the room to take the call. when she came back some minutes later, she informed us all that she had just become a grandmother to a healthy, beautiful girl back in buenos aires.
existential realization
as exceptional as i may think myself, i recently realized that i have a beard, a blog, a mac, ride a bike, do not own a television, drink copious amounts of coffee, carry my own shopping bags, and am way overqualified for all of my jobs. i am an exact stereotype of brooklyn man.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
road rules
brooklyn, ny
it was a textbook christmas moment. waking up to see the gentle carpet of snow stretching out to pikes peak in the west, the smell of morning coffee rising in the kitchen. a happy family stretching and yawning off their rest from the evening before. i can't remember what i said when i saw it, but i remember the black mountain bike sitting against the dining room table and trying not to get my hopes too high. is that for me? i almost didn't want to ask. sure enough, it was. after all these years, i still feel the same sense of joy when i think back on that moment. i was twenty-seven years old.
the bike was in a box and we had it shipped back here to brooklyn where i assembled it by hand. after the first thaw, the bike primarily served for transport to and from and within prospect park, a reasonable distance from my then apartment in boerum hill. once i started graduate school, evening courses relegated riding hours to the morning, a time i kept reserved for several hits of the snooze button, coffee, and grumbling. that's not to say that i didn't ride, just that i had to keep my spins to modest distances on account of time and physical conditioning.
a few months back, i decided to no longer buy the unlimited monthly metrocard for the mta, choosing to see if i could pay as i go and save money by biking any routes within brooklyn (before their most recent and most eggregious fare hike). this has been a success on several fronts. for one, i have saved money. for another, i have been getting exercise i would otherwise not be getting. a con has been the ungodly amount of sweating, but that problem has been a far worse experience for any company i was meeting on the other end of a commute. this also contributes to the fact that i have taken more 2 am showers these past months than all save reno prostitutes.
biking in the city can be intimidating. yes, there are the car doors and buses (buses!) and the inherent danger that comes from moving fast but not necessarily being perceived. but i feel comfortable enough with that between wearing a helmet and being a cautious rider. the most intimidating factor for me is the attitude received while on two wheels. i feel no sense of solidarity with fellow riders, no head nods, no eye contact, just a sense of you-stay-in-your-place-i'll-stay-in-mine. if your style of riding strikes some of them as disagreeable, they are not shy to let you know (to guy on bedford last week: that lane is wide and i was only going against traffic for the two remaining blocks to myrtle. you need to chill out and deserve all three words of my rejoinder).
the worst are the cars. okay, buses (buses!). okay, but the attitude that comes from cars. they see you coming straight ahead and they are going to make that left turn regardless, leaving it up to you to dodge. and for those who wait, you can see the driver wearing an indignant scoff like i was a little league coach who had just benched their son. if i were a two ton vehicle polluting the planet for the convenience of not taking the subway, they would not mind. but since i'm a biker, i'm an affrontment to all they hold dear.
fortunately, these incidents will become less frequent, even if they will never exactly be rare. the city has a generous network of bike lanes that they have been expanding. this ensures that gradually we will have to share the road less and less with your taxis, escalades, and buses (buses!) and have access to our own improved flow of traffic. as more and more of us forego the straphanging for the handlebar gripping, it can be hoped that the city will continue to provide more infrastructure and accomodation to our needs. as far as the fierce individualistic attitude of fellow bikers, i'm afraid there's no citywide plan to alleviate that menace. all that can be done is to suggest to fellow riders to try to put a smile on beneath that helmet. this is supposed to be fun, you know.
it was a textbook christmas moment. waking up to see the gentle carpet of snow stretching out to pikes peak in the west, the smell of morning coffee rising in the kitchen. a happy family stretching and yawning off their rest from the evening before. i can't remember what i said when i saw it, but i remember the black mountain bike sitting against the dining room table and trying not to get my hopes too high. is that for me? i almost didn't want to ask. sure enough, it was. after all these years, i still feel the same sense of joy when i think back on that moment. i was twenty-seven years old.
the bike was in a box and we had it shipped back here to brooklyn where i assembled it by hand. after the first thaw, the bike primarily served for transport to and from and within prospect park, a reasonable distance from my then apartment in boerum hill. once i started graduate school, evening courses relegated riding hours to the morning, a time i kept reserved for several hits of the snooze button, coffee, and grumbling. that's not to say that i didn't ride, just that i had to keep my spins to modest distances on account of time and physical conditioning.
a few months back, i decided to no longer buy the unlimited monthly metrocard for the mta, choosing to see if i could pay as i go and save money by biking any routes within brooklyn (before their most recent and most eggregious fare hike). this has been a success on several fronts. for one, i have saved money. for another, i have been getting exercise i would otherwise not be getting. a con has been the ungodly amount of sweating, but that problem has been a far worse experience for any company i was meeting on the other end of a commute. this also contributes to the fact that i have taken more 2 am showers these past months than all save reno prostitutes.
biking in the city can be intimidating. yes, there are the car doors and buses (buses!) and the inherent danger that comes from moving fast but not necessarily being perceived. but i feel comfortable enough with that between wearing a helmet and being a cautious rider. the most intimidating factor for me is the attitude received while on two wheels. i feel no sense of solidarity with fellow riders, no head nods, no eye contact, just a sense of you-stay-in-your-place-i'll-stay-in-mine. if your style of riding strikes some of them as disagreeable, they are not shy to let you know (to guy on bedford last week: that lane is wide and i was only going against traffic for the two remaining blocks to myrtle. you need to chill out and deserve all three words of my rejoinder).
the worst are the cars. okay, buses (buses!). okay, but the attitude that comes from cars. they see you coming straight ahead and they are going to make that left turn regardless, leaving it up to you to dodge. and for those who wait, you can see the driver wearing an indignant scoff like i was a little league coach who had just benched their son. if i were a two ton vehicle polluting the planet for the convenience of not taking the subway, they would not mind. but since i'm a biker, i'm an affrontment to all they hold dear.
fortunately, these incidents will become less frequent, even if they will never exactly be rare. the city has a generous network of bike lanes that they have been expanding. this ensures that gradually we will have to share the road less and less with your taxis, escalades, and buses (buses!) and have access to our own improved flow of traffic. as more and more of us forego the straphanging for the handlebar gripping, it can be hoped that the city will continue to provide more infrastructure and accomodation to our needs. as far as the fierce individualistic attitude of fellow bikers, i'm afraid there's no citywide plan to alleviate that menace. all that can be done is to suggest to fellow riders to try to put a smile on beneath that helmet. this is supposed to be fun, you know.
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