Things I love about New York

An ongoing list...

1) I am 3 blocks away from the best chocolate chip cookies in the world.
2) Bookstores are open till midnight.
3) I can buy a meal (of varying healthfulness) for less than $5.00
4) The huge range of people, allowing for the most horrid and the most beautiful.
5) My students, because they have no idea that they are living in New York City.
6) I am a five-minute walk from a sex store.
7) I can buy the best of anything. Most importantly I can find the best fresh eggs, the best organic frozen food, the best lemon meringue pie, and a wide variety of killer cupcakes.
8) This is where most of my friends live.
9) Riverside park. A statue of Eleanor Roosevelt greets you as you walk in. There is the river if you bear West and swing sets if you know where to look.
10) Central park, each gate is named something different (the children's gate, the engineer's gate, and my favorite the stranger's gate). If you choose the less-beaten path you can convince yourself you're in the woods somewhere far away from all things urban.
11) I don't have to drive to work. In fact, I really don't have to drive anywhere.
12) All the beautiful people in their beautiful clothes.
13) Seeing young aspiring actors perform Shakespeare on a subway train, and break dancers narrowly avoid poles as they somersault down that same train car.
14) One word... non-smoking.
15) My bike has turned this big city into a small town.
16) Locking eyes with a stranger and sharing some moment, enabled by the sheer density of people and the lack of cars.
17) The memories of my father woven through my neighborhood.
18) Novelty is so close. It's just outside my comfort zone, just a subway stop further away than I'm planning to go.
19) This city is made for walking.

Final Destination

"I was at the bar with my friends and he came by. He stays 15 minutes and leaves. I was a stop-by... I thought I was the final destination"

My roommate continues to tell me about her night. I can't stop thinking about how awesome the phrase she just came up with is.

"We'd texted about this, talked about it earlier today, he said he was finally so excited to hang out. And then he just... leaves!"

She was a stop-by, not the final destination. Just what we need, another way to be blown off.

riding

I thread through traffic. Weaving past cars stalled by red lights, I keep the periphery of my vision open to pedestrians. Forever calculating the distance between myself and them. I hold my breath as little unguarded me slides through the colossal, bone-crunching, semi-trucks. Breathing with relief that my clenched fists weren't crushed between the bike's wide handlebars and their doors. Ah traffic. One of the partners in this dance. Is it a dance? A race? An all out war? It has the fluidity of a dance, the feeling of a race, and the body count of a war.

I could say I ride because it's convenient. Or because it's cheap. Some guess that I ride for the exercise, for stony calves and taught thighs. But really, I do it for this. For that rush of power and control I get when navigating my way from here to there. The giddy high of escaping the perils of New York streets in one piece. The purity of riding cleanses me. There is only so much room for my bull shit on a one-speed. Problems inside my head can't take the concentration I need for the road.

Sometimes I succumb to my desire for passive transportation. I am lured away from the pitted, crowded road by the promise of a few minutes to read, and the chance to let myself be taken instead of powering through. The truth of public transportation is always better than the fantasy. In real life there is rarely a cute guy on the subway (without a wedding ring). I'll give in to an ipod instead of using the time to read, and those five blocks between work and the bus stop feel ten times harder than any bike ride. Given the alternative is it any wonder that I choose the freedom of riding?

I never thought to own a bike before. I bought it because it was on sale and it's pink. It's not the most practical choice but it makes me laugh. I am amused by it's cartoon proportions and color, by it's complete and total disregard for what a bike is supposed to look like. I've become numb to the comments, both positive and negative. It's pink and garish, and sometimes I wonder if that's what saves me as I brave traffic.

I can depend on my bike. It waits outside the school doors, bearing the indignities of stillness. It's wrestled into a small elevator at least twice a day, twisting in ways that rival any contortionist. My bike carries my bags without complaint, no word of their heft or number. It accepts the scratches and lost screws of city life, bounces over potholes and skids through gravel. And through it all, all it asks is that I ride.

New York I Love You, But You're Bringing Me Down

LCD Soundsystem
Sound of Silver

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

Like a rat in a cage
Pulling minimum wage

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

New York, you're safer
And you're wasting my time

Our records all show
You are filthy but fine

But they shuttered your stores
When you opened the doors
To the cops who were bored
Once they'd run out of crime

New York, you're perfect
Don't please don't change a thing

Your mild billionaire mayor's
Now convinced he's a king

So the boring collect
I mean all disrespect

In the neighborhood bars
I'd once dreamt I would drink

New York, I Love You
But you're freaking me out

There's a ton of the twist
But we're fresh out of shout

Like a death in the hall
That you hear through your wall

New York, I Love You
But you're freaking me out

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

Like a death of the heart
Jesus, where do I start?

But you're still the one pool
Where I'd happily drown

And oh.. Take me off your mailing list
For kids that think it still exists
Yes, for those who think it still exists

Maybe I'm wrong
And maybe you're right
Maybe I'm wrong
And maybe you're right

Maybe you're right
Maybe I'm wrong
And just maybe you're right

And Oh..
Maybe Mother told you true
And they're always be something there for you
And you'll never be alone

But maybe she's wrong
And maybe I'm right
And just maybe she's wrong

Maybe she's wrong
And maybe I'm right
And if so, is there?

Sexy Librarian

A photo (from the Michael Kors Fall '08 show) that I just love.

right-hand man

He keeps his left hand jammed in his pants pocket the whole time we talk. As if my eyes were not quick enough to catch the flash of monogamy before he hid it from my view. As if my adoration of his puppy would somehow rub off on it's owner. He is banally handsome. In that clean, GAP, blue button up, nothing to note, way. But if the ring on his finger (the one he hides so faithfully) is any indication, he's married.

My boss once said, "Marriage takes work, it takes willpower. I will stay faithful, I will stay married". I wonder, is anything that hard worth keeping? Is the temptation to leave a sign that is time to do so? I'm suspicious of anything powered by my own will alone. I'm so used to my desires leading me astray that I can't imagine using that power of self to control my relationship status. I can't fathom that the tenacity that allows me to hold on to the wrong, powering me to hold on to the right.

I don't know what it takes to make coupledom successful. I haven't given monogamy enough of a shot to say whether I think long-term relationships can work. But the thought that they don't makes me sad. The idea that marriage is only forever until something better comes along, that love only lasts for the time in which the happy is more than the sad, that just like my life each and every relationship will come to an end with varying degrees of pain. The possibility that love and devotion are never constant and always fleeting depresses me. Am I the only one?

Can you give me a sec? I'm on the phone here..

brunch

Diners are where I get my sustenance, both physical and otherwise. Eros is one of my favorites. The vinyl seats squeal as you slide in, as if to welcome you. At night the place glows with an amber light no longer approved by decorators. Everything is brown, or gold, except for the walls which are mosaiced with murals out of Greek history books. The menu is a dozen pages long, but the service is what makes it exceptional. They have a spice and delicacy that their food does not.

They care for the stooped, grayed woman curving over a bowl of soup at the counter. They remember when babies have grown, and chide me for my absence. They let me wait on a Saturday morning, accepting my refusal to sit in the back, on rickety tables pushed too closely together for comfort. They give me permission to stand in repose as families bustle around me. Waiting for a window booth that provides some of the best people watching in the city.

Each time I pass they wave, filling my belly with a joy warm as their crappy coffee. Today I'm here listening to the cacophonic symphony of Saturday brunch. The clatter of china against china, and slide of plate on counter. I taste coffee, bitter and milky-sweet, before we are even seated.

I resist the impulse to stare at Dave and let my eyes glaze over in fantasy. Maybe it's the shirt he's wearing, but I'm betting it's the free floating lust that has followed me like Eeyore's little black rain cloud.

I met Steven a few weeks ago. Immediately he treated me as if we'd grown up braiding each other's hair and talking about boys. His warmth and affection was like a blanket, one that I couldn't quite trust wasn't infected with smallpox. Mind you, that is my fear talking, not any menace on his part.

When we are (quickly) seated I'm next to Meg, who is all sharp angles and beauty. Meg, who I knew would be my friend when I heard her talk about putting on a full face of makeup and looking in the mirror asking herself what she was doing.

We order, cups of tea for Dave and Meg, and a combined bounty of pancakes, turkey bacon, and eggs over easy for Steven and me. Dave is talking about the path of dating that's let up to his current girlfriend,

"The only thing my bad relationships had in common was me"

See, I've heard that clever remark before. In my case its wisdom falls on deaf ears. I mention that today is my last day of match.com membership.

"Oh yeah, I didn't get anything out of online dating" says Dave

"I met my boyfriend online," replies Stephen "I thought you'd broken up"

"Still met him online" he counters

We go from choosing partners, to first date etiquette, to the place where all conversations go if they go long enough: sex.

"How many dates are you supposed to wait before you sleep with someone?"

"I think it's three," I say "sounds like a good number."

"I've noticed a lot of gay men I know don't really wait to have sex"

I'm not sure if he is asking a question or expressing an opinion but either way Dave is doing so cautiously. Simon replies,

"Generally"

"I know a lot of women who don't wait either," I point out

"Well" Stephen's voice has an undercurrent of amusement "I think you have a little gay man in you"

I raise my eyebrows and deadpan

"Is he paying rent?"

cultured

I went to the museum today with Dave and Jenny. The impressionists made me cry (they always do). Not sad crying, just wow-I-can't-believe-something-so-transcendentally-beautiful-exists kind of crying.

Next was the Whitney (much more modern stuff). The flourescent colors, flashing lights, and swirling concert posters made me wonder "Is this art?". I see the beauty in it, I can see how it is artistic. But to me, art is defined in part by its ability to last. This show was more a documentary of an era. Or maybe I just don't get modern art. The whole museum leaves me feeling very "meh" about its contents.

The last time I'd been to the museum with Dave we took scores of photos. Him posing arms akimbo next to Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. Me rubbing my tummy and smiling in anticipation of Cezanne's juicy apples. Another where with my furrowed brow, raised eyebrows, and extended pinky, I criticized Rodin for not endowing his naked man with a bit more naked man.

Today, we were behaved.

cupcake

Lulled by the bath-water warm air my head dips down and for the space of a few heartbeats I rest. My body shivers itself awake with a twitch. Again, leaden eyelids fight a losing battle to stay open and my chin sinks down to my breastbone. This jerky dance of not quite awake leaves my brain cottony and my mouth empty. I walk to the door, shaking my head in attempt to clear it.

I walk briskly, trying to find a breeze or create my own. My golden heels click on the small concrete paths. Sidewalks never widened to accept the girth of the new American. Walkways that remind me what New York looks like in movies. These streets were never gilded or paved
with yellow brick. Rather they are grey with flecks of glass and sand making them sparkle in the sun. And abrade young knees like a cheese grater.

The streets are dark and leafy. Colors muted to shades of brown and black bearing only a shadow of their original brilliance. There are no streetlamps here.

I feel like I'm walking in a kaleidoscope. The leaves act as bits of glass, blocking what meager light remains. The gleam makes the environment more liquid than gaseous. I'm not sure whether I swam or walked, but my head was no clearer. I was in a fever dream of Manhattan, lost in a forest of brick brownstones and fluid light.

Stairways lead up to each impermeable brownstone. Everywhere are dark corners in which to hide and kiss. I remember walking here with Lucia; both of us all dolled up more for the world than for each other. I remember how we posed on stairways and kissed, and all I could think was what a good photo it would have been. What a pretty postcard we were.

The streets of the village braid in and around each other. They have no respect for the sensible grid of midtown. They loop and disappear, claiming pretty names and scant real estate.

The destination is my favorite bookstore. The shelves are jammed with original picks; the lighting is bright yet flattering, prices are excellent, and the folding tables outside hold unknown treasures. Doesn't hurt that it is across the street from Magnolia Bakery.

There is a line outside the famed confectionery. I ask the baker/bouncer who stands guard at the door whether they are closing. "Yes, we're closed. Good night" he tells me with a flash of white teeth in the dark night. "Oh, okay" I say, turning to cross the street.

"I was joking! Please, come in!" he yells an apology after me. I see that the bookstore is closing and wave a hand to him, "No, that's okay" I yell back.

My visit to the bookstore is brief. I don't want to keep them open late, so I leave quickly. As I exit the baker/bouncer is waiting for me. He calls out another apology, approaching this time. He wraps an arm around my shoulders,

"Please, I'm so sorry. Come in, I will give you a cupcake"

"Oh no, that's okay"

I get a whiff of the frosting on the humid summer air; the smell of sugar, butter, and fresh baking impossible to resist. I can feel vanilla butter cream melting on my tongue with a sandy crumble of dry cupcake.

"I don't have to wait in line?" I ask

"No, no of course not" He insists

"Well, okay"