Going Home

Wow.

After two and a half months of living in the city that never sleeps, I’m now sitting at my gate at JFK, waiting to fly back home. I feel like I’m in a strange state of shock, like an animal that has been taken out of its natural habitat only to be plunked in another strangely familiar yet foreign one. My head has been swimming with reminiscences of my time in New York faster than I can fully comprehend. It feels like I just got here and my departure is still so far off. But it’s not. It’s in approximately an hour. Weirrrrrrrrrrd.

This summer has been one of the most intense, overwhelming, terrifying, and wondrously amazing seasons that I’ve ever experienced. Living with my aunt both gave me the comfort of family in a foreign land and a freedom to be on my own more than I ever had before. I felt like a real adult in this big bad city, but the knowledge of coming home to a friendly face made every night something I looked forward to. Being with her also allowed me the chance to get to know a woman who is perhaps one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met, and reinforce the powerful impact of family in my life. I will always be grateful to her for this amazing bonding experience that I will forever hold close to my heart.

From both internships to spontaneous explorations, I think I’ve learned many things about myself this summer. For me, I’ve found that there is such an empowering joy that comes along with being alone. In our society, we are taught that loneliness is a bad thing. I’ve learned that it’s rather a wonderful time for exploration, reflection, and self discovery. When I’m alone, I’m open to meeting new people and trying new things more so than I would be if I was with another person. In this mindset, I’ve befriended some incredible people from all different walks of life. Although a few floated in and out of my life as more of a passing gift, I’ve also met some people that I will strive to stay in touch with. Like my darling mother always says, you must find your village within your city. My motley crew of friends have provided me with a haven of sorts, and for them I will look back at this summer with such fondness.

I’ve participated in the rat race of adulthood, and realized how gratifying and exhausting that can be. It gives me a greater respect for my friends and family members who do what they do, and uncovered a greater uncertainty in what I want to do and be when I grow up. As terrifying as that is, I’m starting to come to terms with the fact that I’m okay with that.

Throughout the past two months, there’s also been a curious string of people who continued to share tokens of wisdom that they’ve accrued throughout their lives. No matter the person, many snippets of such experiences come back to the importance of finding something in life that you enjoy doing. For me, I realized that writing is a major force in my life that brings me joy.

For so long, I refused to write anything other than analytical essays for my classes because I was paralyzed by fear. The thought of creating something trite or just awful became too hard to bear, so I often rationalized that it would be better not to write anything at all. By challenging myself to write two entries per week, this blog has helped me to find my voice and to realize the importance of stretching my story-telling abilities.

This brings me to my next point. I want to thank all of you for reading about my silly little adventures and postulations on daily life. It’s given me a selfish sort of joy to be able to share my stories with you, and I hope that you’ve been entertained, learned a bit, or even had a good laugh at my expense. Laughter is important.

Although this marks the end of my time living in New York and thus the end of this blog, I’m confident that I will be back at some point--both in the city and in the written word.  This is not “goodbye;” I hate those. Instead, this is “see you later,” because that leaves room for the most wonderful kind of potential. Who knows what the future has in store? Until we find out, I hope that you all find happiness, adventure, and solace in the things that you enjoy most.

Always,

Allie 

Queen of Coney Island

Today, ladies and gents, I figured that I would start out my post by sharing a special Allie fact of the day: I’m terrified of roller coasters. True story. 

I won’t bore you with explicitly mundane details of said fear. Let’s just say that it all began during a trip to Disney World when my dad snuck me on to the Rock ‘n Rollercoaster, which accelerates to high speeds faster than an astronaut does on a space shuttle launch (according to Wikipedia). That was over ten years ago, and needless to say I haven’t been on a roller coaster since. Until Wednesday, that is. 

As I mentioned in my last post, my new friend Celine and I went to Coney Island two days ago. Located in southern Brooklyn, it was just a fifty minute train ride from the hustle and bustle of the city. The sky was locked in a battle between sun and clouds, but for the first few hours there was a warmth that managed to find our skin, and so we unfurled our bodies on the hot sand. It was the strangest experience to hear the waves methodically crashing against the shore line; we had to keep reminding ourselves that we were less than an hour away from one of the busiest cities in the world. I could feel my body melting into the ground beneath me, and as Celine and I talked we fell into a dreamy haze that only the beach can provide.

Celine and I lounging on the beach

Such heavenly bliss continued for about an hour. Then, a particularly nasty group of seagulls began terrorizing the family next to us, so we decided that it was high time to get our bums in gear and explore our carnival surroundings. The boardwalk was blasting pop music from all different decades, fusing instantly with the screaming masses being hurled through the air on various thrill-seeking rides. After noodling about for a while, we came to the Cyclone; Coney Island’s infamous wooden roller coaster, originally built in 1927. Although I was petrified, there was some part of me that wanted to brave this rickety ride, if only to say that I’d done it. This summer I’ve had to face many doubts and fears about myself head on, so why not try to eliminate another? 

Celine and I got our tickets and were snapped into the snug seats. My hands unconsciously clutched on to each other as though my body was trying to pray without the consent of my mind, and I could feel my heartbeat reverberating through my chest. Like a startled lamb, I looked about, desperately trying to find a way out. I’d made a mistake. I didn’t think I could do this, and an overwhelming fear told me to get out while I still could. But it was too late. The ancient roller coaster groaned to life and my body began trembling, certain of its imminent demise. 

As we ascended to the ride’s peak, I remembered the importance of breathing, and tried to exhale my fears along with the oxygen. The build up was an eternity and the sky was heavy with what felt like a doomed unknown, ominous and intimidating. 

Then, quicker than I could register, we plummeted down, down, down, being tossed like rag dolls along the bumpy terrain. My eyes were watering with the speed of it all, and I was screaming so loud I thought my lungs were surely on fire. There was nothing that my brain could think of. My high strong, analytical head was on a two minute sabbatical, unable to register anything but the sensations flooding my present state. 

As Celine began screaming about how she wanted nothing more than to get off the ride, an unprecedented laughter bubbled up from my core. I felt like a buoy in a storm; there was nothing that I could do but ride out the waves of motion, and rather than feeling helpless I was immensely liberated by the beauty exploding in the present. My fingers became magnets attached to the sky, and I let everything go.

In retrospect, I feel like the Cyclone was a perfect metaphor for my time in New York. And for life in general, I guess. No matter my numerous anxieties or doubts, sometimes the best remedy for fear is to face it head on, fully aware of the potential for unexpected twists and turns. The unknown is utterly daunting, but sometimes these are the experiences that provide the most rewarding outcomes. I feel as though I’ve pushed myself on many different levels within the past two months, and in turn have learned a lot about myself from the good and the bad results that such adventures have provided. Although a part of me would be much happier to plan out all of the curveballs of life, I’ve learned that it’s so much more fun to just strap myself in, open my eyes wide, and greet the ups and downs with a stupid grin on my face.

So here's my revised Allie fact of the day: I absolutely love roller coasters.

Celine and I, pre ride

Celine and I, post ride


The Cyclone! (It's a lot scarier when you're on it) 

Fate and Friendship: A Hipster Love Story

Fate has a funny way of working. I feel like throughout my time in New York, there have been situations in the past few months that have been kismet; circumstances that I truly believe were not random acts of the universe, but rather meant to happen for reasons that I still can’t quite fathom. Sometimes I’ll gain little moments of awareness, and the force of being in the right place at the right time hits me; I’m left alone with my smile and the happiness that an open perspective can provide.

Take the event of the Chelsea Flea Market, for example. The first time I went there, I was browsing through one vendor’s booth and briefly met a lovely young Australian woman, but after I left I didn't think much more of it. The next weekend, I went back to the market on a different day and time, and managed to bump into her again. A beautiful young woman with bright blue eyes and the figure of Marilyn Monroe, she introduced herself as Celine. We began chatting and wandering around the flea market together, already bonded by our love of vintage and the pursuit of the unknown.

The more we talked, the more we realized that we were practically the same person. We both were temporarily living in New York by ourselves, trying to see and experience as much as possible in our short time here. Not only that, but our values and even some of our life experiences overlapped in ways that shocked us both. After spending a majority of or daily lives in solitude among this lively city, I think we both appreciated how special it was to stumble upon each other and connect, like a two-person village within this vast metropolis.

After spending the day shopping together, we agreed to meet up the following week so that we could explore Williamsburg—the thrifting hipster capital of the world. I was excited to investigate any natural hipster habitat as it always reminds me of my native Portland, Oregon home. And what better place to do so than the original land rife with hipsters?

Last Friday, we took a short subway ride into Williamsburg at nine in the morning. In typical hipster fashion, nothing was open. We wandered about, painting verbal pictures of our lives back home and the little stars that make up the constellations of our lives. Before we knew it, we’d walked a bit over a mile and ended up in a thrift store called The Thing, which basically looked straight out of the show Hoarders.

Once I got over my initial fear of being swallowed by the gargantuan amount of stuff, I began sorting through tossed out photographs. There were sacred snippets of time depicting everything from a child’s birth to silly candid shots to family gatherings. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I felt an overwhelming protectiveness for a few of these images. They were taken to document something—bits to a story that I didn't know the ending of, but that I so desperately hoped had turned out well. I figured that even if the people they were meant for didn't want them, I could still take them in and appreciate them. Wherever these people are now, it gives me satisfaction to know that they are being thought of and cared for, even if abstractly and by a total stranger.

For the rest of the day, Celine and I shop-hopped. We ogled the intricate graffiti, young characters, amazing foods, and the general blasé attitude about the place. Williamsburg was a little oasis, for although it was clearly a city, it felt quiet and separate from Manhattan. I was instantly in love with it. And to be honest, I felt very much at home around the hipster folk. Nothing like artsy tattoos, red lipstick, and chunky glasses to put me at ease. It made me excited for home, but also sad that my time here has almost come to an end.

The sun was setting as Celine and I headed back to Manhattan. We were both tired but incredibly fulfilled after fun day of enjoying each other’s company and visiting a place that was at once so foreign and familiar to me. By the time that we got to Madison Square, we still hadn't run out of topics of conversation, and so we parted ways with future plans to go to Coney Island together on Wednesday. On the walk home I caught myself smiling in the way that the aforementioned brief awareness of fate provides me, and marveled at the wondrous potential for bonding with people from all over the globe. It was then that I reviewed my day and realized that life is just bursting with potential for new friendships and experiences to blossom in your life—you just have to decide whether or not you want to be open to it.

Muggin' for the camera in Williamsburg

Quakers And Communes And Cousins, Oh My!

This past week, I stayed at a Quaker commune. No, really. I did.

Well, “commune” isn’t exactly the preferred term. Most of the twenty-six people who live in this nature filled hide-away use the term “intentional community.” From my limited knowledge of the subject, there doesn’t seem to be much of a difference between the two terms, other than the former has a generally negative stigma attached to it. And to be honest, I was kind of buying into that stigma prior to my visit.

My cousin Eric visited this very same Quaker intentional community only a few months ago, and quickly fell in love with the land, the people, and everything that they stand for. Since then, he’s continued to bond with the community’s members, living and working with everyone together. I decided that it was high time for a visit to see him and what he does, also because I was ridiculously curious to experience what the community was like. I half expected to be welcomed onto a land rich with the smell of weed, complete with joyous nudists and people with names like “Harmony” or “Chakra.” However, this couldn’t have been further from the reality.

After a beautifully picturesque train ride along the Hudson River, I arrived in the small town of Hudson, New York. Before I’d even seen Eric’s face I knew it was him, simply because of his refusal to wear shoes in almost any setting. He looked healthy, energetic, and above all, completely happy. We drove for forty minutes, filling the car with laughter, news, and stories of our lives from the year that we’d experienced since we saw each other last summer. When we finally pulled up to the community, I was stunned by its beauty.

I’m not quite sure what type of housing I was expecting, but the incredible farmhouses looked straight out of Sunset Magazine--completely eclipsing my expectation of sleeping outside at the mercy of millions of mosquitoes. Eric was kind enough to take me around and introduce me to the other residents, all of whom were incredibly intelligent, kind, and down-to-earth people. In fact, many members had their master’s or their doctorates, which I frankly found to be fascinating. They all appeared to be normal people (I mean, as normal as any of us are...I’ll leave that broad definition in your hands) who were consciously choosing to live a life separate from the often negative stimuli of the modern world. 

Rather than totally isolating themselves from reality, there was a definite thread of connection between elements of nature and modern technology. Houses had heaters, refrigerators, TVs, etc., and I overheard some of the younger boys planning out a game of Minecraft for the following morning while they played in the potato garden. The fusion between two different realms that so often battle each other in modern times further emphasized their intention of creating a mindful community. Their love for the land and people around them was apparent, and it made me wistful for the alluring call of the Pacific Northwest that I call home.

For the rest of the day, I relished the land and did things that previously had been foreign to me. I herded sheep, fed horses, picked onions straight from the ground and bit into them like apples. That night, I took joy in the sound of cicadas in the rolling hills of the surrounding forest, and had an electric moment of awareness when I realized that there’s no right way to completely live one’s life. “Success” is not a term with a universal definition, and I realized that I would much rather be happy than conform to what people think is best for me. If the two happen to line up, then that’s great! And if not, I have enough faith in myself to know that I’ll eventually find my way to where I need to be.

Just like my experience in Woodstock a few weeks ago, it was nice to be able to get out of the city again. For as much as I love it here in Manhattan, this trip made me realize that there are ways to live your life outside of the box, while not totally dropping off of the face of the planet, either. As Eric and I ate our wondrous dinner of fresh lamb from the farm, I marveled at the overpowering importance of nature and family in my life, and silently thanked the world for the goodness that it has bestowed upon me. 

Oh lord, rereading that last bit sounds incredibly hippy-ish. Maybe the intentional community got to me more than I thought it would...Eh, whatever. Namaste, dear readers. Namaste.

This is the view from the house I was staying in.

If you’re curious, here’s the link to the Quaker Intentional Community: http://qivp.org/qivc

Time Travel

This past weekend, I went back in time. Well, not really. I mean, it's not like I'm Marty McFly or Dr. Who or anything. But I had two very interesting experiences this weekend that dug up the past in wondrous ways. I fear that I'm not making much sense as of now, so let me go back and explain.

First, I went to the Merchant's House Museum, located in the East Village. This residence turned gallery is the only family domicile from the mid-nineteenth century to have remained almost fully intact in New York City. It was built in 1832 and occupied by the wealthy Tredwell family for one hundred years before the last family member died within its walls, and it was in 1936 that their family home was converted into a museum. In fact, it's said by some that the Tredwell's never left even after they all had passed; the Merchant's House is believed to be one of the most haunted homes in New York. While I didn't have any paranormal encounters during my visit, there was a definite air surrounding each room that cloaked my body in a past world that I didn't experience firsthand, but felt a little closer to after my day's journey.

The museum spanned the entire home's five floors, and as soon as I'd paid for my ticket I was given a thick binder, heavy with history to keep me company on my self-guided tour. I'd arrived at the museum thirty five minutes before closing, so for the majority of my time I was left alone with my dreams and the lives formerly lived that danced about in the air around me. Music from the pianoforte was playing in the drawing room, and if I closed my eyes I could pretend that I was at a dinner party among the up and comers of the 1850's. In the back bedroom upstairs, the wind was knocked from my lungs as I soaked in the gravity of such a private element of daily life. So much must have occurred in this room, I thought. Babies were born, sisters bonded, stories were told, and last breaths were drawn, all in the confines of this one room. It made me wonder about the Tredwell's--their experiences, their hopes, their fears, and what they would think of a random nineteen year old girl taking an intimate look into their lives almost one hundred years after they were all dead and gone.

The past still clung to my thoughts the next day, so I went to the Chelsea Flea Market-- a place chocked full of history and a culture of its own, complete with the ghosts of people's former lives. I hadn't heard of this unusual area until talking with the manager of the Plaza Hotel's Douglas Hannant Shop (see my previous blog post, entitled "First Eloise, Now Audrey"). He'd recommended going on a lazy weekend morning to hunt for treasure and to people watch. When I first attempted to find this market last weekend, I somehow had gotten the wrong address off of Google and ended up in a deserted corporate building. Undeterred, I picked up the building phone to try and see if I needed to call someone for access, but before I could ask where the market was, a woman named "Destiny" purred into the receiver, asking how she could "service" me. Stunned into an awkward silence at my ability to summon a phone sex operator instead of a real one, I slammed the phone down and hightailed it out of the building.

I eventually made my way to the real flea market, which occupied a two floor parking garage, packed to the brim with ancient knick knacks and people from all different walks of life. At first, I couldn't help but stare at the more unusual people surrounding me. There was a balding older man who was wearing cat eye sunglasses, a polka-dot unitard with a padded chest, and neon orange sneakers who was haggling over the price of a pair of clip-on earrings. A man bedecked in leather and spikes stood about a foot taller than his normal height if you counted his horn made of hair that had been gelled to stand straight up. And then there were the rest of us; seemingly normal people who were here for the vintage gems, the thrill of the hunt, a serendipitous connection, and some sort of unknown fulfillment that everyone craves but no one can ever quite place.

I took my time looking through each stall, because every single item had its own story to share. When I was little, I used to be so disgusted by the prospect of buying or wearing something used. And from people I'd never met, no less! The whole idea of flea markets was utterly appalling for the Allie that I was ten years ago. But somewhere in the space between then and now, I've come to cherish second hand items, for they are no longer cast-offs in my mind. Rather, they are items that had once been loved by someone else that by some force of fate are meant to float on in the hopes of finding another person to devote themselves to.

If I happened to find something in the pandora's box of goods that struck my fancy, I might pick it up. And if I held it long enough, it would begin whispering details of its history to me. The wedding dress from the forties was worn by a young bride who was madly in love with her husband for fifty-five years, the delicate handkerchief with the rosebuds was used to stop a drunkard's bleeding form a bar fight, the cherub adorned postcards were sent between two sisters to keep each other company during war time.

When the pieces themselves stopped talking, their sellers would fill the silence. I became fast friends with two vendors in particular. One of which was a ballsy former burlesque star whose personal closet had been rented out for Confessions of a Shopaholic and both of the Sex and the City movies, while the other was a lovely Israeli woman named Lulu with wild white locks that had been part of a rock band back in the eighties. Lulu noticed me eyeing a gorgeous vintage mint Valentino jacket, which she graciously gave to me at a generously reduced price. I practically died from happiness, and she smiled at my childish glee.

After sharing the histories of their lives and their merchandise, I embraced both women before continuing to sift through time and space in this historic hub. As excited as I was about my couture steal, I knew that I had stumbled upon other (arguably greater) gems that could not be purchased. Like the Merchant's House Museum, I felt a similar sensation of gratitude at the opportunity to go through another person's life through the objects they left behind. Places of the past are not simply linear markers in time, but rather eccentric havens for those of us who take solace in being lost and rejoice when a unique shard of history is found. I left the flea market feeling exhausted. My hands were covered in a mixture of dust and stranger's memories, but I found that I didn't mind.

This weekend was special, because it reminded me of the sacredness of the past and how we continue to look for answers in people, places, and things that have weathered the best and the worst of it before us. When I die, I know that the world will keep going as though nothing happened. But I also know--or at least I can hope--that there will be other people out there like me that will continue to take joy from the past, marveling at the way people used to live. And who knows? Maybe something of mine will be loved one day by a girl who daydreams about its former owner, and the crazy, interesting, beautiful life that she led.

The Chelsea Flea Market

Unexpected Bliss

Hi. My name is Allie, and I’m an anal-retentive control freak. At least, I can be. In fact, if I had to join any sort of “Anonymous” type of group, it would most likely be for my inability  to lose structure and let go of events or ideas already preconceived in my mind. Sometimes, these eccentric features of my personality aid me in wondrous ways. For example, my constant need to plan has helped me prepare for my future and to organize my life in directions that I sometimes find necessary to navigate the chaotic world we live in. However, some days I find that--try as I might--the universe has ways of messing with my plans in order to get me to loosen up a bit.

Yesterday was definitely one of those days.

I had Wednesday off, so I decided that I would go on an adventure to the Museum of Natural History, and then mosey through the middle of Central Park. As I made my way through the Union Square subway station, I became caught up in a rhythmic drum and saxophone performance unfolding on the platform. Due to my immense distraction, I stupidly got onto the first train that I saw without double-checking whether or not it was the right one. It turned out to be the correct line, but it was going in the opposite direction. After I got off of the subway and on to a line that could take me to 14th and 8th, I hopped on an express train. 

However, this second train seemed to be zooming onwards without any intention of stopping, and it was with an immense feeling of horror that I realized I had passed my stop and was instead headed to the Bronx--the New York City borough that can best be described as Manhattan’s ghetto cousin. Like, the cousin that grandma says is in rehab but is actually in prison. That cousin. Anyways, I managed to get off at 125th street (44 blocks from my desired destination), and by that time I was ready to swear off subways forever. I figured this was the universe’s way of telling me to simply go with the flow, so I decided to go above ground and explore whatever area I was in. I emerged to find myself in the heart of Harlem.

Harlem is hailed to be one of the most culturally diverse neighborhoods in New York City, and I would say from personal experience that that’s fairly accurate. In the two-odd hours that I spent there, I am not over-exaggerating when I say that I was the only young white girl that I saw. My heart started thundering with the unexpected adrenaline that comes from surfacing in an unknown area--especially as a lone young woman. I knew I was probably being totally crazy for getting so worked up, and just as I was calming myself down, I heard two gunshots go off and a bunch of crazy yelling. After I realized that I indeed had not shit my pants, I continued on my merry way; this time with a quickened pace and my focus straight in front of me.

I tried googling some cultural stops to visit in the surrounding area, but much like my subway luck, they were either closed for the day or completely shut down. Again, this left me without a plan and thus forced to wander around, truly taking in my surroundings.

What I witnessed was an area rich with culture, exotic smells, and art expressing the oppression of America’s minorities. Harlem was filled with streets bustling with vendors selling oils from across the world, gaudy signs for African hair braiding salons, and Jazz street performers with silver streaks in their beards and a shimmer in their eyes who were trying to turn a quick buck. Overall, there seemed to be a sense of camaraderie--a joy that comes with greeting the day and a triumph of obstacles overcome. At the same time, I there was a palpable yet unspoken tension embedded within the topic of race. It was something that everyone understood but no one deemed necessary to bring up. Being one of the only white people nearby, I felt especially sensitive to the gaping wound before me.

In fact, I found it to be a fascinating inversion of the minority role within the melting pot that is the American race. I never really thought about my ethnicity during the day to day in relation to others-- mostly because I’m a white person, which means that I’m part of the racial majority. But here, I felt different and almost excluded from a richness in culture and pride that I knew was not my place to feel jealous of, yet I still desperately wanted to cling to. I felt defiant and insecure, all at once, as if I was fighting a battle all on my own.

I had a pang of empathy for people of all different races who have felt this way, for all I had to do to escape such confusing and isolating feelings was simply to go thirty blocks south. I realize that many people are not as lucky, and such brief experiences of mine are burdens that people carry for lifetimes, which I have no right to complain about. 

However, this was also a powerfully positive realization because it enforced how no matter one’s external appearance may seem, underneath the layers that we’ve built up we’re all the same. That is, we’re complex creatures-- complete with emotions, beliefs, ideas, and feelings that have a limitless capacity. For some incredible reason, though, they continue to come back to similar, basic, and humanistic priorities like love, understanding, and acceptance. No matter one’s race. No matter what.

Such epiphanies left me famished, and on my travels I happened upon Levain Bakery. Feeling spontaneous, I bought a walnut chocolate chip cookie the size of my head. I continued the day’s theme of ending up in the unexpected by allowing my feet to continue their journey without much interruption from my mind. In a matter of minutes, I found myself climbing the steps to Columbia University. Soon I was sitting on the hallowed steps of Low Library with the sun warming my body and the breeze tickling my skin. 

As I broke the still warm pastry and delightedly watched the chocolate chips ooze from their cookie confines, I mused at the deliciousness of my day. For someone who is normally so rule-bound, it was almost exhilarating to end up in a place that was totally unexpected. I was proud of myself for exploring the unknown, and working through some interesting questions of race and preconceived stigmas that I hadn’t known that I’d been harboring. I tilted my head to the sky, only then realizing that I was grinning from ear to ear. As I bit into my gooey chunk of heaven, I felt blissfully happy to have let go of my original plans and to have embraced the unexpected.

Waking With The City

My phone’s despicable three note alarm went off with a start this morning; audial stimuli piercing my apartment’s darkened cocoon. Disoriented, I looked at the time—6:15 am. I was still half asleep as I forced myself through my morning routine, and stumbled out the door in a hurried rush at fifteen to seven. I had to be at work at 7:30 this morning in order to conduct a test for Sesame Street in New Jersey, and I was anxious that I was going to be late. My concentration centered on my hurried breath as opposed to my external surroundings, and I let my feet converse with the pavement while my mind continued to sleep.

It wasn’t until I was a good two blocks away from home that I snapped out of my quiet reverie as if I was smacked in the face by the force of the world. For in my sleepy haze, I realized that something about my environment was not right. I looked around, trying to place my hunch. It wasn't a feeling of unease, necessarily, but rather the indescribable knowledge that my Manhattan had changed slightly. But how?

Although it was morning, daylight hadn’t quite broken through the ominous grey that enshrouded the sky, and the atmosphere felt like it was holding its breath for fear that it might spit out a gust of angry rain. Darkened windows added to the austere mood set by the heavens, and the few café’s with lights on looked like the mother’s hug that was so necessary in grade school in order to start one’s day correctly. The difference this morning was most noticeable in the people on the street, or the lack thereof. Everyone in my path understood the unspoken sacredness of an early morning’s peace, which included a personal bubble of twice the normal proportion.

The juxtaposition of humanity this morning was also something that quite shocked me. Rather than the usual smorgasbord of socioeconomic status that one typically sees on the streets of New York, the people that were out and about were either well off business men and women bustling to work, or homeless people with rough bodies and tired souls. Prada suits crossed newspaper blankets. Executives trudged on with a resolute purpose while our generation’s lost boys and girls moved in a way that made the uncertainty of their next step apparent. It wasn’t a mean sort of contrast, really. Everyone seemed to crawl inside of themselves as if masking their souls in a way that only a bone-tiredness can provide.

This was further emphasized on the subway, which was so quiet that I’m certain that I could have heard a pin drop. If people weren’t dozing, they were staring blankly at a microscopic piece of dust or trying to focus their eyes on a nearby advertisement. By this point I was acutely aware of the strangeness surrounding me, and it hit me how not a single person in my car was talking or making eye contact with another soul.

  When I resurfaced from the bowels of the subway, I walked my regular route through Central Park. Although this area of town was a tad bit busier, it was still preserved in the peace that had first greeted me this morning. And that’s when it hit me. The reason why New York felt different was because it was still asleep. Not a deep sleep where the world is completely silenced by the power of the unconscious, but a slumber that allows one to be vaguely self-aware of the present, while at the same time letting go of the past. It was then that I realized that perhaps even cities that never sleep must stop and rest every once and awhile.

For some reason, this realization gave me an odd sense of solace. I felt humbled by the unspeakable grace of the microcosm of my life reflected in the grander Manhattan macrocosm. Since I arrived here, I’ve done nothing but hit the ground running, trying to make my pace match that of this city that seems to be on warped speed. But caught unaware, I realized that even Goliath must pause for a moment. I, a mere David, followed the lead of my city counterpart by stopping in Central Park simply to breathe. My body hummed with awareness; I could feel the skyscrapers stretching and the trees yawning in the breeze, so I let myself do the same. Moments blossomed into lifetimes as I stood there. And then after my beautifully selfish moment, I continued on my way, feeling like I was finally waking up with this wondrous city of mine.

First Eloise, Now Audrey

There are times when you go about your day weary, exhausted, and very much grounded in reality. They’re days when you scoff at Cinderella and the notion of luxury, because they seem millions of miles away from where you are in your current state of being. Everyone has those days, no matter how much we may wish that life could be nothing but tea and crumpets. Although times like this can be a drag, they also help me truly appreciate those days that are so special that they seem to be covered in fairy dust. Yesterday, for example, was a fairy dust day for me.

As I previously mentioned in my last post, my best friend Mackenzie came out to visit this past week. It was one of the most amazing experiences to get to explore the city that never sleeps with one of my favorite people, and I was so incredibly touched that she was able to come see me and this bustling metropolis before she had to get back to the grindstone that is college. We had a grand old time together, and pretty much walked everywhere our legs could carry us. Unfortunately, yesterday was her last day here, so I wanted it to be extra special. After a tour of the Met and a walk through Central Park, I took her to The Plaza Hotel, hoping to happen upon some luxurious mischief reminiscent of my experience a few weeks ago. As much fun as I had last time, I think it would be safe to say that yesterday was even cooler.

We first began our journey in the main part of the hotel before moving to the famed Palm Court and then continuing to the chic shops at the Plaza. During my last adventure, I happened upon the original Douglas Hannant store. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, I found out through later research that Hannant is a well respected New York designer who has been featured in New York Fashion week and is known for working closely with Manhattan socialites. Celebrities such as Terri Hatcher, Shania Twain, Nicole Richie, and Beyoncé have been seen wearing his work. Crazy, right?!

Anyways, the last time I was there, I ended up having a delightful twenty minute conversation with the store manager, a well-dressed man named Thomas with two Tiffany’s bracelets and a Midwestern charm that put me right at ease in the face of so much grandeur. I decided to show Mackenzie the store and to say hello to Thomas, thinking that if anything it would be a nice little greeting regardless of whether or not he actually remembered me.

Not only did Thomas remember me, but he was also incredibly bored--which, as Mackenzie and I quickly found out, was the perfect combination for two young girls in a dress shop. For the next two hours he proceeded to doll us up as if we were his personal toy Barbie’s. It was mah-velous! From day ware to bridal, we must have tried on a total of twenty garments between the two of us, ranging in price from $900 to an upwards of $30,000 a piece. At one point, I was on the verge of tears, although I honestly couldn’t tell you if it was because of the exquisite beauty of the pearl hand-beaded couture wedding gown or the fact that a poor college student was trying on a single garment that cost more than a year’s worth of school.

Thomas just stood outside of our dressing room and snorted as he heard us squealing and moaning at the sight of such gorgeous clothing. One after the other, they came out tantalizing our eyes and whipping our minds into a romanticized frenzy about the occasions that merited wearing such finery. 

There was one point where Thomas (aka my new best friend) thrust a velvet black gown, complete with impeccable beading and dramatic ruching, into my hands and said, “Here. You MUST try this on.” Upon feeling the velvet fabric, my head was instantly swathed in the dreamy potential that fame whispers to its friends--galas, A-list parties, red carpet events. None of such circumstances I could ever truly see myself attending (and none of the gowns were anything that I could EVER afford), but in that moment it was nice to imagine that I could. I stood a little straighter, tilted my chin up, and channeled my inner Audrey Hepburn.

Throughout the entire time we were there, Mackenzie and I began chatting more with Thomas about his life, career, and how he became involved with Douglas Hannant. About ten years ago, he’d decided to move from Michigan to New York just to try something different, and packed up his bags within two weeks of making the decision. He completely started over, with relatively no connections and experience in the city. While doing so was frightening, he said that it was one of the best things that he possibly could have done. This theme for change carried over when he encouraged us to do, learn, see, and explore the unknown, and that such a drive to live is something that is possible within any decade of your existence, so long as you are willing to be open to the tickling of life’s fancy. 

Overall, it was a lovely two hours spent in the company of a practical stranger who, out of the kindness (and sheer boredom) of his heart allowed my friend and I entrance into a pocket of the extraordinary. Besides that, such an encounter reinforced how fascinating it can be to connect with strangers. Sometimes it’s easy for me to forget that everyone has their own amazing stories to share, and if you are patient enough, you may find a treasure of a tale. After all, we’re just people that simply want our stories to be heard, even if our fairy dust days are the exception and not the rule. 

Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

Alright, it’s time to address the elephant in the blog post. No more skirting around the issue. It’s time to talk about sex. Yeah, that’s right. As in the birds and the bees, the Salt N Pepa song, and what Carrie Bradshaw made New York City seem to be full of (when in reality she was a big fat liar). Let’s talk S-E-X. Right here, right now--gritty, raw, uncut, and exposed.

Haha, just kidding. But not entirely.

Today, I had the unexpected pleasure (no pun intended) of going to the Museum of Sex. Located on 5th Avenue and 27th Street, it was opened to the public in 2002 to mixed reviews. I figured that whether it was appallingly awful or surprisingly wonderful, it would provide good material for a blog post. I guess you could say that I was just being a selfless and driven reporter by putting you, dear readers, before my comfort zone, so that I could do nothing more than entertain you all. Although to say that that was the entire reason for me going would be a lie. To be honest, I was definitely a little curious myself.

My best friend Mackenzie is here visiting me on vacation, and after a whirlwind of conventional tourist attractions, we decided to hit up this museum that was a little bit of the less well known. As soon as we entered, it was like we were in some swanky sex shop, complete with a huge and intimidating bouncer who demanded to see our ID’s to make sure that we were over eighteen. Once we’d convinced him of our legitimate adult status (haha), we meandered over to the ticket booth and started on our sexual education journey to enlightenment.

The first exhibit we entered was definitely more for the shock factor than anything else. My eyes became bleary from the sudden shift of the white hallway to the intensely dark room. Through sight and sound, my senses were assaulted by the various illuminated photos and videos depicting graphic imagery. While I thought that certain material was totally excessive (and some of those images will unfortunately continue to burn holes in my brain), there were other very fascinating elements at play. I’d describe what I mean in more detail, but I think it would be more appropriate if I left it up to your creative capabilities. Sometimes, imagination is simply better than reality.

The next two exhibits were rather tame in comparison, featuring the whimsical work of William Kent and his collection entitled “My Life Ruined By Sex,” as well as “The Sex Life Of Animals.” I think this last one was my favorite, mostly because it merged science with humor and fact with art. Between the informational descriptions of Charles Darwin’s theories on the sexual behavior of monkeys were papier mâché sculptures of an antelope sandwich and a very excited male Bonobo monkey (again, insert imagination here). 

However, the exhibit that really struck me was all about the universe of sensuality and how it has gone viral. Researchers Ogi Ogas and Sai Gaddam conducted a study collecting real internet searches from July of 2009 to July of 2010 from the site dogpile.com. Out of the over 400 million searches conducted, about 55 million (or 13%) were linked to some sort of erotic content. Even more fascinating was the conclusion that a majority of sexual motifs continued to reoccur throughout the course of the study. In fact, 80% of these sexual searches revolved around only 29 core themes.

This really made me start thinking about sex nowadays. So much of its power is dominated by the media, both overtly and subtly. We’re a society that is overstimulated by sexual content bombarding us so often that we have become comfortable with it, yet there’s still a certain level of fear that grips us when we really face sex head on. Rather than simply talking about sex and understanding it from a scientific or humanistic level, we’ve shut ourselves off from such an educational understanding, forcing people to become ashamed of sexuality and/or look to the internet to release their repression.

In other words, desire has gotten to the point where it can be digitized. Sex has long since been a topic that many people prefer to keep private; an aspect of themselves that must be tucked neatly into its own little cubby. Now, thanks to the power of the world wide web, no one but your friend Google has to know about what you’re diggin’ in your spare time. But that’s not entirely true, either. The webs that we weave and the lives that we lead are complicated, whether real or virtual. No matter what we do, there will always be little cookie crumbs left behind, and those ghosts have the capacity to ruin careers and even lives (*cough cough* Anthony Weiner). 

Although the internet provides us with innumerable nuggets of personal empowerment, this exhibit pointed out how sexcapades of the virtual nature can sometimes harm us, or isolate us from the truth. It allows us to curl up in the safety of our homes, where we can avoid addressing an important issue. Sex spurs many heated debates about what is right or wrong, when really, who are we to impose our judgements upon others? Unless we’re doing something that is non-consensually hurting or illegally objectifying someone, what right do any of us have to make someone feel ashamed for their desires? Mainly, I enjoyed this section of the museum because it really made me think about such issues that I haven’t necessarily thought of prior to this expedition with an open mind free of criticism. 

Before I conclude this somewhat controversial blog entry, I just wanted to explain why I chose to write about this. Not only do I feel like learning about sex is fascinating, but I think it’s important to deconstruct barriers surrounding taboo issues. I’m not saying that going to this museum made me want to join a sex commune or start snarling in anyone’s face about a topic so personal, but I thought it would be interesting to open up a dialogue about something that I was never really encouraged to explore throughout my formal education, but that I know plagues a lot of people’s minds. And it should. Sex is natural, healthy, and is the reason why we’re all here. To ignore the fundamentals of such a topic is to ignore life itself.

If anything, the Museum of Sex provided a diverting way to spend a few hours, and a refreshingly open experience into what it means to be human--the good, the bad, the weird, and the downright sexy that’s in all of us.

Mackenzie and I getting some lovin' from the photobooth

Getting Off The Merry-Go-Round

In a lot of ways, New York reminds me of a state fair. Your senses are constantly being stimulated, the people watching is incredible, and daily life is reminiscent of one giant merry-go-round; once you step on, you become so intoxicated by your own little world hurtling through time and space that it’s hard to imagine life in any other way. But what about when your fun becomes a little nauseating, you tire of the ride, and simply want to get off for a little while, if only to gather your bearings?

I was starting to get a little bit dizzy on my personal merry-go-round last week. City life is like no other experience, but it definitely wears on the body and soul in ways that I hadn’t initially expected. Fortunately, I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to take a little weekend trip to upstate New York with a lovely new friend of mine named Julia and her amazing family.

On Friday afternoon, we drove two and a half hours outside of the city to a small town called Woodstock—famous for the hippie concert in 1969 that shares its name (although in reality, Woodstock happened on a plot of land 60 miles away. Go figure). As we drove along the highway, concrete began slowly fading to greenery. I could feel my muscles relaxing and my neurotic nature dying until its pulse completely flat lined. Julia and I chatted with her parents along the way, bonding over silly stories, shared political beliefs, and general explorations of each other’s histories, like voyagers carefully charting unknown territories.

When we got to their weekend home, I opened my car door and let out a breath that I didn’t even know that I’d been holding. Everything around me was so lush and alive. Nature was bountiful and not imprisoned by metal bars or park walls like it is in the city. Here, it was able to grow freely, encompassing the quiet country home in its warm yet silent embrace.

For the next forty-eight hours, I had the quintessential summer. In some ways, I felt like I could let go of my desire to catapult into the adult world and instead revert to the idealistic time when my imagination was my best friend. In my mind, Facebook was replaced with the potential for fairy-spottings, and cells meant nothing more than what make up our bodies. We made homemade dinners, read books,  snuck berries from our cobbler recipe, hunted for five dollar deals at the local thrift store, gave each other henna tattoos, slept in, went into town, and explored the natural world around us. 

That first night I was there, I fell asleep to the sound of cicadas humming in the yard. I had a distinct moment in that special space between consciousness and dreams where I felt as if the natural world was my cradle and this was the its way of singing me a lullaby. It was then that I felt as though I had dissolved into something greater than myself, right before slipping away into the nothingness that only deep sleep can provide.

On Saturday, Julia and I biked to a wooded area that had once been a dumping ground and by now had been long forgotten. We treasure hunted for glass bottles to fill with new life and squealed at the sight of decomposing baby dolls, certain that their moss covered heads were possessed. Later that day we went for a boat ride out on the Hudson, where we had a windswept picnic on the water and ogled water side homes and convents that looked straight out of Pride and Prejudice. As twilight fell upon us, we hung prayer flags within her woods. I felt on the verge of tears when I realized how strongly I wanted to infuse the world with goodness, and I prayed for sheer happiness to grow and blossom in the lives of others.

Ultimately, this weekend was sacred to me for a multitude of reasons. For one, I’d forgotten how special and necessary nature can be. I love New York-- my experiences, opportunities, and connections here will always be aspects of myself that I will hold dear to my heart. But being surrounded by the stars and the trees felt like I had truly come home again. The natural world is restorative, awe-inspiring, and as I learned, necessary for me to feel whole.

The second thing that I came to appreciate this weekend was the power of human connection. Here I was, with a girl that I’d only befriended a mere month ago, and she and her family had welcomed me with open arms to their home away from home. I was humbled by their kindness, their generosity, and their graceful ease with which they transitioned from one type of existence to another.

Furthermore, Julia and I are a few years apart in age. We come from different backgrounds. Our lives are normally separated by thousands of miles of land and experiences. Yet over the course of our brief friendship, there have been points on our personal maps that we have both traversed, even if at different points in our existences. I feel as though we are cut from the same cloth, and I found that such a revelation enforced the ability to connect with others from all different parts of this country and world.

An hour before I had to return to the city, Julia and I found delicate pinkie rings that featured a tiny knot at their center. We both bought one, and lightly joked that it was the knot that “tied” us together, no matter where we end up going in our lives. As I write this, I keep looking at that ring on my left pinkie, and thinking about how grateful I am to have been tied to this exquisite person, and glad to have this knot forever threaded into the string of events that has made up my life thus far.

Original Governor's Island merry-go-round, dating back to 1892

Alone, But Not Lonely

The bustling metropolis that is Manhattan is arguably a place that you could find almost anything you could ever want--even the more unusual of desires. You want to spend thousands of dollars on a single couture dress? Madison Avenue's got your back. Are you in the mood for Japanese food served exclusively by Ninjas? There is actually a restaurant where that odd dream can become a reality for you. Feeling like creepily stocking a famous celebrity while they try to enjoy a cup of coffee? Good lord, there are oh-so-many places in this city for that.

But what about when you tire of the concrete, car horns, and cacophony of crowds? I recently discovered that you can take a short ferry ride to Governors Island and instantly be immersed in both history and nature, all the while having Manhattan comfortingly within eyesight. This past weekend I was lucky enough to hang out with one of my darling friends from college who was here visiting family. We got together and decided to take a trip to this island newly opened to the public (only on weekends and holidays, that is). When we got there, it was slightly like being transported back in time, what with all of the open, grassy plains and the large colonial style homes that had previously been lived in by officers and generals during the eighteenth century.

Such classic architectural elements juxtaposed our purpose for visiting Governor's Island quite nicely, for my friend Hannah and I were mainly there to attend the third annual New York City Poetry Festival. We arrived on the scene without expecting much, and ended up quite entertained on a myriad of levels. The festival spanned the course of a half mile lawn, with microphones and make-shift stages set up in every corner. We slowly made rounds to all of the performance spaces and stayed for at least one poem at each. Some poets were mind-blowingly good, while others made me want to melt in a puddle of my own embarrassment, both for myself and for the reader. 

However, observing such unbridled passion for the written word was empowering. There were so many people of all different ages who coalesced simply for their love of writing. What's more is that they all looked out for one another; they supported their comrades and encouraged everyone to keep on keepin' on. It was all rather wonderful. I felt electric being surrounded by so much positivity, which made my mind whirl and my fingers itch to create. 

So, in light of my experience this past weekend, I thought I'd try to put into words some of my feelings about this summer thus far. Since I’ve been gone, a lot of my friends and family members have asked if I’ve felt lonely in the city that never sleeps. I never quite knew how to articulately respond to the question, as my mixed feelings on the subject have baffled me since I got here. This is my way of trying to put those feelings into words. I don’t know how well I achieved my desired goal, but I’m putting it out there anyways! It’s called “Alone, But Not Lonely.” I hope you enjoy, lovelies!

~*~*~

As I’m reborn on this island

     This behemoth

     This city of skyscrapers

My soul becomes swept away upon the masses

And I’m left to dodge between the passage of space

Few and far between.

I soon learn here

That nothing is quite so sacred

As the sound of silence

Because with silence comes stillness

And nothing about this place stops.

A Blue Throated Hummingbird’s heart beats 1,260 times per minute

Which is almost as quick as the average New Yorker’s.

     But not quite.

Because here

In this oddity of space and nature

Body and soul become inundated

With sights, sounds, smells

And I fear that I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, 

Becoming smaller and smaller.

There’s no potion to restore my height.

And when I’m 

     Invisible

     A speck in the sand

     A small cog in the greater machine

I stop.

Who decided that anonymity was a bad thing?

Encapsulated in individualism, we must be

     Stronger

     Faster

     Smarter

     Better

At all costs.

But why?

It costs nothing to disappear for a little while.

It is here, unnoticed, that I can witness humanity on its most tender level

And take solace in a state free of judgement.

We try so hard to deviate from the crowd

Which is brave, wonderful, brilliant, and necessary.

But there is nothing wrong with 

Admiring the simple strength of a blade of grass in an unruly lawn

Or the knowledge of being a single stitch in the fabric of time.

In fact, we should take joy in this state.

     If you can, 

     For me,

     Please relish it.

Because when our egos become fatigued 

And fall into a slumber of sorts

Our eyes are uncovered and we are left to squint at the dawn of humanity.

We can be creatures capable of countless creations

But we, in and of ourselves, are also remarkable

For we flit about this planet

     Hurtling through time

And bump into each other’s lives like metallic toys in a pinball machine.

Even the slightest connection can change the course of one’s path

     And thus,

We reel into another direction

Before someone else

     By will or force or fate

Reaches out and touches us once again.

Just like the planets that dance above our heads

Minute mirroring the grandiose

It only makes sense.

After all, if what we are is really star stuff

Then we must honor that timeless, sacred part in all of us

Often locked up in a secret place

So deeply preserved within that I sometimes forget that it lives there.

But when I’m this small, I can crawl inside and stare at it.

Bursting within each one of us is a solar system of life

It is

     So wonderful

     So complex

That it does not wish to proclaim its presence,

It merely whispers its love to our bodies

While our minds roar on in search of ourselves.

But when egos sleep, our hearts can dream

And we realize that maybe we aren’t so lonely, after all.

Channeling My Inner Eloise

Do you ever have those days where you know that you need to go in a certain direction for your regular route home, but your feet just absolutely will NOT let you go there? Well, I had a touch of that on Tuesday. Sesame Street’s offices are located on Broadway and 63rd, a mere block away from the perimeter of Central Park. After work, I decided that rather than going to the stinky dungeon that everyone else in this city refers to as the “subway,” I would let my feet take me wherever they felt inspired to go, which happened to be through the park. I walked through the base of the park, smiling at the bikers, tourists, and children I saw along my way. 

I wandered to the edge of the park and found that I was smack dab in front of the infamous Plaza Hotel. Feeling somewhat adventurous, I decided to channel my inner Eloise and have a little look around. I skittered in through the door to the dining area below the hotel. It was like a swanky cafeteria, complete with eighteen dollar sandwiches and designer tofu. Off to one side was a sign that advertised the Eloise store. Bedecked in pink, it was like every little girl’s fantasy come to life. A miniature tea table, a bedazzled lounge for young visitors to watch the Eloise movie, a gift shop, and even little clothes (including a $200 sailor’s dress for someone under the age of five) pleasantly abounded every corner. I thought it was rawther lovely, but the bored sales lady blatantly ignored me when she deduced that I was neither rich or with children, which I took as my not-so-subtle queue to sklonk about even further.

Now, I’m not entirely sure how this next part happened, but for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to take the side stairs. I ended up in a grandiose ballroom, with young hipsters bustling in and out as they prepared for what looked to be like a press event.

It was here that I learned a very important life lesson: if you push your shoulders back, lift your chin up, look people in the eyes, and confidently smile, most people will think that you belong even when you don’t. I’m pretty sure that this was a private event, but by this point my naughty feet kept pushing me onwards. I made a quick circuit around the entrance, walking brusquely to avoid the prolonged attention of any of the staff members. I found another set of stairs and tried going up further. This brought me to a few more ballrooms, only these ones were empty and wrapped me in an eerie blanket of silence. Their austerity made me shiver, so I headed back down ANOTHER set of stairs, only to realize that the only exit was through the kitchen. I stumbled in, coming face to face with about seven of the wait staff, who all quelled their boisterous laughter and looked at me incredulously.

I gulped, trying oh-so-hard not to call out for Nanny or to yell, “Gotta skitter!” like my counterpart Eloise might have done. I am, after all, mature. Ish.

Following my previous advice on life lesson #842, I smiled and said, “Hi, I’m trying to get back to the gala, but it appears I made a wrong turn. Could you help me?” The maître d smiled at me, and in broken English said “Go through door. Right turn, okay? Okay.” I sheepishly grinned and thanked him as I moved onwards and entered the heart of the beast (aka, hair and make-up headquarters set up within the ballroom). Bored photographers were clutching their cameras in idle wait. I perused the gift bags quickly, pretending that I was checking to see if everything was in place. I looked over the shallow balcony at the stylists who appeared to be doing the make-up of celebrities or very important people, neither of which I had a right to be gawking at. Sensing that my ruse as an employee for the Sexy Hair gala was on the verge of being exposed, I exited the ballroom and entered the actual hotel.

With accents both subtle and glaring, I felt as if my little friend/alter ego Eloise was with me. There were homages to her around every corner. I walked past the gorgeously decadent Palm Court dining room and looked at the menu. Hmm, $60 dollars for the Fitzgerald Tea for the Ages, complete with curried lobster and apple salads and jazz age chocolate bon bons? My mouth watered, but I squelched the desire to say, “Charge it please thank you very much!”, instead absorbing as much of its luxury as I could through my pores and leaving the premises before my Eloise-ish adventures got me in actual trouble.

As I left the hotel, a woman who seemed to be out of her mind tried asking me for money. I politely shook my head and quickened my pace only to hear her starting to chant curses at my back. So I may or may not have inadvertently pissed off a witch that day, too. As of yet I’m still waiting to see the effects of such an encounter. More on that later.

Well, gotta skitter! Ta-ta!

Me and my gal. She's a doll. Literally.

I Am New York

So, I went on Facebook today only to find that my mother sent me a message that said "I couldn't resist but didn't want to post on your wall without your okay. Actually I think you should post this pix on your blog!!!!!!" And I pretty much died laughing when I saw her creation. So I followed her sage advice and decided to post this beauty for everyone to see.

If you hadn't already guessed, my mom is pretty much the bee's knees.

The Fantastical Phantom

As my darling Gram Ethyle so wisely says, life is a series of trade-offs. For example, if you’re lucky enough to have a place to stay in a city like New York, it can be somewhat justifiable to take on an unpaid internship. Going one step further than that, you may be technically working and being unpaid long enough to be considered slave labor by the US government, but doing so can often provide incredible opportunities, amazing connections, and at times mind blowing experiences. I was lucky enough to have one of such awe-inspiring encounters with life two nights ago.

Now, I don’t want to sound obnoxious, but I feel like I really lucked out with my boss at my theater internship. As a way to say thank you for spending hours filing paper work and filling out the employer ends of W-4’s (woo-hoo for doing adult-y things!), she somehow manages to get me in to see incredible Broadway shows. On Friday night, she was kind enough to take me along to see a dear friend of hers who was playing the severe ballet teacher Madame Giry in the Broadway production of The Phantom of the Opera. I didn’t technically have a ticket and ended up sitting on a fold up chair at the very end of a row so that I could only see about two-thirds of the stage, but hey! It was a free chance to see Broadway’s longest running musical--how could I refuse?

The show was fantastic, and the Majestic Theater lived up to its name; it was painfully beautiful. After the show was over, we waited by the stage door to see my boss’s friend Marilyn. In Phantom, Marilyn’s role as Madame Giry was ominous and intimidating. From her severe raven wig to her conservative black dress and large cain, she appeared as a force to be reckoned with. You can imagine my surprise when the stage door finally opened, bringing forth a gorgeous and slight woman, complete with a bright smile, short strawberry-blonde curly locks, and a cheerful sunhat--everything that her character was not. 

She offered to show us around the theater, and I actually thought for a brief moment that I was either going to vomit or pee in my pants from sheer excitement. (I feel like at this point it’s important to note that I’ve been infected by the theater-bug since I started taking acting classes in elementary school, and have been an incredible theater nerd ever since.)

Our first stop was the stage, where I was left to look out at the eerily ornate and infamous 2,000 pound chandelier that is known for breaking during the show (super-duper-crazy-cool, by the way). Sixteen hundred empty seats blankly stared back at me, and I resisted the strong urge to start leaping and bounding across the stage like a fool. Marilyn told us that there were something like 140 trap doors on the stage floor, which was mind blowing to me. We then went backstage down a series of narrow stairs and entered the one of the costume/quick change rooms.

Bright extravagant outfits bedecked small hangers that were bending under the weight of their burdens. The room’s small size was intensified by the rich colors and gaudy designs. The second costume room we went in was about twice the size, and Marilyn told us that it could have up to thirty people changing in it at the same time. She let me pick up the iconic wedding dress that the protagonist Christine wears in the final scenes, and I almost crumpled under its weight. At the very least, it was probably fifty pounds. 

Before leaving, we weaved through the underbelly of the stage, complete with narrow ramps, extensive candelabras, and a few pole-vaulting mattresses that one of the actor’s uses when he falls through the stage and into the “river” in the show. 

For all of the grandeur of the events that blossom on stage, it was interesting to see how the bowels of the gutted depths of this theater were quite normal, despite its infamy. Paint was chipping, spaces were crammed, walls were decorated with pictures, and one chair was even decked out in The Little Mermaid garb, as a prank pulled on one of the security guards. Even in the face of extreme magnificence and spectacle, there are always shards of truth peeping out from behind the curtains. Put another way, nothing is as good as it seems at first glance, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t beauty in the reality of the situation, either. It reminded me of the hard work that goes into everything, and gave me a greater appreciation for the ancient craft that is theater.

As we exited the theater, Marilyn gave me a hug as she and my boss parted ways from me. I floated down 42nd street, in a star-struck haze that involved a Broadway star and a haunting soundtrack. I was so happy that I wasn’t even bothered by the homeless, shirtless, singing man with Pippy Longstocking white braids and doped out eyes who began swaying towards me proclaiming that he truly was our Lord and savior Jesus Christ. Instead of freaking out, I just mentally pirouetted around all of the crazies and went on my merry way back home. La-de-freakin’-dah!

So yes, sometimes certain situations have aspects that are less than ideal. But if you try hard enough--or are sometimes just lucky enough--to recognize the good in the bad, boring, or neutral, I’ve noticed that you will find a silver lining in almost any situation.

The Mama & The Papa (And The Brother, Too!)

Last week, my parents and younger brother came to visit me. I was incredibly excited to see them, especially after being away from the three of them for my first year of college, and then not spending a whole lot of time with them this summer. However, I was also a tad bit nervous. My brother HATES New York. Like, out of all the cities in the world, New York is probably one of his least favorites. Granted, he is not a city boy. Give him the Irish countryside any day, and he will be blissfully transported into his own personal utopia. Don’t get me wrong, he has nothing against the people of this city, but when I asked him to describe why he disliked it to me, he said that Manhattan was rank with what he thought to be the smell of hot urine and he felt that there were crazy people surrounding him at every turn. (To be fair, we probably did walk past a spot or two of hobo pee, and he seems--much like me--to attract the zaniest of people. It’s as if we were both born with foreheads that had the words “Creepers Come Hither” stamped on them. Seriously.)

Anyways, I was really anxious to show them a good time and to avoid a dull trip for them at all costs. It ended up being a better visit than I could have ever imagined, and it was anything but dull. There was one specific incident that I feel incredibly compelled to share with you, dear readers, for I think it nicely exemplifies the zany shit-show that can sometimes be my life, and always seems to follow me wherever I go.

My dad is an incredible bargain hunter. I think that in a past life he must have been a kick-ass travel agent or something, because whenever we go on a trip, he has always carefully planned out interesting lodging and provided us with a myriad of things to do upon arriving to our target destination. Similar to past experiences, mi padre rented this really amazing and spacious two bedroom apartment for four nights that was probably a fourth of the cost of a Manhattan hotel room. The only catch was that it was in New Jersey. (More specifically, a place called West New York--isn’t it strange that there’s a city called West New York and it’s not even in the state that shares its name? I think so.)

So, it’s 10:30 p.m. on the end of their first full day in the city and I’m going back to New Jersey with them for the night. In order to get to Jersey, you have to take a subway to 42nd Street before getting on a Port Authority bus that will take you to the New Jersey side of the Lincoln Tunnel. As you get closer to Jersey, the subways begin morphing--trains are older, rustier, creakier, dirtier. We frantically realized that we needed to change lines to get to Port Authority, and so we rushed out from one subway’s doors onto another waiting subway. First my mom, then my dad, and then me. The doors began closing, and they heavily pressed upon my backpack, holding me back before I clumsily grabbed at one of the poles to propel me through. I straightened up, feeling like I somehow beat the subway in this hectic rat race of a city. I turned around to lord my insignificant victory over the inanimate subway doors, only to see Bennett on the other side of them.

If I could describe what I saw in my brother’s eyes in one word, it would most definitely be betrayal. I swear, he looked like we just killed a puppy in front of him.

Adrenaline started coursing through my veins as I tried to pry open the janky metal subway doors, which weren’t budging at all. Meanwhile, my mother became frantic and started shrieking, “BENNETT!!!! CAN YOU HEAR ME???? STAY WHERE YOU ARE!!!!!! WE’LL COME GET YOU!!!!! STAY. WHERE. YOU. ARE!!!!!” Then my dad got annoyed with my mom, saying “That’s not the plan, Trudy. We made a family plan about what to do when you’re separated in the city, and that’s not it.” 

At this point, I belatedly realized that there was nothing I could do to get my brother on the other side of those stupid subway doors and thus began to lose my shit. “GUYS, WE HAVE TO GO BACK AND GET HIM!” My calm, collected father looked between my panic-stricken mother and my spastic self, finally throwing up his hands and saying, “Fine. We’ll get off at the next stop.” I probably looked like I was a deranged lunatic, I was so concerned for my baby bro. Our subway car was unusually silent, and people were awkwardly pretending not to notice us out of a delicate sense of social politeness. 

The train lurched forward, leaving poor Bennett on the platform, clearly pissed off. Eventually, my mom and I made eye contact, and our grimaces of concern slowly broke into shy smiles which morphed into giggles as we realized the twisted hilarity of our situation. “Oh,” she said, between chuckles, “he is gonna be so maaaaad at us!”

We got back to Bennett’s station in a matter of minutes to find that he was fuming on a bench, sandwiched between a few shady and all-together odd people. “Bennett, we--” I tried, but he silenced me with a look. He really is good at that.

“I. Hate. This. City,” was all he said, between clenched teeth.

Needless to say, after that we always made sure that he was the first in our clan to get on the subway. On the bright side, I guess I got a funny story out of it. At least, I think that it’s funny that I left my fifteen year old brother alone on a platform of a subway in his least favorite city in the world. 

On an entirely separate and unrelated note, I’m still waiting on my “Best Sister Of The Year” Award. I wonder why it hasn’t come yet...