Staycation(ish) in NYC

I have two things that I do upon starting long trips. The first is wearing lucky socks. I don't necessarily have a pair of socks that is the lucky pair; any colorful pair will do. That is not to say that I don't have my favorites. The purple pair with cows jumping over the moon (a gift from niece and nephew), the blue pair with pandas (borrowed from a friend in Bolivia and never returned), and any pair from the pack of striped yellow socks that my Mom bought me when I got a job in Nicaragua rank pretty highly.

I'm not sure how this started but I would guess that my mother initiated the tradition. In my family themed socks are appropriate gifts for almost every holiday: Christmas, Easter, Halloween, St. Patrick's Day - I even inherited a few pairs when my gramma died. That said, wearing of these socks for the purpose of luck is only appropriate for exams and flights. I suppose I'll need a pair of lucky boot socks for my trip to Nepal.

The other superstition I hold is listening to the song Long Way Around by the Dixie Chicks. This applies particularly to bus trips and stems from my Peace Corps days. the lyrics fit my life so well at the time except instead of  a Winnebago I was in a chicken bus. I don't journey by bus very often anymore - a few trips to NYC each year but I don't regard those as having tourism ends - mostly just family events where I will sit in my parents' house wearing pjs and bingeing on pizza, Chinese food, bagels, and Entenmanns devils food crumb donuts. (Buy me some?)

However, On this last trip to "the city" for a work reunion I made sure to take some time to explore. I also thought it'd be appropriate to get out because none of the usual suspects were available to host me and I wasn't sure that Joe, an old work friend with a swanky new apartment, would welcome my pj-lounging ways. Generally, I head straight for The Strand upon stepping off the bus but this time I planned a circuit of Bluestockings Books, the Tenement Museum, and the E Street Cinema -- wait, that's in DC.

I was completely unfamiliar with the Tenement Museum's tour system and was surprised to learn that each themed tour cost $25 ($20 if you still use an unexpired and undated student ID like I do. I paid a pretty penny for that ID and I have no shame using it post-graduation. It's also easier that trying to convince people that my self-description as "life-long learner" should count for a discount as I tried once in Seville.) Also, as a lone wolf I couldn't just go on any tour I wanted but one that welcomed lonely desperate singletons. To clarify, I am neither lonely nor desperate but that was the vibe that was projected onto me as I bought my ticket --" Oh you poor thing. All alone? I suppose we could we squeeze you in."

I realize that this account is not strictly chronologically correct; the first thing I did upon entering the museum was find the bathroom (and then use it). It is safe to assume, in fact, that my first move upon arrival anywhere is to go to the bathroom. So now that the timeline is settled, I was put on a tour called "Shop Life" that started at 4:30pm. I had two and a half hours to kill.

First I watched the museum's comprehensive welcome video which featured several heavily NY-accented researchers talking about the history of the Lower East Side and how it transitioned from German to Jewish to Puerto Rican -- all with their own challenges and white uptown rescuers. The museum, by the way, is in an old tenement (strictly speaking, a multi-family building) that had been abandoned when sanitary improvements became too onerous for the owners (Fire proofing! The horror!) and they evicted everyone and lived on the proceeds of the first-floor shops -- which I would get to see in two hours.

So I moseyed over to Bluestockings Books which I am ashamed to say I had never visited in my three years living in the city. Perhaps I am not as feminist, environmentalist, and rabble-rousey as everyone thinks I am. I'm also not a big book buyer; that habit would bankrupt me. But I was looking for a gift for my host, the best read Parkie on the planet. Unfortunately I think his reading tastes might be even less feminist, environmentalist, and rabble-rousey so I just bought an uninspiring chocolate chip cookie and headed back to the museum...which has a fabulous bookstore! History! Culture! City planning! (Hint, hint Christmas is coming.) So I picked up a copy of Wrestling with Moses: How Jane Jacobs took on NY's master builder and transformed the American city by Anthony Flint. The book is for people who have powered through Robert Caro's The Power Broker about Robert Moses and Jane Jacob's The Death and Life of American Cities and are looking for a lightweight synthesis of the two. Or for someone who doesn't have the time, inclination, or mental fortitude to read those behemoths. (Joe is the former, and I am the latter having started the Power Broker twice now.)

Book in hand, I jumped on the 4pm tour "Hard Times" which if you were paying attention was totally not the tour I was assigned to - oops. Hard Times was a tour of the first floor apartments which were set up to show what the building looked like when it was abandoned, a German-Jewish family's in the late 1870s, and an Italian family;s in the late 1920s. I don't want to spoil the tour for you but three things were of note: 1) The apartments were found to have ~30 layers of wallpaper. Rather than a deep clean, the landlords would just paint or paper over between tenants. 2) Several people bandied about the same statistic that the population density of the Lower East Side in the 1870s was greater than that of Calcutta. Being a statistics nerd and a stickler for accuracy I asked at the first opportunity if that referred to the population of Calcutta then or now. That was evidently a stumper. 3) One family, in their move toward Americanization named their children Josephine and John -- the same names as my gramma and her brother.

After the tour, I walked by the theater to find that nothing was showing until after dinner so I headed north, oddly running into a former coworker in Union Square. I would hum It's a Small World After All but I know how much an earworm that is. Then I received a text inviting me to the Queens' Park's softball team's victory party at the Elk's Lodge in Elmhurst. This being just quirky enough of an invitation for me to accept. I can't tell you too much about the evening of course because I was sworn to secrecy in a masked ceremony but I did get really good pizza and clarify my life plan to marry rich.

The next morning I woke up ridiculously early and so left the apartment ridiculously early and so arrived at the Staten Island ferry terminal ridiculously early -- where I ate a pretzel with cheese for breakfast. So when Chelsea texted me to see which ferry we were aiming for I had to admit that I had been sitting in the terminal all morning. We were heading to SI for a MillionTreesNYC staff reunion. Yay trees!After some difficulty finding our shuttle and enduring some stomach-wrenching driving we arrived to Greenbelt Nature Center where, after I peed of course, I signed in to be met with "Oh you're Lenni! Our password is still 'weheartlenni'"." At first I was deeply flattered but then I remembered that that particular password was my idea and the programmers ran with the joke. Anyway, it was a gorgeous warm day of tromping through the woods and planting trees. The only low points were whne I spectacularly failed at the farmer's hanky and wound up with booger everywhere. Aren't you glad you asked?

Post-planting and picnic lunch, I hitched a ride back to the city with Kat and Susan to catch up with people I find so hard-working and inspiring -- and to avoid getting carsick again. (Most of my notes from the day are about projects that I need to read more about and people I should contact.)  Since we wound up parking near the City Museum -- and a little birdie had told me that Parkies get in for free -- I decided to try my luck. Although I enjoyed the Stanley Tucci-narrated movie about the city and the displays on tenements I totally thought the museum would be more fun!

So I headed back to J's place to lounge around in my pjs and watch the Mets game while he and his girlfriend went to a party. The next morning we went to Brooklyn Bagel which I only mention because it checked off one more item on my food checklist -- and I ran into a friend from grad school who now lives in Boston. (Iiiiits' a small woooorld...)

Now generally when I head into New York, I contact everyone I know there to see who has the best plans and then I hang with them. This time around Jana totally won with her idea to go to the Brooklyn Banya (Russian baths) but alas the timing didn't work out so instead I went to the Hall of Science to hang out with my friend Erin who was there coordinating events for National Chemistry Day. I hung out a bit, got offered a job as a scent chemist, explored a bit, ate some lunch with her family, and took her kidlet to the hall of mirrors before heading back to my bus. Big weekend!

Terrible, horrible, no good, very bad dating life

EDIT: My classmate saw that I had linked to her page and enacted a Facebook war. I had taken this post down to avoid her ire and because I generally don't write snark but I think I'm ok with her fiery wrath.

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A classmate of mine from elementary school has just started a blog detailing her terrible, horrible, no good, very bad dating life*. Consumed with jealously that she’s getting so many hits despite completely uninteresting stories with an undeniably bitchy tone, I have decided to illuminate my readers on my own dating horror stories.

This is not the first time that I’ve delved into this realm. Please allow me a moment of shameless self-promotion to point you to my James Bond versus Indiana Jones dateability ranking, a discussion of the term “winter boyfriend,” and my short-lived blog where I faked Missed Connections and wrote about the hilarity that ensued.

So here's my story: In the interest of personal safety women do not typically reveal specifically where they live or work on dates. Makes sense. A first date is still a potentially crazy person who you don’t want showing up at the office or your apartment. Keep this in mind.

When I lived in NY I belonged to OKCupid**, a free online dating service that attracts people who are slightly less desperate than eHarmony users. The fact that I wear glasses and use full sentences generally weeds out some of the less savory characters. But then came Ediz***. He was Turkish, self-employed, living in Astoria and working in midtown. We met for Tuesday happy hour at a lounge in my neighborhood. Lounges are at best a little creepy but this one was creepier than most. Let me elaborate: The seating was the saggy type of sofa where you have no choice but to basically sit on the person you’re with. All of the cocktails had names like “tie me to the bedpost” or “jealous bitch” or “sex on the sofa.” The lighting was provided by colored bulbs and scented candles. And the bartender inappropriately suggested that my date get me drunk to take advantage of me.

So I maintained my distance from the man who thought this might be somehow romantic or classy. I sat far from him and mentioned several times that since it was a Tuesday I would have to leave early for work, in an undisclosed location. But then Ediz said…

“You work in Central Park right? I’ve seen you around. And then I recognized you on OKCupid”

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

Evidently Ediz was a pedicabber in Central Park and had seen me driving around in my sweet Parks Department Prius. Now my baseline state is road-ragey and I had a particular grudge against pedicabbers so I immediately wondered if I had run over a friend of his and he was enacting revenge.

I don’t recall much of the date except for his endless efforts to get me to drink more. He was really putting the pressure on and I was continuously and obviously resisting, avoiding, and literally drawing away from him. I even moved to an entirely different couch.

When I was finally able to leave he offered to walk me home. “No thanks” I said, “It’s not far.” He said he really wanted to see where I lived. I politely refused again. It was a surprisingly prolonged discussion. It seems that men aren’t really aware of the “don’t let a potential stalker know where you live” rule. Although I suppose you couldn’t be a potential stalker if you didn’t force the issue.

And despite all indications that I had no interest in him, Ediz tried to kiss me. I pulled some serious Matrix-level shit to avoid that. I am not joking. I had no idea I was that flexible.

Just. like. this.

Before you tell me that I overreacted and I didn’t give this guy a chance… my gut was right. He called and texted and emailed me incessantly for months. I was so so very glad that he also didn’t know where I lived because I have no doubt that he would have showed up on my doorstep. We have rules for a reason people.

And next I tell you about the time I invited a guy back to my place to “look at my new hockey skates.”

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*It’s only fair to

link to it but don’t click on the link because I can’t bear for her to have more viewers.

**Ok I still belong to OkCupid, even though there are all of 5 people who live in Managua

***Name changed to protect the no good, horrible dates. Ediz is a real Turkish name which means "high" which cracks me up for some reason. Yes I Googled

Turkish names. This is nothing if not a well-researched piece. 

a New York interlude

Today, while I was walking in midtown (the lights! the bustle!) my iPod got into the spirit and started playing songs from the great white way (Broadway). It took all I had to not burst into song. I know that most anything is acceptable in the big bad city but I still think people would frown upon me belting "Seasons of Love." And yes I am that trite.

dispatch from the big bad city

I've lived in the big bad city (NY, the original big bad city) for over a year and haven't written nary a blurb on it. Perhaps as a native NY-er I tend not to feel a need to remark on the weird that has become the everyday. Or perhaps the big bad city isn't as weird as outsiders think....no. that can't be it.

This weekend was an umbrella killer. Facing the rain and some terrific gusts of wind my umbrella promptly turned inside out and I decided that I had had enough. I disposed of it and bought a new one for $3 at the corner store; umbrella #2 bit the dust pretty much immediately. Screw it, I headed back to the apartment to nap and watch reruns of Gilmore Girls...more appropriate rainy day activities.

But Saturday nights are flamenco nights! So that evening, against better judgement, I grabbed umbrella #3 and headed out to Chelsea. According to the New York Times' neighborhood profiles (a thinking girls' bible) Chelsea is "charming in some places, and less so in others, including some pockets of high crime." I was likely in one of those areas where the two meet.

Because after the wind had destroyed yet another umbrella and the rain had soaked me through I realized I didn't have any cash. No, I wasn't pickpocketed just cash-less. The flamenco lady recommended that I go to the bar across the street to use their ATM but unfortunately she wasn't quite accurate. The ATM was in the store next to the bar, where surrounded by fake lady parts I withdrew some cash. I was in a porn store. But it was warm and dry and the staff was friendly, although a bit sad that I didn't make any purchases. Perhaps for Christmas. Sensual love toys for all my friends!

On the way home the subway was closed due to "smoke conditions," I saw a rat as big as a bobcat and a man in a dress called me beautiful.

Oh and the flamenco show was sublime.

2009 in review

In 2009 I...
...drove or walked across the george washington, throgs neck, triboro, 49th st, manhattan, brooklyn, and verrazano bridges and through the midtown and lincoln tunnels. Only the whitestone bridge and the holland tunnel remain.
...finished 60 books including War and Peace, the Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Wild Card Quilt, What is the What, Mountains beyond Mountains, Half the Sky, and Animal Farm.
...planted 45,000 trees (with the help of 3000 volunteers).
...had 5 first dates. Sigh.
...set foot in 7 states.