June 30, 2008

when it rains, it pours.

Its been raining in New York for days now and the streets look the way they do in all the movies with the lights reflecting and the people running with umbrellas over head, and newspapers and coats. The tourists curse it. He/she/they say it’s bad luck, bad timing, bad news. Rain in June? they ask. And their maps get wet and they’re slowed by the rain and so are the cars and the busses and my commute home.

All tourists do when they come here is spend too much money on stupid souvenirs, all that crap from junk-filled stores to try make the memory more real. I take home matchbooks and napkins I’ve written notes on and mental pictures of faces and distinct sounds of laughter, and figure I have legitimate mental souvenirs of every place I’ve ever been.

And you can find yourself sheltered from the storm in a little coffee shop and realize that you don’t need a map to get you to the places in life that you need to see. And you don’t need to spend money on anything more than a café latte to strike up a conversation with a normal person with a normal life to realize that New York in the rain is just as good as New York when it’s not.

June 26, 2008

Because you can never have too many chances.

One of these days I'm going to finish something (and I don't mean drinks or boring phone calls or bad movies). I mean one of these days I'm going to follow through with all the things I think about doing and talk about doing and feel in the pit of my stomach that I should.

But I keeping losing time. It flies, doesn't it? Like flies that float and land on burning lamp bulbs and disintegrate or get squashed and disappear.

For too long I have thought I have an infinite amount. And that's so easy, isn't it? With clocks everywhere counting down your every moment, quantifying and qualifying every part of your day, your everyday that never seems to change. And there will always be more vodka sodas and boring phone calls and bad movies - but not chances. You can never have too many chances.

Because one night you can go to sleep and wake up in the morning and find that time has caught up with you. And clocks stop and you don't want them to (you never do), then there you are in the middle of a sea of crowded minutes, hours, days, all struggling against the drowning chances that you know you've missed, swimming in the regret, suffocating in the always too-late realization that it’s a silly time to learn to swim when you start to drown.

June 19, 2008

To the girl at the corner store.

I know it’s tough, it has to be. Every day it’s the same, the same people asking for coffee, asking for change, asking for your number.

They’ve been coming in with their large coats and pressed suits knowing that every day it will be the same, that they will come in, and you’ll be here. I know it won’t be long, and soon they’ll be coming in with their flip flops and tanned faces from their weekends at the Hamptons and they’ll find you’re gone.

You feel your life is on the other side of the world, that no one here understands you, and you wish you had someone to count on. Count on. Count faces, count names, count Burberry scarves and Dior sunglasses, count missed chances and glances and lost lives.

You think that in time, they’ll remember, once you’re gone, once you’ve taken the chance to start your life somewhere else, out from behind the counter of this city that moves too fast for you.But you don’t count on it. You’re tired of counting, so you smile and say good morning and good afternoon and good bye.

Because you know it is easy to love people in memory, the hard trick, is to love them when they are there, in front of you.

June 17, 2008

Quiet, please, and I'll tell you everything.

Leaving Manhattan is supposed to be an altogether peaceful adventure, parting ways for a few days with the noise and craziness to seek out vast horizons and lush trees (well, as vast and lush as Albany can muster).

So I sat down on the most inefficient, poorly run, overpriced and never-on-time piece of transportation in the country - Amtrak - to leave above mentioned city for the weekend. And already seated, I watched as those who boarded played the game on the sold out train of eyeballing everyone to deem who looked the least offensive to sit next to.

Of course the man who sat next to me was quite possibly the most ridiculous person I’ve ever encountered to date (and I’ve encountered some pretty ridiculous people in my time). He was Dwight Schrute meets Robert Goulet. He was middle-aged with dyed jet black hair. He was lumbering, awkward, cumbersome, and asked me "can I sit here?" while already hefting his bag into the overhead compartment. He sat down with the full force of a fighter jet, causing me to wonder (as I read a book pressed against the window trying not to make eye contact) if he'd ever sat in such a small confined space before in his entire life.

(What is it about people on journeys going somewhere or coming back from someplace else, that compels them to talk? I'm not here to entertain you, or tell you my life story, or answer ridiculous questions. All I want to do is sit and not talk. I think not talking is totally underrated. Sometimes it’s nice, isn’t it, to just be able to sit and not say anything for awhile and just let the world and the people around you marinate).

I thought I was out of the woods until I realized that Dwight Schrute Goulet didn't bring anything with him for the two and a half hour train ride to entertain him but the video he took on his cell phone that he'd filmed that day of Times Square (of course). "Here we are in the famous Times Square..." the speaker-phone blasted his best flight attendant narration. How do these people find me?

It was really only a matter of time before his attention would turn to me with:
"I'm in programming, what do you do?"

I closed my eyes and sighed deeply. Here we go.

I tried to answer as briefly as possible as not to incite any excitement or false hope that this sort of line of questioning was going to continue for the remainder of the trip. He took notice, I think, but him being him he decided to ask questions with his own answers in order to propel things forward.

"Where are you from, are you from Albany?"
"Yeah."

"Where? Glens Falls?"
"Yup." (a lie)

"Where do you live now, the city?"
"Uh huh."

"Where in the city are you, downtown?"
"Yup." (lie)

"Where did you go to school, SUNY Albany?"
"Sure." (lie)

After a while I warmed up to the questions and admittedly liked pretending to be someone else for a while. And there's nothing wrong with telling little lies to strange people you're never doing to see again, is there? They're people who don't really care about the truth anyway. They're just looking for a quick fix, the need to not feel alone, the longing for conversation, for the comfort of...words.

By the end of the trip I was a waitress-cum-television producer from Glens Falls who was engaged to a guy that works in investment banking who I met on a blind date through the internet. (how fun!)

"That's how everyone meets these days, just meet and fall in love, isn't it?"
"Basically."

Sometimes it’s easier to just tell people what they want to hear.

June 11, 2008

Sh!t Show.

It was only a matter of time before I got onto the wrong subway car (again!) where there was literally shit all over one of the seats. And (the irony!) with The Times Op-ed page having been used and left behind as toilet paper (speaks volumes).

I suppose I should have thought something was up when I noticed everyone in the packed rush-hour train was trying to stay away from one end of the car. "Don’t go over there," they’d say or "I wouldn’t do that if I were you." But this is New York. Underground. During rush-hour. No one ever pays attention to what people are saying to you in such a heated and high-pressured situation.

I’m destined to always learn the hard way. So, this is what we’ve come to then? This is, like, where we are now as a society and we're OK with it? I was thinking these and many other thoughts standing there trying to read my book but unable to concentrate due to the smell. Everyone packed into the car was pushing incrementally en masse away from the scene of the crime. Of all the subway cars in all the city...that nice guy (and I’m taking a guess here as to the sex of the guilty party) had to go and shit in mine.

I suppose you could say it was only a matter of time before I got onto the wrong subway car (seriously, what is with my bad luck?) with shit on the seat when the dreaded "we are stopped momentarily due to train traffic ahead" announcement would come on, keeping me trapped underground (between 59th and 68th! One stop from home! One stop until I can breathe again!) for what could have quite possibly been the longest ten minutes of my life.

New York: just when you think you’ve seen it all - it’s only matter of time before it sets you straight.

June 9, 2008

The Heat

Everything in New York is a little less clear when the temperature rises. Something about the suffocating air makes the city itself seem more unbearable than ever and you’re walking down the street feeling the sweat drip down the small of your back and you can’t remember for the life of you why you’ve chosen to be so surrounded by so much pavement when it’s topping out at 100 degrees.

We are never satisfied of course, as people who are always looking for The Next Best Thing, for something more - and the weather is no different. Too cold in winter, too hot in summer - when is it ever just right? Well it never is (though we refuse to accept it), and we are rarely prepared for life’s elements - we never remember to bring that umbrella for the sudden downpour, or a cardigan for when the sun goes down and The Chill creeps up from the ground and surrounds our ankles and starts to swallow us whole.

The Heat is starting to be a little much. All I want to do is lock the door and stay inside where the air (and my thoughts) are more level. Believe it or not I can think of a few things that are more fun than packing myself into a crowded downtown 1 train (really what are the odds that I happened to find the one train car without AC??) early on a Monday morning unready to start a week of heat-induced fuzzy attention to detail.

Could this be the week I lose my job? I couldn’t help but think sitting there almost unable to breathe. No, certainly it’s that guy who just woke up across from me with pit stains seeping out onto his light pink dress shirt who most definitely just missed his stop - and from the looks of it the start of a very important meeting - who’s on his way out. "Out of my way!" he shouts as he pushes himself off the train.

Well if he doesn’t lose his job, he really should.

But I won’t complain too much about The Heat because there will inevitably be something wrong with what’s next (mid-80's but too much rain? A sudden drop to a windy 60's and too cold?). And it’s good to not be able to think so clearly sometimes. It’s good to have a break from the crisp clarity of more reasonable temperatures and give yourself some time to let your mind wander. We forget (don’t we?) what we really want when we have so much time in more comfortable climates to over-think things.

So until this breaks (and it will, it always does) I’ll stop thinking for a while (and be OK feeling overheated and uncomfortable...) and just let the humidity fall where it may.

And I’ll try my best to get off the train in time.

June 5, 2008

Street Affair.

The man running the coffee cart on Hudson and Morton was watching me as I approached, then looked me in the eyes and told me he loved me.

For such a declaration, was it callous of me to just laugh and keep on walking?

When strangers profess love I don’t know the proper etiquette. It’s polite, I would imagine, to at least say "thanks." After all, it’s not a thing one gets to hear every day.

Maybe next time I’ll respond (I don’t need an explanation). Though I could never love a Cart Guy - what’s to stop him from just picking up and leaving at a moments notice (boredom, better traffic, prettier customers)?

(SIGH). Men. Always different street corners, different girls. Always love-me-then-leave-me.

And here I thought it was meant to be.

June 3, 2008

Home is what you come back to.

I’m pretty sure that New York makes more sense coming than going.

What is it about that skyline that somehow, through the clouds and setting sun reflecting off the Empire State building, screams home? Because you have to leave a place sometimes in order to remember how much you love it (absence really does make the heart grow fonder?).

3,000 miles away across the country for a few days was long enough for me to realize that I am, and always will be, in a New York state of mind. Distant cities always hold the possibility that I’ll find what I’m looking for once I get there, but somehow I’m always let down (so much expectation and disappointment you’d think I’d have learned by now).

Sure, after 5 and a half hours smashed against the window next to a woman who does nothing but snore and kiss her girlfriend and hold her hand during turbulence, and constantly adjust herself and ask you ridiculously personal questions ("No, I don’t think your friend should be pressuring you into having baby just because you’re nearing forty," and "I guess I never really thought about falling in love with someone who already had a kid," and "Yes, you did just elbow me in the arm...again,") - you can be ready to jump out into just about any city in the world.
(What is it about tight enclosed spaces that makes people want to become best friends? I’d much rather spend that time floating at 29,000 feet with my life hanging in the balance, looking out over the passing states - Pennsylvania, Iowa, Colorado, Nevada... - and have some time to myself. think).

And California is too sunny with too many barren hills and too much open sky that it makes me feel uncomfortable. Where are all the tall buildings? Where are all of the angry people with purpose? Why does everyone walk so slow? Why doesn’t anyone honk their horns here when they drive? I could never make it. I’m much too cynical and bitter and realistic to ever be happy in such a place.

All I know about home is that it means a whole manner of things depending on who you are and where you’ve come from. It’s always shifting, roots uprooting and replanting in different cities and houses and apartments and rooms and streets all over the world (though I’m pretty sure that we’re all looking for the same thing to return to at the end of the day). I figure I’m always disappointed because I’ve already found my place.

Grass-is-greener isn’t always a good mentality to have, because you can spend so much time looking for something that might be better, that you lose sight of how great you’ve already got it. Give me the powerful streets of Manhattan, with their endless, streaming chorus of strong voices and passions any day.

Like anything else you choose to come back to in life, Manhattan makes more sense coming than going (what a thing to miss something that's been under your nose the whole time!) - and oh how happy I was to be home.