June 28, 2009

Re: Sneakers.

Could it be that on the last night in my first New York apartment that I’m feeling a bit sad? I think it’s inevitable after you invest so much time into something, take care to make it a part of your life and who you are, that if you have anything pulsing through your veins you can’t help but become attached. This place has treated me well, but timing being what it is, it’s time to go. I’ve always felt compelled to keep moving, somehow always thinking (foolishly?) that whatever might be just around the corner is going to be better than what I already have. The reason behind it? My greatest fear (aside from spiders and never falling in love) - the fear of becoming static.

The trouble with that however, is that no matter where you’re going you can’t help but ask yourself if you’re really running from something. I figure all of us have our Asics on all of the time in some form or other - running from responsibilities, from love, from taking a chance, from growing up, from doing the right thing. There’s always risk involved, there’s always possible defeat and humiliation and injuries that vary from leaping out of a plane (hurts more) to the wounds that can fall upon our hearts (lasts longer).

But I’ve got the keys (all four. Front door, foyer door...) and I don’t know (you never can) what the outcome will be. I’ve boxed up everything I want to take with me and found a lot of things I plan to leave behind. Like I said it’s easy to become attached, and I’m working on getting better at letting go of the things you learn over time you shouldn’t (or aren’t meant to) hold on to.

And that’s the other good thing about starting over somewhere, you can get better mileage from all of the complicated things of your not-so-distant past, and start to realize (and be hopeful even), all the things that you’re suddenly running towards.

June 25, 2009

When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire.

I think that if you own a house and are seriously considering re-locating, the only answer is to simply burn the place down. Do it quick like a band-aid, and just set your belongings ablaze and start over fresh, a clean slate, without all the junk you’ve inevitably been holding on to for much longer than you should have. Truth is I’ve been doing what I do when I don’t want to deal with something that I know I can’t avoid - pretending like it isn’t happening. Moving in four days and nothing is packed? No big deal! I’ve got plenty of time! After all, this apartment isn’t that big! How much stuff can I really have accumulated over just three and a half years? Don’t answer that question. Well you can’t answer that question because you’re not here. And be thankful for it, because I am here in the middle of all the mayhem where there’s piles of stuff I didn’t even know I had surrounding me at ever turn. I’m wishing I were in a million other places, like say, a week from now when this move will finally be over and I won’t have to worry about it anymore. Tonight with a glass of wine in hand and Brubeck on the record player, I began to tackle all the tangible things of my life - and I have to admit, it left me a little confused. Umm, what possessed me to buy a vegetable steamer? Have I ever even used it? Do I even know how? And all those spices. Cumin. Cloves. Cream of tartar? What is that? Five different coffee travel mugs are in the cabinet and I always buy my coffee at the cart in front of my office for $1.10. So...that’s weird. And exactly how many pairs of black flats do I really need? Had they been giving them away somewhere? Same thing with black turtleneck sweaters. And black blazers. And black pants? What’s more worrying than the fact that I am, actually, moving into an even smaller place than I’m in now which will make the logistics of fitting much of anything, (let alone things I don’t need or haven’t used in over a year), one of the most difficult tasks of all time - is that I’ve got all these things and I don’t know why. I know we’re a consumer-driven world and over time we buy things (three containers of baking powder?) and are given things (just because I’m a writer doesn’t mean I automatically need journals. I currently have six and I suppose I’ll get around to filling them all when I reach retirement), and there’s that feeling of not wanting to waste things or throw them away - but do we really need to hold onto them? Is our inability to let go making our lives better or worse? I started to worry that perhaps these objects were simply filling some unknown void I didn't want to recognize, each piece somehow helping to justify my existence. We store these items in boxes and put them in cabinets and tell ourselves that one day we’ll need them (just you wait!) and then promptly forget we have them and go out and buy the exact same thing again and again until we have not one but two containers of cream of tartar (still don’t know what it’s for?) and watch as the things we don’t need start to close in and suffocate us. After four hours of tackling just part of the kitchen and hall closet, I thought seriously about taking a tip from the venerable Mr. Thoreau and fleeing to the woods to live deliberately. I could manage a small cabin (roughly the size of my new studio) and not have bother about packing up all this stuff I don’t want or need, come to mention it. But it was just a fleeting thought of course. Aside from forests in the Manhattan area being thin on the ground, I hate bugs, and figure life just really wouldn’t be the same without things like my french press, all my back issues of the New Yorker, and that baking powder I need once a year when I finally get around to making that pie. I suppose when you have to look at all the useless things you own in harsh light of having to pack them up and take them with you someplace else, one can’t help but feel a bit ashamed and ridiculous. So you do what I did, solemnly swear to yourself standing before your humming refrigerator that you’ll never obtain, purchase, receive, accept or acquire another useless piece of anything for the rest of your Manhattan-living-life. Until of course you finally buy a house somewhere. Then all you have to do is remember where you put the matches.

June 18, 2009

New York I love you, but you're bringing me down.

I haven’t written in weeks. Life happens and New York happens seemingly so quickly, that you’re too busy living it to bother writing about it. And besides, I’ve just gone through one of the most insane, crazy, time-consuming, and stress-inducing things any New Yorker can ever go through – the painfully long and tedious dance of looking for a new apartment.

In today’s market people keep saying things out there are a steal, “Everything is so cheap now!” and “This is the time to make the move!” Firstly, no matter how bad this economy is, diving full speed ahead into the bottom of a cesspool of record high unemployment rates and bankruptcy, nothing in New York, especially apartments, should ever be classified as “cheap.” Secondly, making the move, as it were, is filled with so much more than just finding a place, packing up your stuff and moving to another neighborhood. Looking for an apartment in New York is a full-time job. It’s long hours and takes determination, stamina and the creative ability to look at even the bleakest of places and be able to envision something more.

Having lived with roommates for what now feels like my entire life, I decided it was time, four scary years away from turning thirty, that perhaps it was in fact the pivotal moment to make the leap. Sure, anywhere else in the country having your own place isn’t a big deal. There are people I know all over the place from San Francisco to Madison, Wisconsin who live in entirely palatial places for half the cost of what a closet in New York would bank you - which is why in New York it’s entirely normal for you to be rounding thirty, even say, thirty-five and still have roommates. It’s costly to live here of course, and I’ve seen relationships speed up from casual dates to full blown engagements just because splitting the rent on that one-bedroom is going to save them enough money that making a life-time commitment is entirely worth it.

But as the ever-single New Yorker that I am, I started gallivanting across the island, Murray Hill, Hell’s Kitchen, Chelsea, the East Village – all in an attempt to find a studio where I might fit in (and be able to fit my stuff). I’ve spent the last three and a half years on the Upper East Side with people with strollers, and old people with canes, girls my age who flaunt designer handbags and clothes a la Gossip Girl, and guys who look as though they just stumbled out of their college frat house. I’m a little behind in getting the memo I guess, but Change (surprise!) is what it’s all about these days, so I decided life’s too short not to get on board.

I saw apartments that might be able to fit a chair and a twin bed (it would be pushing it), with no windows, one small burner and the overwhelming smell of bleach costing more than one paycheck. I saw basements with bugs, and five-floor walk-ups with no bathroom sinks. I saw lofted beds and partition walls and entire apartments newly created in what used to be an actual hallway now converted into small (I could extend my arms and touch both walls) living spaces which I was supposed to pay for but would only really be good for someone with an extreme case of agoraphobia.

I was taking meetings whenever people could meet me, morning, noon and night, because like anything in New York, things happen fast, and with one delay you could lose the (small) place of your dreams in a New York minute. I was taking trains and buses and walking in the rain, and calling brokers and landlords and checking Craigslist religiously every thirty minutes for updates of places in my low price-range. I was starting to lose my mind. I was getting discouraged. I was becoming sacred that I might get fired after three days of being so apartment obsessed that I wasn’t getting any work done. New York! What the hell?! Why do you have to be so expensive!? Why do you have to be so difficult!?

As luck would have it (though I don’t believe much in luck) I stumbled across a place I initially wasn’t going to bother seeing. The Upper West side seemed far after having spent so much time taking the train downtown from the East (but I’d quickly come to the painful realization that I couldn’t afford downtown. New York, I hate you!). I dragged myself up to take a look anyway. There’s something to be said about that cliché that happens to you when you find something that’s meant to be, be it a job, love or an apartment – when you know, you just know, and it happens when you least expect it.

The search was over. The paperwork was assembled, the appropriate funds (broker fees, don’t even get me started…) were obtained and dropped off, and suddenly I found myself signing the lease to my first solo apartment. Sans roommates, sans drama. Sure, I’m paying more now for just a room with a kitchen in it, but it has windows and a fireplace and so much character that it’s entirely worth the impending upcoming nights when all I’ll be able to afford to do is sit in my new place, alone, and learn all over again why New York really is the greatest city in the world.

June 2, 2009

Seek Alt. Routes

After an informative session at a bike shop on Morton Street in the West Village (where yes, I’m thinking of attempting to commute via bicycle. Eco-friendly! Economical!), I was feeling like this new lifestyle could if nothing else, get me to where I wanted to go faster than walking. It’s the wave of the urban future after all. The New York Times said so on Sunday.

As I promptly turned the corner onto Hudson Street, thinking that I’d check out bikes on the cheap on Craigslist when I get back to my desk, I was shaken from my thoughts of carefree two-wheel travel when the screeching brakes of a car caused me to look up. I watched in horror as a large white van hit a gentleman in the middle of the intersection, on, you guess it, a bike.

He eventually stood of course, visibly shaken as the driver jumped out of the van to see if he had seriously flattened him like a pancake at Clinton Street Bakery (voted “Best Pancakes,” NY Magazine, 2005!). Thankfully, he had not, and the biker continued on his way.

Come to think of it, perhaps I’ll just stick to NYC transit.

For a little while, anyway.