The End.

To anyone who might have been reading this blog, I thank you for your attention. However, this blog is now officially closed! Good-bye, and many thanks.

The New York City Marathon

This is now my second year of living in New York; today I saw my second New York City Marathon. It should be said first that I have no special interest in sports or sporting events; in fact, I probably have less interest in these things than most people. However, there is something decidedly special and decidedly *different* about the New York Marathon that sets it apart from all other sporting events that I have known.

Thousands upon thousands of strangers come from far and near to cheer streams of runners, most of whom are perfect strangers to each other. They clap and they whoop, shout words of encouragement and smile broadly at the runners. One can see the emotion on the faces of the athletes as they run through these cheering lines, can see that it means something to most of them. So far, I describe a phenomenon that is perhaps not so unlike other sports competitions.

But here is the difference: on an average day, New Yorkers are instead pushing each other on the sidewalks of the city, elbowing each other without a thought in the subway, avoiding each other's eyes on the street, moving expressionless and steely through the day. On the day of the New York Marathon, many New Yorkers actually *look* at each other, and moreover do so with expressions of joy and encouragement. On Marathon Day in New York the whole city feels alive and pulsing with positive energy and a feeling of accomplishment in good spirit. I saw as last year strangers congratulating runners still wearing their number banners hours after the race, giving them a pat on the shoulder, or a smile.

...would that every day in New York were Marathon day.

Fowl.

November 21st, 2007. near 8am. LGA to DTW. Northwest.

"IT'S NOT NORMAL," he bellowed, a slight cry in his throat. But for his voice, the hum of the plane cutting across the sky, and the hissing of the air vents, the cabin was silent. Several people who had not been jostled awake by the violent turbulence opened their eyes now at the sound of the loud voice.

He continued, "No I fly all the time and it's not normal. Apparently one time--I saw this on the news--apparently one time the plane roof or like the ceiling you know was ripped off because of turbulence. Yeah and one flight attendant got sucked out--she died--but everyone else was fine I think. But I mean, I think it was in Europe or something, like 20 years ago."

[This happened in the US actually, and many people were severely wounded by the flying pieces of metal from the plane's disintegrating body. I remember only because as a child (no more than 6) I saw either the 20/20 special or the 60 minutes feature on the event,which subsequently spurred years of recurring nightmares for me.]

He was loud and nasal, ruddy-faced and gravel-voiced, with his strawberry blond hair gelled into a cock's comb (loosely interpreted). But there *was* something rooster-like about him, with his boisterous morning crowing about our impending crash and the redness of his face.

"Um, ah, sir? You might want to take out your earplugs" hazarded the meek middle-aged man from Grand Rapids, his seat neighbor, "you seem to be alarming some of the folks up there." He nodded toward two rows of college-aged girls, covering their mouths and whining oh-my-god.

Naturally we landed without incident. As we waited for our bags, he wandered his way over to me in a very obvious and NOT smooth way. He tried to start up some small-talk, his face masked with a ridiculous desire to be or appear macho.

But I didn't really hear what he was saying. I was distracted by the noxious smell of his Abercrombie cologne, wondering as I looked at his hair if the use of so much gel caused balding (have they even *conducted* those studies?), but mainly thinking about why he didn't notice me sitting directly in front of him in the plane, scribbling down his nonsense as he spoke it.

As I walked away from him I thought with some satisfaction, "He may think I'm just a piece of meat, but he's perfectly ridiculous. And I'm going to write about him."

manufactured nature

The distant, hollow sounds of television coming through the vents of my apartment sound vaguely like the sleepy hooting of saw-whet owls on a Michigan afternoon.

And so in relative silence and memories of summer I fell asleep, breaking my month-long cycle of insomnia. If only there had been owls earlier, my eyes would not be so heavy and dark.

Autumn in [my] New York

Each time I’m in a large city—and to be fair, I extend this to San Francisco, Paris, New York, London, etc.—I find that there is a generalized desire in the population to appropriate the city. I hear words tossed around like “You haven’t seen the real [New York/San Francisco]”, implying that the speaker somehow does know the real [New York/San Francisco], and has therefore excitingly (for him or her) one-upped me. Or perhaps I am quizzed: “have you seen [union square/oberkampf/the mission] yet? No?! Oh, well, then you haven’t seen the city!” This last part is always added triumphantly, making me feel like the person doing the quizzing feels satisfied at owning the city in question more than me. Knowing this or that city, and being able to rattle off the street names and subway stops has in some circles (at least the ones I find myself in!) become a mark of sophistication. I find this to be a very interesting social behavior and wonder if I do the same.

Thus far it seems to me that New York is no exception to this desire for appropriation. If anything, I would say it is more rampant here than in other places I have been, in part because there is such a large spectrum of what can be appropriated and in part because it is arguably the world’s epicenter of the culture of ownership and possession.

American Express has been running a series of advertisements over the course of the last year involving different celebrities who list a number of tangible and intangible things that they own. Robert DeNiro’s ends with something like “My New York. My Card: American Express.” I might be blurring the details, but the theme came through clearly: a city can be owned and carried around in your pocket just like a credit card. American Express didn’t invent this turn of phrase (My New York)—they merely capitalized on an already used expression. As we were passing through China Town in a cab, a friend of mine who has lived in the city for several years once said, “This part of New York is so strange to me. I don’t ever think of it—don’t ever consider it part of my New York.”

“What do you mean, your New York? How is it yours? You were born and raised in the Midwest!” He wasn’t able to answer that, but it seemed natural to him that part of the city, certain aspects of it, should belong to him regardless of where he originally came from.

I’m curious to know--is this a mainly American behavior, this need to own even intangibles? Is this born of a deep-rooted feeling of cultural insecurity? A need to own some portion of ‘The Cosmopolitan’ in order to prove worldliness? Or is it just human nature?

In any event, I don’t feel that I own any part of New York whatsoever. I am distinctly aware of my transient status, and happy with it. But if there were to be any part of the city that I would ever incorporate into a definition of “My New York” I would certainly have the Brooklyn Botanic Garden at the very very top of my list. Each time I go to a city or town (of any size) visiting gardens and parks, or any other form of public green space, is first on my agenda. Having said that, and having visited Turkey, Azerbaijan, Morocco, Mexico, Spain, France, Germany, and other western European countries, I can say with absolute certainty that the Brooklyn Botanic Garden is the most perfect of any that I've seen. It is the most perfectly planned, well-maintained, restful and interesting garden I have ever visited. Truly. If you haven’t seen it, you simply must. And go during the growing season, to be sure. I’m told that they have a cherry blossom festival in the spring, which must be enchanting.

Though not a garden, there was another place I went today that might eventually be added to “My New York” if I ever develop one. I walked down Waverly Place, the entire length of it, and found it to be the first built space I have visited within Manhattan that made me feel happy and at peace. Waverly Place made me want to linger, to slow my step, to examine the wisteria vines climbing the sides of the human scaled houses. There were shutters on the windows for once (many of which were veiled from the inside with lace and voile), no more than three or four stories on most of the buildings, and a real character apparent in each of the houses. Some of them were cranberry red, some white, some goldenrod yellow; some had pots of mums on the front steps, others had jack-o-lanterns. ‘This is the New York of Edith Wharton,’ I thought, as the autumn sunlight poured down like Lyle’s Syrup on the street, so thick and golden, and so sweet, it was almost too much. It was a warm fall day, the sky was the deep crystalline blue of glacial lakes, and the air in Waverly Place smelled of falling leaves, not of exhaust and waste. Finally I found a place in this city where I can breathe easy and forget the apocalyptic wheezing and screeching of the subway trains. Yes; as I strolled down the street the only sound in my head was Billie Holiday, sending the notes of “Autumn in New York” up through me like the curls of steam rising from a cup of hot cider. No matter whether I’m in Ann Arbor, Paris or New York, and regardless of the season, I always know I am having a moment worth remembering when an experience is so full of emotion that Billie Holiday’s voice comes to me on its own.

Saralocks and the three chairs

The first morning I was here I decided I would have coffee outside in a park. So I bought a coffee before 8 am and headed toward Union Square, very near where I was staying. Soon my romantic notions of sipping at my coffee on a park bench in view of flowers fell to pieces. Firstly, the benches were actually all occupied. This wasn't immediately apparent from the street as most of them were occupied by sleeping/lounging homeless people. Or maybe they just were very into the "lived in" look and were, additionally, hygiene deficient. Either way, the benches were occupied. Secondly, other than a patch of scraggly impatiens, there were no flowers.

I eventually discovered a cluster of French park style tables and chairs around a statue on the other side of the park. A middle-aged, respectable looking (read--clean and coiffed) woman was sitting at one of these tables, reading the morning paper. I joined her. The first table I sat down at wasn't suitable because, well, it was filthy. It had something sort of thick, brown and sticky dried onto it. The second one I moved to was also unsuitable because of the unpleasant urine odor coming from the joint between the retaining wall and the sidewalk immediately behind it. Finally (sigh) the third was just perfect.

And so I began sipping happily at my coffee, making notes in my "cahier" about the passers-by, the sound of the leaves, the sound of...a picture being taken?? Over to my left, at quite a distance, and partially obscured by the undergrowth around a tree was a young man photographer, taking pictures in my direction.

I was disturbed. With my ankles still crossed I quickly pivoted to the right, so that my back would be turned toward him. Perhaps he was taking pictures of something else. And I returned to my morning musings and coffee.

Then the snapping started again. He had gotten closer and had come around to the front--his monster lens aimed directly at me--so that I could know make him out quite plainly. Film student type. Yes, you know the kind: dark jeans and white t-shirt and an odd and no doubt very symbolic tattoo visible on his forearm. With ear-rings.

Frustrated, and thoroughly uncomfortable, I began rifling in my bag with my head down, thinking about whether I would let this drive me from my carefully selected perch. When I heard the camera click for the third time, this time so close I could have snatched it from him, I decided quite instantly that yes, it would drive me from my precious table. I got up, with a little "hmph!" of deep annoyance, and Mister Tattooed Image Stealer came nearer to me to say, "oh, I'm so sorry if I disturbed you! I hope I didn't freak you out or anything."

I looked down at the ground, tossed my bag on my left shoulder and whisked past him, uttering only an ambiguous "yeah..."

On the train to Brooklyn I thought about it--how was a photograph more invasive than a simple memory? Was this man's taking pictures of me really so different from him staring and remembering me? Or just looking and remembering? Why did I feel so robbed? What would he *do* with the picture?

Just then a Muslim woman walked in, entirely cloaked in black from head to toe, everything covered in yards of fabric but a slim slot for her eyes. I could see that she was about 5'4, a bit rotund, and that at least the skin on the bridge of her nose was not unlike the color of olive oil. But mainly all I could see was the fabric on her. It was plain. There were no markings, embroidery, beading or patterns. And it seemed to me that she moved like a ghost through the world, seeing without being seen, absent from the memory of the world. After all, who can remember fabric alone?

Exhibit A: New York

Riding in the taxi from Laguardia to the city, the sight of the Manhattan skyline emerged, looking to me like a cluster of distant tombstones. We raced along the East River, slicing through the beams of autumn sun at razor speeds. Each apartment building, overpass, basketball hoop and bench appeared like a single frame in a movie, flashed in front of my eyes. It didn't seem real...something inside of me hoped that the taxi would never stop; that I would never step down into those cemented streets, that I could continue observing the scene, in my museum way, from behind the window forever.

But the taxi did stop. And with sun in my eyes, a tightness in my throat and my two suitcases in hand, I stepped up to my first stop: Amy's apartment.

I've now since moved to my second stop, as I search for a more permanent living situation. And soon I will be moving to my third stop, still having no place of my own to live!

There must have been something to that feeling in me as we drove into Manhattan, that feeling that seemed to say "keep moving. don't stop."

Effectivement...I haven't stopped since I arrived.

Funny News

BEIJING, China (AP) -- A drunken Chinese tourist bit a panda at the Beijing Zoo after the animal attacked him when he jumped into the enclosure and tried to hug it, state media said Wednesday.

Geography Lesson?

A tall angular-bodied (peroxide) blond woman struts into the coffee shop where I was studying this morning. The heels of her stiletto boots struck the marble tiles with the loud clack clack of fourth of July poppers.

The coffee-shop trivia of the day was: “What is the capital of Ukraine?” For a correct answer, you get 10 cents off your order. Easy enough, no?

No.

“ooh!!!!” she squealed, triumphantly punching her French-manicured fists in the air.
“I know that! It’s Russia!”

Below her Caribou visor the barista drew her eyebrows together. “Ummm, no…actually, it’s Kiev.”

Miss Stiletto is visibly annoyed. “Are you SURE?”

Visor: “Yes”

She didn’t get ten cents off her order.