Madame Butterfly

Ed's mother is an opera afficianado. Her father was a conductor, and she was brought up with classical music, reportedly attending operas from the age of 3. She estimates that she has seen Madame Butterfly somewhere between 15 and 30 times, and so when the Metropolitan Opera announced it would be performing it, she made the trip up from Texas for the occasion. Luckily, I was invited to tag along with Ed  and some of her other friends.

The performance space, seen from seats much less awesome than ours.

The Metropolitan Opera House is spectacular. It's covered with red velvet and lit by grand chandeliers that rise up toward the ceiling as the lights go down. It was an elegant, quietly splendid venue. The crowd, I'm sorry to say, was often less elegant. Before the show and between acts, Ed and I did a lot of dramatic head jerking and whispering to draw each other's attention to yet another relic of the 1920's dressed in a skimpy, sequined cocktail dress her granddaughter was probably too old for. We also spent several minutes in hot debate about whether that person with the long hair, sparkling headband, and utility vest was a man or a woman. To balance this out, however, there were women in luscious furs and men in richly tailored suits and tuxedos.

The music, of course, was live, and the orchestra was conducted by Placido Domingo, one of the three tenors. (Ed was horrified that I didn't recognize his name, but like much of the world I know the three tenors as "Pavarotti and those two other guys.") When he took his position, the audience went wild in the way that opera audiences tend to do: more fervent clapping kept at a respectable, reasonable volume, with an occasional, ill-advised whistle.

Butterfly with her puppet son

I thought the show itself was wonderful. The staging was really creative, with a mirrored, angled ceiling above the stage reflecting the action and showers of cherry blossoms now and then. Extras in black clothing and black veils draped paper lanterns around the singers or flew birds perched on long staffs through the air to signify the changing seasons. One of the best parts was Butterfly's son, played by a traditional bunkaru puppet instead of a real little boy. (Apparently having a three-year-old on stage was too nerve-wracking, as no one was really sure what he'd do once he got out there.) He required three puppeteers to keep him in action, but it was really astonishing how life-like his movements were, and he got a standing ovation during the curtain call. In front of my seat was a screen displaying an English translation of the words, so I was able to keep up with the story.

The dramatic fan dance that begins Madame Butterfly

Following the show, Ed, his mother, a family friend and I went to a very late dinner at a fantastic restaurant near Chelsea Market that Ed and I have recently discovered. Our reservation was for 11:15, but by the time we got there it was closer to 11:30. Appropriately, we drank sake and ate a variety of Asian-inspired dishes, and I didn't get to bed until 2:00 in the morning! I loved seeing the opera and would certainly be open to seeing more, provided I continue to work in an office with a ready supply of coffee for the mornings after performances.

Getting Through the Holidays

I'm not going to any real Christmas parties this year, which is a little disappointing. My office will be having a "holiday dinner" at a restaurant next Monday (as I am the only full-time member of the staff who is not Jewish, I suppose a Christmas party would be asking a lot) and I'm going to an ugly holiday sweater party on Thursday, but I imagine that will feel like a regular house party except that everyone will be wearing bright colors. So when my friend Eddie told me he was singing in a Christmas medley show at the famous Birdland jazz club, I didn't hesitate to say I'd be there. Birdland is a lot of fun, I love watching Eddie perform, and I felt I was in need of some Christmas spirit.

The show was run by Zach James, a college friend of Eddie's who studied opera. Zach has been extremely successful, performing on Broadway not once but three times. Currently he plays Lurch in the long-running Addam's Family.  He certainly looks the part: he's very tall and thin, but at the same time seems too cheerful and good-natured to play the role. He emceed the show, entitled "Getting Through the Holidays," and sang quite a few of the numbers and was really wonderful.

Zach in the role of Lurch

Zach explained that he'd "gotten some friends together" to do the event, and I was struck by what a statement like that means for someone like that as the show went on.  Eddie's number, "The Oogy-Boogy Man" from The Nightmare Before Christmas was the first one, and he was fantastic. He really hammed it up and had the audience in stitches. A classically trained opera diva sang "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus," a version replete with extremely dramatic arpeggios in odd places.  A crooner with slicked-back hair joined Zach in a duet of "Silent Night." A friend of Eddie's in a slinky black dress with feathers in her hair sang a jazzy song about New Year's. A short, older, very Jewish woman did a few minutes of stand-up-style comedy before treating us to an overly phlegmy version of "Silent Night" in Yiddish. And a frumpy drag queen named Bertha, the self-titled "Hausfrau of the Heartland" did a hilarious act in tights and a red dress trimmed with white fur. It was, needless to say, quite a show.

I left full of martinis and the holiday spirit, feeling thankful that if I can't be a Broadway star, at least I can hang out with them.

Change-Up in Van Cortland Park

Today, I ran my 10th Road Runners race of 2011. This is significant because after race 9 a few weekends ago, I officially qualified for the 2012 New York Marathon - hooray! Today's race was not necessary for qualification purposes, but it was a very different race from the kind I'm used to here, and I'm glad I did it.

The Peter McArdle Cross Country Classic took place way up in Van Cortland Park, in the middle of the Bronx. The park is large and connects to a network of running trails that go through woods, so it was a welcome change from the road races I've gotten used to. It was a 15K (9.3 miles) course, made up of three 5K loops - not the most thrilling set-up, but there's something to be said for gaining familiarity with a hilly terrain.  By the third go-round I knew exactly where the biggest hills were and was ready for them. (Well, as ready as I was ever going to be.)

An uncharacteristically flat portion of the Van Cortland trails.

I've been going to the gym a lot lately, but I've been riding a stationary bike, lifting weights, and doing short running workouts, so I wasn't very prepared for this sort of run.  Not only was I out of shape, the hills were steep and the day was cold; when I left my apartment, my phone told me it was 37 degrees. Brrr. I dressed well for the race, though, and as soon as my muscles finally warmed up, which took ages, I was quite comfortable. The sunshine, when we weren't under tree cover, helped as well.

I ran a slow race, but a strategic race, which I was proud of. Lots of people barreled by me in the beginning only to run out of steam near the end, and I passed most of them again during the third lap, which was a nice feeling. I also seemed to be one of the only ones near the back of the pack who knew how to run hills. The idea is to shorten your steps and lean forward on the uphill - particularly if it is steep - and then open your strides as wide as possible on the downhill side and let gravity take you down; even though you're going quite fast, this approach actually takes less energy than trying fight gravity and slow yourself down.

Given that I haven't run more than 6 miles at a time in something like 2 months, I was surprised that I wasn't completely exhausted by the end. I held a steady pace throughout and did not fall into my usual post-race stupor once home. Despite my unexpected success (of sorts), this race was a good wake-up call. I've entered the lotteries for both the NYC half-marathon and the Empire State Building Run-Up, a race up the stairs to the top of the Empire State Building. If I get into either or both of those, I'd better adjust my training schedule, post haste.

Failed Experiement

On Sunday, I went over to Eddie's apartment. He had made dinner for Jeremy and me, and after tasty pasta and lots of wine, we walked over to a theater I shall not name to watch an opera I shall not name by a production company I shall not name. All this secrecy is because Eddie used to be involved with this company and had originally been cast in this opera, described by its creator as "experimental," "modern," and "techno." After reading his scene and attending a few rehearsals, however, he arranged to be replaced; he didn't want to quit exactly, but he also didn't want to be involved so he skipped a rehearsal and was generally unenthusiastic until he was informed that they were "going with someone else." Still, he wanted to be supportive, so Jeremy and I joined him. We met two of Eddie's friends, Steven and Chad, at the theater and all headed to the very back row post-haste.

The "lobby" of the theater, with blue tarp curtains and the name of the opera company in unsearchable text.

 The opera was a modern piece set to techno beats instead of instrumentals. It was supposed to be more accessible and enjoyable to a present-day audience, but it ended up being depressing and totally discordant. Within the first three minutes, I was glad I was slightly drunk. In each scene, several characters sang their way through various scenarios, like a straight couple trying to rent an apartment and arguing, a gay couple breaking up, a woman having an affair with a married man, and a power-obsessed stripper screaming at her roommate. All of this was delivered in very stylized operatic style, except that it was sort of unsettling to hear a soprano soaring through the upper registers of song to complain, in a Jersey accent, that having to act as landlady was "a pain in [her] ass." This contrasted further with the techno beats doggedly hammering away in the background. The dialogue (is it dialogue in an opera?) was repetitive, and once the characters' scenes were over, we didn't see them again until curtain call, making it hard to get attached to them, or to care about their dismal circumstances.

The stage. Each act took place in this setting, though different bedspreads were brought in to denote different rooms.

For 90 minutes we sat through the intermission-less show. Eddie kept himself busy by guiltily avoiding eye contact with everyone. Jeremy squeezed my knee at particularly bad moments so hard and so frequently I was sure I'd bruise. Steven mimed putting a gun into his mouth and pulling the trigger, and learned later that he had been sitting next to the writer. Whoops.

As soon as the show was over, we practically ran down the stairs to the street, struggling and mostly failing to contain our giggles and yelps of outrage. On the sidewalk, I was treated to a second, much more enjoyable theatrical performance as Jeremy and Steven, both theater majors and one exuberantly gay, treated us to an extremely dramatic rant about the horrors they'd just been through. Eddie did his best to shepherd us away from the theater door - he's worked with this company in the past and wasn't eager to burn too many bridges - but I'm pretty sure at least a few of the cast members heard Steven's detailed account of his suffering. Steven is one of those delightful people who spends virtually all waking hours with his foot in his mouth.

Eventually, Chad escorted the still spluttering Steven back home, while Jeremy, Eddie and I retired to a nearby bar to soothe our spirits with spirits. Looking back on the experience, if I was going to have to see a show like this I'm glad I saw it in the company I did. I am glad to have book-ended the experience with drinks. And I am also glad the performance was free.

Froehlische Thanksgiving!

If one is a vegetarian, Thanksgiving is bound to be pretty non-traditional. So since I was headed for an unusual holiday anyway, I decided to go for broke and spend Thanksgiving in a different country this year. Ed and I went to Berlin for a very quick 4-day trip to celebrate with Anthony and Jane. Ed had never been to Germany before, and I had a great time showing him around. Highlights included:

A Herta Berlin soccer game at the old Olympic stadium, the one where Jesse Owens embarrassed all the German athletes back in 1936. The stadium, as you can see, is beautiful inside, though outside it looks appropriately old and crumbly. The game ended in a tie - Herta's specialty, I hear - though we all enjoyed watching it, particularly the parts that involved watching diehard fans doing organized cheers and waving big flags, and drinking beer and eating pretzels. I sported a blue and white Herta scarf that I got as a belated birthday gift from my brother and Jane.


A trip to a bizarre gallery called Techles, that is actually an abandoned building which has been taken over by "artists." The place is dank and barren in some ways, with concrete floors and bare light bulbs (where there are light bulbs). Every inch of the walls has been thoroughly decorated by the artists, though, and the really prosperous ones have taken over individual rooms where they sell their work. Ed was nervous to go into the abandoned-looking building until we saw some relatively normal girls walking out, seemingly unscathed. We remained unscathed, too, though the urine smell that hung over the whole place was not to our liking. We toured another dark, dank part of Berlin when we took a Berlin Underground tour of the bunkers used by civilians during World War II. It was fascinating and I highly recommend this tour company to anyone who visits the city. Unfortunately, we weren't allowed to take pictures, so I can't show you the cool glow-in-the-dark paint, interesting, pro-Nazi propaganda, or other artifacts we saw.

The view from our hotel, of Humbolt University and cranes.

I loved our hotel. We stayed near Unter den Linden, a tree-lined street at the very center of Berlin, in the Hotel de Rome. It was both classic and modern at the same time. Our room was spacious and the bathroom won my heart immediately when I learned that it was possible to heat the floor with a little dial on the wall. Each evening, we'd return to our room to find a roaring fire playing on the TV; not quite as nice as the real thing, but still impressive.




Although I've spent a fair amount of time in Germany, I've never been there in winter. I was delighted to be able to visit the famous Christmas markets at last - there were three within walking distance of our hotel! - and to sample the warm mulled wine sold there. Ed ordered his with a shot of amaretto, a decision I envied as soon as I tasted his. Jane and Anthony have shared their Gluehwein recipe with me, and I can't wait to try making a batch of my own. When we weren't knocking back mugs of the stuff, Ed and I enjoyed browsing the stalls, where all sorts of festive foods and wares were being sold. Germans definitely get into the holiday spirit at these things, and we saw a lot of people doing a lot of swaying. The soundtrack to this experience was a pleasing blend of Christmas carols, modern German music (which is sort of a mix between polka and techno), and classics like "It's Raining Men."

Ed and I took a walk along what is left of the Berlin Wall (while Anthony and Jane cowered in a warm coffee shop nearby). It is called the East Gallery now, because artists were each invited to decorate a panel of it after the communists fell. To go along with the theme, we also visited the Stasi Museum, were we learned a bit about the police force that used to keep civilians in check in East Germany. Unfortunately, most of the panels in the museum were in German, seriously testing my deteriorating language skills, but we still enjoyed seeing the hidden cameras and microphones used by secret agents to spy on people. At the time, they must have seemed tiny, and the height of technology, but it was hard to be impressed from a modern perspective. I saw a simple microphone that was the size of a deck of cards and had to be attached by a wire to a battery device that was even bigger.



Our meals were some of my favorite parts of the trip, though I have no pictures of them. Jane and Anthony made Thanksgiving dinner for us, which, aside from a debacle with some biscuits (tasty, but somewhat diminutive in stature), was delicious. At least, I think it was. They plied with with so much tasty German beer, wine, and Gluehwein that it's hard to say whether it was great, or whether I just thought it was great. Ed treated us all to dinner at a classy Japanese restaurant, we had an unforgettable brunch at a seemingly endless buffet, we investigated the German take on Indian food (which is very similar to the American take on Indian food), and we gorged on a decadent, lengthy meal at a cozy, French restaurant. All this great food was accompanied by even greater conversation and lots of laughs.

Proest mit Gluehwein!

The trip was over all too soon, and it's rather hard to believe I'm already back in New York, at work, as though nothing happened. Still, I'm thankful to have such great people in my life, and for opportunities, however limited, to toast them with steaming mugs of heavenly Gluehwein.

Brooms Up!

IQA's logo

My friend Julia is at once the coolest, nerdiest person I know. She's smart and funny and interesting, and totally unapologetic about her love for things like Disney cartoons, Harry Potter, and show tunes. We met at Columbia, but sadly she moved to Wisconsin to work on her Ph.D. I was delighted to get an email from her a few weeks ago telling me that she'd be back in the city for the weekend and was planning to attend the annual Quidditch World Cup, hosted by the International Quidditch Association.

Ed bravely agreed to accompany me to the event, which was to take place on Roosevelt Island. We took the train to Harlem but gave up on the bus that was supposed to take us to the island after waiting in a long line for at least 25 minutes for a bus that never showed up. Thanks to the magic of GPS-enabled cell phones, we discovered that the island was quite close, and that we could walk across the bridge and be there in less time than we'd spent waiting for the bus, so we set off. It was a lovely, sunny afternoon, perfect for a stroll along a busy highway.

A young wizard photographs the car.

The World Cup was not at all what either of us was expecting, although it's probably safe to say neither of us knew what we had in mind. The event was somewhat poorly run in some ways. It took us ages to find the entrance to the fenced enclosure where the competitions were taking place because there were no signs. Food was available, but only in the form of a single waffle truck and the line was at least 75 people deep. (I wished I'd thought to bake something and try to sell it there; I'd have made a killing.) Still, I had a fantastic time. When we finally made it inside the enclosure, we were greeted by a replica - it's possible that it was the real thing, but I doubt it - of the car Harry and Ron used to fly to school in one of the movies. The size of the event was surprising. I'm not sure how many schools were there competing (most teams were affiliated with colleges) but there were at least 8 fields with teams on them at all times while other teams warmed up or watched from the sidelines. I saw a team from Canada, and Julia said that they were not the only international team in attendance.

Brooms in front of the goals, ready for the start of the game.

Fans of the series may be wondering how quidditch can be adapted for real life. (For a complete set of rules, look up "Muggle Quidditch" on Wikipedia.) The short version is that each player, regardless of which of the three positions they play, runs around with a broomstick between his/her legs. Chasers toss around a partially deflated volleyball (a quaffle) and try to throw it between one of three hoops, usually hula hoops on poles, on their end of the pitch for ten points. Beaters act as defense. They throw one of the four inflated rubber balls (bludgers) at the chasers, and once a chaser is hit, s/he has to drop the volleyball, leaving it available for another player to snatch up. Tackling is legal and happens frequently, so Ed and I were surprised to see no pads, helmets, or mouth guards, particularly in a co-ed sport! Some of the players were enormous. Beaters can break up a tackle by hitting the opposing team member with a bludger if they happen to notice what is happening, which is not always the case.

The snitch

The most interesting aspect of the game is the snitch. In the books, it is a magical golden ball with wings that zooms around the field, and a player from each team, the chaser, attempts to catch it first. The snitch in muggle quidditch is a person dressed all in yellow with a tennis ball stuffed into a sock hanging from the back waistband of his pants. He plays for neither team and is not hindered by a broomstick. His job is to be entertaining as well as quick, so he dashes on and off the field and has been known to do cartwheels, climb trees, and race into the stands to give high-fives to the audience. The chasers tail behind him, trying to run with their broomsticks getting in the way, and flailing sometimes rather pathetically at the tennis ball. The one to capture it earns a huge number of points (100? 150?) for his/her team and ends the game.

The players took the games very seriously and I was surprised to find myself whooping and cheering and gasping within minutes of the start of my first game. It was very exciting to watch.

Bendene

The action at the tournament wasn't limited to the field, either. There was a stage on which various "wizard bands" performed, and we watched a guy dressed as Snape interview the founder of the quidditch league, Alex Benede who is in his late 20's and walked around the event in a suit, scarf, and top hat, brandishing a walking stick. Other costumes were even more striking, many involving wands, replicas of attire from the movies, and flowing capes.

As the sun went down and the wind picked up, it got to be downright freezing, and so we left while the action was still in full swing. Although I am not always a trooper when it comes to cold weather, I was genuinely sorry to go. I could have watched many more games before I tired of it, and will be sure to look out for this sort of quirky, ridiculous, generally enjoyable event in the future.

Preoccupied Wall Street

I apologize for the delay in getting this up. I'd hoped to do it the same day it happened, but one thing led to another, and then another...

Last Thursday, I noticed that several helicopters were hovering around downtown. They were readily visible, and audible, from my 12th floor office and were not patrolling but simply hanging around one spot. Jeremy, our intrepid office manager, knew what was going on, and so, apparently did the rest of the world: It was the two-month anniversary of the Occupy Wall Street Movement, and the night before protesters had been very dramatically kicked out of Zucotti Park. People were angry and felt their rights were being infringed upon, and so they staged a march from Union Square (this is what the helicopters were monitoring) to City Hall. 

I had not been involved in any part of the protest before this, but it looked like the kind of big event I should at least check out, for rubbernecking purposes if nothing else. Near the end of the work day, I watched a live stream broadcast on my computer by a guy with a video camera as he marched down Broadway, narrating the experience. There were police everywhere, but so far it seemed to be pretty mellow. After work I hopped a train to Union Square and stepped out of the train to a station, then a square, swarming with cops, some in riot gear. They were patrolling stairwells or congregating next to cars, but they looked pretty calm (despite the riot gear they were wearing) and there were no protesters in sight. Apparently, the march had not taken the 9-5 crowd's schedule into account and had already moved on. 

I went back to the station to wait for the next downtown train. I wasn't exactly sure which stop I needed, as I don't frequent City Hall, but when I spotted a thin, bearded guy in proletarian work boots, holding an enormous video camera and talking to another thin, bearded guy holding a pad and pen and knew I was home free. These "journalists" were clearly going the same way I was, and all I had to do was follow them. I meandered closer and listened to their conversation from behind a pillar. They appeared to have just met, and the guy with the camera was telling his new friend all about interviews he was planning to stage with different OWS participants. The train came at last, and the three of us got on the same car. After a few stops, one of them came towards me to look at the subway map behind me. "City Hall?" I asked him. He laughed, and said, "Lucky guess." "It's the next stop," I said. "You're not going?" he asked. "Oh no, I am," I replied, and added, in response to his question, that it was my first time to be "involved with the movement." His friend started to lift his pad and pen, and I studiously busied myself with my phone. I did not want to be interviewed as the voice of the new recruits. 

The station was chaotic when we got off the train, and the chaos only intensified as we left the station. Cops were everywhere, patrolling stairwells, street corners, and barricades. I had no idea which way to walk, but my trusty GPS pointed me in the right direction. Until, that is, I arrived at a barricade. A harried-looking cop told me and a group of others trying to make their way through that the sidewalk was closed. He told us in a tone both polite and tense how to use an alternate route to get to City Hall, and so I set off in that direction. The crowds thickened as I got closer. People with signs were everywhere, and some were chanting, "Occupy Wall Street/All day,/All week," over and over. Cops lined the gutters, blocking the streets so that protesters would stay on the sidewalks and cars could still travel on the roads. (I saw no signs of the police brutality I've heard about on the news. I read this morning that the OWS movement has cost $13 million in taxes for law enforcement and other services, and it was an easy number to believe given the number of police and the amount of equipment they were using to keep the crowds somewhat contained.) The scene once I got as near to City Hall as I was likely to be able to get was charged. People were chanting, waving signs, and handing out fliers. A shrill woman's voice on a loudspeaker, being broadcast over the whole crowd and talking about the strength of the movement and Americans speaking out, competed with a guy on his own bullhorn yelling about how it was time to embrace communism. What surprised me most about the crowd was the age of its members. I had expected more young, bearded types, like the ones on the train. Instead, the average age seemed to be about 40, with plenty of Occupiers much older than that. 

The square in front of City Hall

Five minutes there were enough for me, and I headed back the way I'd come. This turned out to be a failed endeavor, because the crowd had started to march toward the Brooklyn Bridge and the entrance to the subway I'd used to get there was completely blocked. I went two extra blocks to use another line instead, relieved to be out of the mess.

I wasn't expecting to be particularly inspired, and the experience met my expectations. The reason for this, I think, echoes a criticism I've heard a lot of people raise: Occupy Wall Street has no unified statement. Each protester brings his/her own message to the movement, and while that can be sort of cool, it also means that no one is going to be able to make them all happy. I've participated in marches and demonstrations, mostly for gay rights, they felt very productive. Everyone was on the same page, and our demands were clear. This protest felt very different. It seemed to be little more than a very large collection of angry people. I heard messages about embracing communism and socialism. I saw signs about unjust immigration policies and lack of funding for post-secondary education. I was handed fliers about health care reform and campaign finance. People talked excitedly about unemployment and taxes. It was dizzying. A lot of people were unhappy about a lot of things. The thing that unified them was distain for the famous "1%." My feelings about the situation are complicated and only half-solidified, which is part of the reason I had not gone down to check out OWS before this. There are certainly a multitude of problems in the country and the government, but I'd like to see a more organized, unified method of airing them.

One of many messages

 I went straight from City Hall to the gym. There, and for the rest of the night, I did not hear mention of OWS on the subways or streets. No one seemed to be either aware or concerned about what was going on at City Hall. It was a pretty interesting experience to go from pandemonium to business as usual in a few short stops on the train. Is this a metaphor for something? I'm not sure, but I am sure I won't be adding my own sign advertising my own agenda to the throng any time soon.

Out with a Bang

My glut of author discussions has, alas, drawn to a close (for now), but it ended with a pretty phenomenal bang.  Two Pulitzer Prize-winning authors, Jennifer Egan and Jeffrey Eugenides, graced the stage of the 92^nd Street Y this week for a joint reading, and it was fantastic.

After a witty introduced by a professor from Columbia’s English department, Egan strolled onto the stage in black, flat-heeled boots and a colorful skirt topped with a purple blouse and white cardigan.  She looked like someone I’d spot tossing yogurt into a shopping cart at the grocery store.  Despite her casual appearance, she said that being at the 92^nd Street Y was pretty significant for her.  “I feel like I’ve made it to Carnegie Hall,” she said.  I had just read her Visit from the Goon Squad two weeks before, and so the first chapter, which she read aloud, was fresh in my mind.  Still, I did not find it at all repetitive because Egan prefaced the chapter by explaining her inspiration for it, and therefore the whole book.  The chapter is about a woman named Sasha who is a kleptomaniac.  While washing her hands in a hotel bathroom, she takes a wallet from an unguarded purse, launching the rest of the chapter.  Egan herself was washing her hands in a hotel bathroom when she saw a wallet sticking out of an unguarded purse.  She began to think about how someone was likely to take it, then realized that, as she was the only one in the bathroom, that someone would obviously have to be her.  This made her reflect on what it would feel like to be a thief.  She’d been the victim of theft herself but had focused only on her own experience, never considering the situation from the opposite point of view.  What’s particularly cool about this is that the first chapter was never meant to be a first chapter: it was meant to be a short story.  Egan found, though, that characters she mentioned briefly in the story intrigued her, and so she wrote other stories about them, and soon she had a whole book on her hands.  While parts of Egan’s book are dramatic, sad, or tense, this chapter was a crowd pleaser: humorous on the surface, but still poignant. 

Eugenides was introduced by the president of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, and I can say without hesitation that it was the worst introduction for an author I have ever heard.  He spoke without notes, which is fine, but ended up describing all of his books using the same adjectives (words like “brilliant” and “compelling” appeared again and again in his speech) and you could have replaced “Eugenides” with just about anyone’s name and not changed the message.  It sounded as though they'd called him ten minutes before he was to speak and asked him to get off the couch, put on a tie, and come up with an introduction, pronto.  To my immense relief, he was off the stage within two minutes and Eugenides took it.  I was prepared not to like him.  His books, while very good, are a touch strange, and I figured he’d be one of those authors to whom it was hard to listen.  His appearance matched my prediction.  He was monochromatic, in a black shirt and a suit and tie both of dark charcoal.  He is balding, and his black goatee and the hair at the sides of his head all seemed to stick out in sharp angles.  His first words were ones of apology: he had just arrived from Europe that day, and in addition to jet lag, he was recovering from a bout of food poisoning.  He said he wished the reading was not being streamed in a live webcast, then commented that this gave the term “going viral” a whole new meaning.  The audience exploded with laughter, and kept at it throughout his brilliantly deadpan reading of a selection from The Marriage Plot, his newest book.  The story was both funny and so authentic that it was difficult to believe that Eugenides had never spent time as a 20-year-old girl, so real was his protagonist.

During the Q & A, we learned that both authors have very similar philosophies when it comes to writing.  Each likes to cover completely new territory with each book, so that not only the subject matter but also the style change dramatically each time.  Egan said that this has made it hard to learn from the experiences of writing other books when she sets out to begin a new one because, in many ways, it’s like starting from the very beginning of her career each time.  Eugenides echoed this, relating that while writing his first book, The Virgin Suicides, he was focused on voice, while he concerned himself with plot during the second, Middlesex, and delved into characters while writing The Marriage Plot.  I can attest that the characters in Middlesex are quite well developed, but perhaps he did this unintentionally while focusing on plot.  

Egan: "To Beth, with gigantic good wishes!!!"

Ed and I waited in the longest line I've ever seen for a book signing. When we finally reached the front, I had a choice of going to either one, or to both; I, of course, selected the latter. Eugenides freed up first, while Egan had another line behind her about 5 people deep. I thought at first it was because he was less popular, but I discovered it was because he was simply scrawling his name, not making small talk or writing messages or even people's names. I asked him how he was feeling, and he gave me something between a smile and a grimace that made it plain he couldn't wait for this to be over. Egan, on the other hand, was downright bubbly, as evidenced by her almost middle school girl-ish message in my book. Certainly an odd couple, but a thoroughly enjoyable one, and I couldn't be happier with the end of my literary streak.

Birthday Weekend

Last fall, I attempted to hike the Sugarloaf Trail. I got off the train in the right place and headed in the right direction, but failed to find the trail head. While I enjoyed a pleasant few hours wandering back and forth along the Hudson River and admiring West Point on the opposite bank, I was disappointed that the 7-mile loop I'd planned did not come to fruition. This year, I set off on the morning of my birthday into a clear, chilly day with a set of maps and an engineer, sure that my problems were over. Things got off to a poor start when we missed the train we should have taken by minutes and had to wait an hour for the next one, though we used the time well with a quick trip to the library in Bryant Park, which Ed had never been into. Our late start meant that we did not have enough time to do the whole hike, nor even half of it, because we had to be back in the city in time to prepare for my party that evening. Still, we found the trail head and got to hike at least part of the way, and it was lovely to walk through crunchy  leaves and admire the changing leaves, cool fungi, and views. 

A hilltop "castle" that was off-limits to the public, but still very nice to look at from afar.

With old friends from Vanderbilt

Back in New York, we navigated a shopping cart through the most crowded grocery store in the world, then headed back to Ed's apartment, where he started cleaning and I started cooking. I whipped up a dill dip, then put together a rather involved layered Mediterranean dip my mom is famous for, then cleaned myself up just in time to greet my friend Michael, who was the first to arrive. I chatted with guests as they showed up while frantically making a baked brie, and Ed contributed some tomato slices topped with mozzarella and basil. The guest list was pretty diverse, and included friends from elementary school, college, Japan, and all over New York! The party was definitely a success, though not everything went quite as planned. For one thing, I asked everyone to bring either a snack/appetizer or a beverage. I think every single person with the exception of one (who contributed a bucket of delicious popcorn) brought a bottle of wine, which almost no one ended up drinking! Most of the crew stuck to cocktails, and few people made a few beer runs, which was fine with me. Ed had bought all the ingredients for making Moscow Mules - his are delicious - but by the time the simple syrup was ready, decided they were too much work. Few things spilled though, just about every bite of every snack was eaten, and we had a great time. After everyone went home, I finally had time to open gifts from my parents and grandparents, and to reply to the texts I'd been getting all day from friends and family.

I had hoped to watch part of the marathon on Sunday, but I got to the race course so late that the only people left were scattered wheelchair competitors. Whoops. Well, on the day after my birthday, I think I can be excused sleeping in a bit. It was odd to watch competitors on the sidewalks and subway throughout the rest of the day and think that next year, I'd be one of them! Instead of watching the race, Ed and I walked through Central Park for a while. It was a beautiful day, replete with typical, awesome New York sights, like a husky pulling his owner on roller blades at a full sprint. Later, we went to see Moneyball, a movie I wholeheartedly recommend, and capped the weekend off with dinner in Union Square. Altogether, a fantastic weekend. While I'm not wild about the prospect of getting older, ringing in birthdays like this make the whole thing easier to take.

Fit to Be (Black) Tied - Part 2

Hitting on Ramses.

The annual Apollo Circle Benefit took place just a few days before my birthday, and it was a great way to start my birthday weekend! To be in the Apollo Circle, one must be between the ages of 21 and 39 and donate a certain amount of money to the Metropolitan Museum each year. Ed is a member, and so was contacted about buying tickets to this year's benefit, but apparently even non-members can buy a ticket for this event as long as they fall into the right age range. Of course it is always fun to dress up, and I had never danced and drunk cocktails surrounded by ancient artifacts before, so when Ed asked me if I was interested in going, it wasn't a hard decision.

When we arrived on Thursday night, we were ushered in through the main doors of the museum. As we walked through the wing that houses artifacts from ancient Egypt, there was someone stationed every 40 or 50 feet to point us in the right direction. Initially, I thought this was very accommodating, as it is a large museum and tough to navigate, though I realized as the evening went on that having lots of hands on deck is necessary when you put a bunch of young people into a museum containing both priceless treasures and an open bar.

Apologies for the poor picture quality. It was dark.

The main event was in a room with portions of Egyptian temples lit in red (and, of course, roped off). Scenes from movies like Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Gentlemen Prefer Blondes were projected silently on one of the walls to go with the theme of the night, which had something to do with the pop art of Andy Warhol, though I didn't notice the theme anywhere else. There was a dance floor which was a giant mirror - not a good idea for those of us in short dresses until it got dirty and scuffed by dancers - and several bars with scanty hors d'oeuvres and plentiful bottles. My beverage of choice for the evening was champagne mixed with fruit compote. I tried both blueberry and peach, and liked peach more, though I was less enamored of it when an unapologetic girl next to me knocked my elbow, causing me to dump the contents of my glass down my front and onto the sleeves of two people near me. I did the best I could to dab it out of my hair and dress and switched to vodka and soda.

Despite the champagne bath, which Ed kindly said made me smell pleasantly of peaches, we had a nice time.  Several of his friends met us there, and we chatted, danced, and did a lot of people-watching. Apparently single girls in the city will do just about anything short of selling a kidney to buy a ticket to this event in hopes of meeting wealthy men. Dispersed among the roving bands of unescorted ladies, there were indeed a lot of men who appeared to be going stag. In most cases, however, their lone wolf status was not surprising. Most were short and sweetly dorky looking. When Ed and I first arrived, we watched a very short, balding man who looked like he was toeing the upper line of the age limit chatting happily to a tall, blonde bombshell who looked to be in her mid-20s. She stood on the floor and he stood on a step in front of her, making him almost eye-level for her. Throughout the evening, we caught glimpses of him, each time talking to a different woman. They seemed friendly enough and he was beaming, but I don't think fortune was favoring him too much.

As the party-goers continued to visit the bar, things started to feel a lot like a standard club. Sure, the surroundings were incredible and the clothing posh, but people were staggering around and dancing to the hip-hop soundtrack just the way they would at the bar where I used to check coats. I had expected murmured conversations about sophisticated topics over chamber music, but this turned out to be pretty far from reality. When we were about 15 minutes from the end of the event, Ed and I said our goodbyes and went to an all-night restaurant where I had macaroni and cheese.

Pre-champagne debacle

Because my boss was out of the office last week, I had made arrangements to work from home on Friday, which turned out to be a good thing as I wasn't in bed until sometime after 2:00 A.M. I woke late the next morning and spent the day working on my couch in my pajamas. My birthday weekend was off to a great start! More on that in my next post.

Out With the (Sigh) Old

With a birthday fast approaching, I'm sensitive to terminology like "old" and "outdated." I mean, age happens, and no amount of effort is going to allow one to keep up with the younger generation. Time batters, damages, and slows performance, while the newbies are sleek, fast, and sophisticated. Of course I'm not talking about myself, here. (I'm still quite a spring chicken, right? Right?!) I refer to my long-serving, faithful, hopelessly inefficient BlackBerry.

Yes friends, I am the proud owner of an iPhone 4S. This thing is so cool I don't even know where to begin. It's lightning fast. It has a great system for navigation. I can control the music on my computer from the other side of my apartment with my phone. It's gorgeous. Possibly the coolest feature, however, is Siri, the voice activation system. Now Siri isn't perfect and doesn't always know what I'm after. But I can press a button and give a command ("call Mom, mobile," or "text Dave," or "play 'Pink Floyd'") and my wish is her command. Not only this, I can dictate web searches simply by asking a question ("Is there a Banana Republic in this neighborhood?" or "What temperature should I set my oven to roast carrots?") and a Google search will be launched without my having to type a thing. Best of all, I can dictate text messages. Instead of typing, I just say what I want it to type, give the resulting words a quick proofread (a friend once dictated "I'm having brunch with Ed" to his phone, did not proofread, and ending up sending "I'm having brunch with an infant") and hit "send." The only slightly quirky thing about this is that I have to dictate punctuation if I want any. Lately, I've been saying things like, "Yes comma I know it will be crowded comma but that's the earliest I can possibly get there exclamation point," and "What question mark I thought you hadn't talked to her yet period." Still, small price to pay, as this is much faster and easier than typing.

There are obviously a lot of other cool features I could gush about, but this transition hasn't been entirely easy. I have found a company that will buy my BlackBerry and either refurbish it and donate it to a good cause or recycle its parts if it can't be reused. I mean, there is literally nothing to lose here. They will even send me free, customized instructions for wiping all my data permanently from my old phone before I send it in. And yet... It's still hard to let go. I mean, we've been together a long time. We've kind of gotten used to each other. I saved its life once after it was doused in sugary tea (which was, admittedly, totally my fault). Things between us didn't work out - if I'm being honest with myself, I knew it was a doomed relationship from the start - but I learned a lot. In a weird way, I'll miss the grainy pictures I used to take with its camera, and the way the trackball used to stick. It seemed to fit more solidly in my hand, somehow, than its younger, perkier replacement. I'm actually still using it as an alarm clock so it won't feel left out when it's the iPhone I reach for again and again. I know I'm stringing it along by prolonging this. It's only fair that I make a clean break and let it go free so it can find someone else to have a meaningful connection with. Funny that I couldn't wait to replace it, and now I can't stand to see it go. 

Breaking up is hard to do.

Trick or Treat, yo.

This time of year has always made me wonder how kids in New York cope on Halloween. Obviously my childhood memories of walking up damp sidewalks through elaborately decorated yards to ring doorbells will not be theirs. I see fliers for parties, and Ed mentioned that he had the option to add his name to a list of apartments accepting trick-or-treaters at his apartment, but my apartment had no such list. Would the kids there be able to trick or treat at all? How would they get past doormen or through locked exterior doors? What if no one in their building was home, or willing to distribute candy to hordes of children?

I got my answer yesterday while walking home along Broadway. Kids swarmed the street with their parents. I had to return a pair of earrings, and I was preceded into the small boutique by a woman escorting Spiderman and a princess. "Are you guys doing candy?" she asked a saleswoman near the front. "Sorry, we're out," the woman replied, and the mother and her kids retreated.

Back on the sidewalk a few minutes later, I saw that this process was being repeated (with better success) up and down the street as far as I could see. Families were weaving in and out of restaurants, shoe stores, and hardware suppliers. More surprising, I noted that the employees were beaming as the youngsters helped themselves to pieces of candy. This is a city in which the apparent goal of most staff is to do as little as possible. They are seriously irked when made to fulfill their basic duties. They often heave heavy sighs as I timidly lay items on the counter so that I will fully understand how inconvenient they find my business. Yet here they were, merrily greeting non-paying visitors at the doors to their establishments and handing out free candy. It all seemed a bit backwards to me, but I'm certainly not complaining. Moments that remind me of the humanity behind those icy exteriors are fleeting, but sweet.

Walking in a Spooky Wonderland

Shortly after this, the snow began to stick.

Apparently the weather took a cue from the Christmas merchandise that has been appearing in stores already and sent us some serious snow this weekend, for which few people, yours truly included, were prepared. I am happy to say that things have warmed up since and are supposed to be very pleasant this week, but Saturday was absolutely awful.  I had a pleasant day holed up my my cozy apartment with tea, but I very much regretted my costume choice when it was time to get dressed and head out for the evenings festivities. Not that I had a whole lot of choice: When your boyfriend brings you back an authentic belly dancer's costume from Turkey, you can't say no, even if you want to (which I didn't - it was spangly and glamorous). So I dressed in a skimpy, jingly skirt and top, then wrapped myself in scarves, a hat, and my warmest coat, tugged on boots and gloves, and stepped out into the blizzard.

Happily, Ed and I had decided to celebrate Halloween with Ed's friend Brad, who lives in a very fun neighborhood replete with lots of bars. Very little traipsing around would be required. I picked up Ed at his apartment, walked with him to Brad's, then spent 20 minutes warming up there before venturing outside and down the block. We hopped from place to place for a while, then set up shop in what turned out to be a very fun lesbian bar. Ed was dressed as Doc Brown from the Back to the Future movies. He had a stopwatch and a wild wig (which was actually supposed to go with a Marilyn Monroe costume) and had drawn radiation symbols on a painter's coverall and the backs of two rubber dishwashing gloves. Brad dressed as Marty McFly, also from the movies, though he missed the mark somewhat because he refused to shave. At this particular bar, my costume was the most popular of the three.



It turned out to be a mellow, very fun evening. I was chilly as we went from place to place, but generally ok once we were inside, though I think I'd have been in trouble without the flesh-colored stretch pants I picked up on a whim the day before. Next year, however, I am considering saving all costuming decisions for the morning of Halloween so that I can plan appropriately for the weather.

Fit to Be (Black) Tied - Part 1

Last night I attended the first of two black tie events I'll attend in as many weeks. This one, an awards dinner for the World Monument Fund, was held at the Plaza Hotel. The WMF is an organization that collects money and uses it to arrange for the preservation of important cultural monuments around the world. They also organize trips, lead by historians and architects, designed to expose people to some of the incredible buildings and works of art in need of protection and reconstruction. Ed's grandmother get involved in the organization in the late 1980's. Her first trip was to Cambodia immediately after the Khmer Rouge toppled. Ed described for me a photograph of his Texan grandmother standing in front of a temple, sharply dressed, elegantly coiffed, and closely followed by a tiny Cambodian personal bodyguard holding a machine gun. Everyone on the trip was required to have an armed escort back then. Far from being deterred, she maintained involvement in the WMF, which Ed's mother has taken over. Ed's been on three trips with them (China, Cambodia, and Turkey) and he says that they're great but exhausting. An expert, usually a professor or historian, accompanies them throughout the trip, giving lectures and leading them through various important sites. 

The Grand Ballroom where we had dinner. It was too dark to get a good picture, so this one is from a website. We had long tables instead of small, round ones, and there were screens set up on either side of a stage at the front of the room where we watched film clips and slideshows during dinner and the presentations.

Ed's mother provided our very expensive tickets for last night's event. She told Ed it would be a good networking opportunity. First on the agenda was a cocktail hour, where we chatted with the president of Tiffany and Co.'s outreach programming and her husband, an international journalist. Out of the corner of my eye, I kept an eye on the crowd. The room was slowly filling with women in furs and floor-length gowns and men in tuxedos. It was all very glamorous. We were told that the former secretary of the UN was wandering around somewhere, and Bill Cunningham, eminent fashion photographer for The New York Times, was darted in and out of groups of people taking pictures. Ed had predicted that we'd be the youngest people in the room. I kept spotting people who looked to be about our age, but as the evening progressed, it became clear that they were all either photographers or WMF employees. 

Marcela Pérez de Cuéllar

Dinner in the Grand Ballroom followed. The room was absolutely opulent. The Watch Award was given while we ate our salads - artful piles of beets and green beans garnished with a few olives and some sort of leafy thing. Its purpose is to honor someone remarkable for their "individual preservation advocacy and activism." Marcela Pérez de Cuéllar was the recipient. She is the former first lady of Peru and is married to the former UN secretary (which explains his presence at the cocktail hour). She was very graceful and classy.




Dinner followed. Having noted that the main course was to be beef, I flagged down a waiter, who attentively listened to my concerns and gravely told me that I needn't worry because he was going to be certain to take care of it. I got a huge piece of salmon with some sort of cabbage on the side, while everyone else cut into succulent-looking pieces of steak, a mushroom medley, and what looked like a layered piece of puff pastry. We were seated next to the head of the South American WMF division, a tiny, very nice Peruvian woman with a degree from Columbia in preservation architecture who spent the dinner trying to sell us on a trip to Peru. We talked about Africa and some of Ed's travels, as well. 

Mr. and Mrs. Lauder

The Hadrian Award was presented over dessert - pieces of a chocolate torte with raspberry puree. It recognises "international leaders who have advanced the understanding, appreciation, and preservation of the world’s art and architecture." Ronald and Jo Carole Lauder - Ronald is Estee Lauder's son - were the recipients. They were introduced by Alma Powell, otherwise known as Mrs. Colin Powell, apparently an old friend of theirs. They each gave speeches and we watched a brief film about their accomplishments. Then suddenly everything was over, so Ed and I crowded into the coat room, then an ornate elevator, and went to the after party. It was held at a Peruvian restaurant called La Mar, which, we were told, has fantastic ceviche. We tried to order martinis but were handed sour, frothy Peruvian cocktails instead. There were a few representatives from the dinner at the restaurant, but mostly it was a younger crowd. After some obligatory mingling, we decided to call it a night.


It was an interesting and enjoyable evening. I have certainly never before had the chance to rub elbows with so many of New York's elite, and in the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza no less. And of course it is always fun to get dressed up. I was sorry that we didn't get to meet more people because of our table assignments for dinner, but I'm not sure what I would have found to talk about with most of the crowd anyway. Next Thursday, Ed and I are going to a formal event at the Metropolitan Museum. A friend of his is coming with a date, so already we know more people going into it than we did for the WMF gala, and it should be a younger crowd in general. Aside from that, there's something enormously appealing about getting donning formal wear and sipping cocktails in a museum.

Old Favorites and New Additions

My orgy of author talks is almost over - I have only one more, a reading by Jennifer Egan and Jeffrey Eugenides left - and there were some surprises along the way. I bought tickets to see Michael Ondaatje and Geraldine Brooks, and it just so happened that each was paired with another author with whom I was unfamiliar. I enjoyed both new authors immensely, and as a result have added yet more books to my ever-growing To-Read list. Ah well, there are worse fates.

I saw Michael Ondaatje and Ann Enright first. I like Ondaatje very much, though he generally makes me feel rather guilty. His books, the most famous of which is The English Patient, are sumptuous but require just about undivided attention to really appreciate. These days, I read on the crowded subway, swaying buses, and public benches, and while I was able to relish the ravishing, symbolic imagery at the end of Divisadero, I know I missed a lot leading up to it. Ondaatje has wild, white hair that sticks up in clumps above a neat white beard. He wore a tweed suit over a light blue shirt with no tie, and donned a pair of glasses to read from The Cat's Table, a partially autobiographical book he has just published. (He noted that, in contrast with the main character's vivid account of a long voyage, he recalls only playing ping pong when he made the same voyage as a boy.) Ondaatje was a splendid reader, largely because of his sonorous, lightly accented voice, and the audience sat stock still as he spoke, stirring only between readings. His affect was a bit flat, however, and I had no more sense of his personality as he left the stage than I did when he walked onto it.

Ann Enright, on the other hand, who preceded Ondaatje, is someone I'd like to invite over for a cup of tea. Enright won a Man Booker Prize for The Gathering. She wore a severe black dress, accented by a glint of gold around her neck, and though her voice was tough, she twinkled with the kind of black humor I've come to expect and enjoy from the Irish. She read two chapters from her new Forgotten Waltz, standing on one foot at times and balancing on the heel of the other sensible black pump. During the Q & A that followed the readings, she breezily declared that a character's likability was not something that bothered her much, and I believe it. She seems quite comfortable in her own skin.

I had the thrill of seeing Geraldine Brooks, one of my all-time favorites, not once but twice. At Symphony Space, she spoke about making choices for the 2011 collection of Best American Short Stories, of which she was this year's editor. (Each year, a different "celebrity" author is chosen to select the 20 best short stories of the year.) This was one of the best literary events I've attended. Brooks talked about the physical longing she felt as she received packets of short stories to review, stating that literature should always make you feel as though you can't wait another instant to dive in. Three actors read stories from the collection, and they were, of course, superb. I got to see her again at the 92nd Street Y two weeks later, where she focused on her own work. Brooks was introduced by a spunky foreign correspondent for NPR named Jacki Lydon. She and Brooks became friends through a series of experiences working as journalists in the kinds of countries most people pointedly avoid. Ed, having heard her on the radio for years, commented that it was nice to put a face with a voice. She is short, with a dyed, exuberant bob, and introduced Brooks in a voice brimming with drama. I found myself liking her very much. Brooks, in contrast, was soft-spoken. She said she wasn't very good at reading, that she'd rather just "blather on," and at first I didn't much care for her reading style, to be honest. But it grew on me as she went, probably in part because I was, as I always am with her work, totally sucked into the story within the first few sentences. I'm aching to start reading her latest, Caleb's Crossing, though I'm reluctant to read my own signed copy because I want to keep it pristine, and the wait list at the library is long.

I knew little about Alan Hollinghurst, and decided not to read any of his books after learning a bit about them. The descriptions failed to grab me, somehow. Like Enright, however, I'm far more interested in him now that I've heard him read. He is tall and thin, with the kind of sophisticated accent you get from attending all the right schools and moving in all the right social circles in London. As a gay man, he writes about gay protagonists, so his work, while lauded by critics, appeals mostly to a niche market. Still, he won a Man Booker Prize for The Line of Beauty. He read to us from The Stranger's Child, and to my surprise I found myself swept away in the narrative. I've decided to put him on my list as well, though I'm not sure which title I'll look for first.

The Q & A afterwards was, as it almost always is, fascinating. Brooks said she imbues her work with "the heat of the past" by spending a great deal of time trying to use the kind of language people would actually have used to name and describe things, and since her books are mostly told in first person, this requires quite a bit of research, I imagine. Hollinghurst says that his secret is treating the past as if it were the present, and allowing his characters' emotions and personal dramas to be just as valid as those of people today. Brooks said she does not "entertain writer's block" and that she writes every single day, even when it feels like hefting huge stones. She is full of ideas for additional books, though - she is the type who is interested in everything - and she likened trying to choose one to being an air traffic controller at La Guardia trying to decide which of the circling planes to flag down. Hollinghurst, eyeing her a bit suspiciously, sardonically countered that for him, it is more often like scanning a starkly empty horizon.

Signed books from Ondaatje and Brooks

The weather today is gloomy and wet. While I hate to see summer go, it's pleasant to think about a winter spent in my cozy apartment with one of the many, many books I keep adding to my to-read list, which, if I keep attending these sorts of events, I will surely never live long enough to see the end of. I am thrilled to have this problem.