Drill, Baby, Drill

During my days as an impoverished graduate student, my dental care consisted solely of brushings with worn-out toothbrushes and a bi-annual floss. Now that I am gainfully employed, however, I took advantage of the dental insurance provided by my company to go in for a cleaning.

I'd had a cleaning done about six months before this because I got a great deal from one of those daily coupon promotions. The lady was primarily a cosmetic dentist, but I figured a cleaning was a cleaning. She detected several cavities and receding gums and recommended nearly $10,000 worth of orthodontia. Yikes. Back in Visalia, I'd go to dentists who were also family friends and were trustworthy; this was the first time I'd ever had cause to doubt a medical professional. It was odd thinking that the same practices one must watch out for at the mechanic were in practice here.  (Do I REALLY need a new carburetor? What the hell IS a carburetor?)

Per Ed's recommendation, I went to zocdoc.com to find a doctor and dentist. This website is great: You enter your address and what you're looking for and you can view a page of doctors near you, each doctor's credentials, reviews from patients who have visited, etc. (Zocdoc will also call you to apologize if your appointment has to be changed and offer you a $15 Amazon gift card. This has happened to me twice, and I'm always secretly glad to be thus "inconvenienced.") My dentist turned out to be wonderful, and I liked him and his whole staff very much even after they broke the news that I had four cavities, one of which was huge and all of which needed attention.

I left work an hour and a half early yesterday to get this done. Their office, like many doctors/dentists who have private practices in New York, is not only in an apartment building, it is actually a rented apartment unit! They've artfully covered up the bathtub with some sliding wood panels and, I assume, gotten rid of the kitchen appliances, because it looks pretty much like an office, though it's funny getting one's teeth filled in what was meant to be a bedroom.

I'm never eating another Jolly Rancher...

I required double anesthesia on one side and was numbed in a total of three places. The procedure was unpleasant, but not painful (well, not really). I ended up being spectacularly numb in some areas, a numbness that lingered for more than 7 hours afterward; on the left, the side that needed two shots, I couldn't feel anything from the tip of my chin to just under my eye. In most places, you can leave the dentists and go right into the privacy of your car, where you can drool to your heart's content. I, however, had to walk through the lobby of the building, where an old woman cheerfully asked me if it was still raining. "I own oh, I havva bun ou'ide," I replied, and she walked away looking disconcerted. I had 10 blocks to walk after that, and I used a paper towel to dab at my lips every half block or so, just to be sure I wasn't making a scene. Pre-appointment, I'd optimistically thought of some errands I could do on the way home and made a to-do list of chores around the apartment for the evening. Fat chance. This was clearly not the time to go buy a new circular knitting needle from Michael's. Instead, I read trashy magazines at home and watched an entire season of Breaking Bad. I am resolved to brush much more thoroughly from now on.

Oh My God Oh My God Seamus Heaney!

The 92nd Street Y started off their 2011/2012 literature season with a bang by lining up Seamus Heaney as their first speaker. Though the place ended up being virtually sold out, I must have been one of the first to leap on the opportunity to buy a ticket because I was in the very front row, providing me an unobstructed view of the underside of Heaney's chin as he towered above me onstage. (Really, it was awesome being that close.) I have seen some very accomplished authors speak, but this may be the first time I've seen someone so truly legendary. I first read his work because it was in one of those anthologies you have to buy for poetry classes in college that collect all of the significant poetry written in the last 300 years in one volume, and his work was there alongside that of Donne, Milton, Dickinson, Tennyson... Heaney won the Nobel Prize in Literature, the Golden Wreath of Poetry, the T.S. Eliot Prize, and two Witbread prizes, and served as Professor of Poetry at Harvard and Oxford, among other accomplishments too numerous to list here. Also, he was on a STAMP. How cool is that?

Heaney spoke at the Y forty years ago, and they were delighted to have him back. After a flowery introduction by a sprightly, bald poet named Atsuro Riley, Heaney slowly plodded onto the stage. He has tufts of cotton-y hair and wore glasses with rectangular glasses, a striped blazer, and slacks with a perfect crease ironed into them. He spoke, of course, with a delicious brogue that made his poems even lovelier, and unlike the effusive Riley, his language was simple and streamlined. Mostly, particularly when reading his older work, he barely looked down at the text, gazing out into the audience and reciting with perfect smoothness lines he must have said hundreds of times. He read his newer work from a trembling book, and his hands shook as well when he paused to take sips of water; he had a stroke a few years ago, and though he said he's recovered very well, I get the sense that it has slowed him down some. He cracked jokes about esoteric things like iambic pentameter that made his literary audience hoot in a way I can't imagine most crowds would.

Heaney preceded each poem he read with a brief story about how it came to be written or an explanation of a term or figure featured in the poem, which I really enjoyed. It is amazing how much of a backstory there can be to a single phrase. After each poem, however, he took enough time for a breath or two and then plowed into the next one; I'd have appreciated a few moments to savor the last poem before he began a new one. Still, hearing him read his own work was a wonderful experience.

I sat next to two old men who spent the 20 minutes before the reading excitedly passing a book of Heaney's poems back and forth. An old woman behind me let out a "hmmm" after virtually every line Heaney said/read, varying length or the emphasis to fit her reaction; amazing how she was able to express surprise, affirmation, suspense, and pleasure with a single sound, while managing to be consistently irritating all the while. The rest of the audience was vocal as well (though not so frequently). After a particularly poignant line, the place would suddenly seem to vibrate as everyone in the audience murmured "mmmm," in unison. They may have been thoughtful about his work, but many of them were not thoughtful about their behavior. I heard 7 cell phones go off during the performance. (After the third ring, I started keeping a tally).

I was disappointed that Heaney did not sign books afterwards, but he did look pretty beat as he wandered off the stage. (The poor man is 72, after all, though he looked older.) Still, having the opportunity to hearhim read his own work was unforgettable, so perhaps I don't need a souvenir after all.

Meeting Alexandra Fuller

(I must write about my parents' visit, but I have yet to transfer pictures from my camera to my computer. Soon!)

I recently devoured a book called Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight by Alexandra Fuller, a woman who was born in England but moved to Africa shortly thereafter and grew up in various south African countries as her family hopped from farm to farm. I was pleased to learn that she would be speaking at Barnes and Noble for two reasons: 1) I thought the book, a memoir about her childhood, was well-written and fascinating, and 2) author talks at Barnes and Noble are free. I purchased a copy of the book - unfortunately not in paperback yet - from Amazon in preparation. I was surprised by how many people attended. There was quite a crowd to see Sebastian Junger, but he's, well, Sebastian Junger. I figured fewer people would have heard of Fuller. I learned about her books only recently when a friend happened to recommend her, but apparently I was late to the game. The place was packed.

Fuller lives in Montana now. She is short, slender, and has a sort of outgrown bob haircut that manages to be both stylish and casual, and which she musses while she talks. She was dressed, again, simply but fashionably in a plain white button-down blouse with several flow-y scarves and cardigans wrapped around various parts of her. Her accent is absolutely fantastic, a delightful mix of South African and English, and she seems to have inherited the British affection for gallows humor, too. She did some fantastic impressions of her mother, too. (Obviously, I've never met her mother and have no idea how accurate Fuller was, but I certainly enjoyed it.) And she talked about her mother a lot, because her new book, Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness, is about her mother's life. After reading Dogs, her mother accused Fuller of having no idea who she was, and Fuller realized she was right. She recommends that everyone interview their mother; she said that, like having whooping cough, it was not enjoyable, but that it was an invaluable experience. Fuller did this over the course of a few months, and she said it was remarkably difficult to listen like an author, not like a daughter, and to avoid the pitfalls of judgement or even compassion.

Fuller's mother and a friend!

She read several excerpts from the book. It's tone is similar to that of Dogs, and I was interested to discover that both books are meant to be humorous, albeit darkly so. Fuller's mother was not an easy woman to live with and was often cruel, often unintentionally which makes it even worse somehow, to her children. (She had an extremely difficult life, so it was easy to empathize with and even like her at times.) However, it was clear from listening to Fuller read and discuss that she harbors no hard feelings. How I'd love to meet her! Fuller says that her own daughter went to stay with her grandmother in Africa for a while, and when she returned, exclaimed, "My God, you underwrote that woman!" Hard to believe, because she comes across larger than life in Dogs.. Fuller's mother has a weakness for animals, but otherwise, she's tough as nails. Fuller told about how her mother was attacked by a swarm of African bees, and that her only comment when regarding her swollen face in the mirror afterward was that her wrinkles had vanished, and that she wished she could get the bees to sting the other side so she could take full advantage of "nature's Botox." In a scene from the new book, she dresses her children in costumes for a party, then collects her lipstick, sunglasses, and Uzi to head out the door. Fuller, in her bulky costume, wouldn't fit in the cab of the landmine-proof Land Rover, so her mother tossed her into the trunk. Years later, it occurred to Fuller that the trunk of this Land Rover was NOT landmine-proof, and she confronted her mother about it. "Yes, I knew that," her mother replied, "and if I'd known you were going to grow up to write all these horrible books, I'd have aimed for one." Fuller says her mother is much better parent to a woman in her 40's than she ever was to a child, and the two seem to have an easy-going relationship, filled with the kind of humor Fuller learned to appreciate as she grew older. I can't wait to read this book!

The latest in the collection

Like most authors I've seen, Fuller was remarkably articulate. Each sentence, even answers to audience questions, sounded as though she had pre-written it, thinking carefully about syntax, rhythm, and cadence. She was anything but stuffy, though; in one of the excerpts she read for us, her mother sings a few lines from a song, and Fuller cheerfully sang them for us without a hint of self-consciousness. While signing books after the talk, she looked everyone in the eye, listening patiently to everyone's personal stories about Africa. I'm thrilled that I got to go see her funny, insightful presentation, and I can't wait to read her new book! I heard good things from other people in the signing line about another of her books, Scribbling the Cat, also. Another one for the list!

In the Presence of Genius, Once Removed

This morning I overheard a conversation between two friends who ran into each other on the train. "We got some exciting news last night," one started, then told her friend about how she'd been awakened at midnight by a phone call from someone named Francisco telling her that he'd been awarded a MacArthur Genius award! The John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, a name you will be able to recite in your sleep if you listen to a lot of NPR because it donates so much money, chooses 22 people each year to receive the award. They've been doing it since 1981 and have given the $500,000 award to 850 people, which is pretty amazing. They choose a wide variety, including scientists, poets, and in the case of Francisco (full name, Francisco Nunez, according to the New York Times), musicians. Apparently he is a conductor, composer and pianist, as well as being the founder and artistic director of the Young People's Chorus of NYC. The money is paid out over five years and there are no strings attached, meaning that it's simply a reward for doing great things. The woman said that Francisco had found out several days before, but was not allowed to tell anyone before midnight last night. She was on her way to their office where there was a party planned to celebrate.

These are the sort of encounters (well, sort of encounters) that keep me in a constant state of awe of how this city is simply bursting at the seams with talent. Perhaps it's the result of growing up in a small town, but great people doing great things have always seemed very remote. Yet I was literally two feet away from a woman who is involved in an organization worthy of a MacArthur grant. (She must be no slouch, herself.) For all I know, Nunez himself was riding in the next car! I have seen my share of famous, recognizable faces, but knowing that there are people all around me who I wouldn't necessarily recognize but who still impact the world in a huge way is incredible. More and more I get the sense that they are everywhere!

(Another winner was Jad Abumrad, host of one of my favorite podcasts, Radiolab, which is about science and is surprisingly accessible. I can't recommend it highly enough!)

Too Happy to be a Native

There is a park that follows the Hudson River all the way along the western shore of Manhattan. Even in the dead of winter when I was training for the marathon, its paths, though lined with snowdrifts, were hugely popular among bikers, joggers, and walkers. In theory, there are two paths, one for those on foot  and one for those on bikes and roller blades; this is designated by figures painted on the asphalt and gives you an idea of how long it's been since those figures were painted there. (Roller bladers? Really?) I say "in theory" because while walkers tend to stay off the biking path, it is the stomping ground of just as many bikers as runners. The runners generally keep to the outer edges leaving plenty of space down the middle, so there is little conflict.

The southern part of the path

Farther north

The other day, Ed and I were nearing the end of a 6-ish mile run along the path. We had just passed another twosome jogging in the same direction we were when a middle-aged woman came cycling by. "This path is for bikers!" she yelled as she passed. Ed joined the two runners behind us in calling very sarcastic thank-yous after her, and I could hear continued muttering behind us from the disgruntled joggers as we pulled away from them. I burst out laughing, because only in New York will you get told off for pointing out a rule that is absolutely correct. This woman was right: We weren't supposed to be on that path. But that didn't stop all four of us from being seriously annoyed that she had the nerve to point this out. Several times now, someone has asked me where I'm originally from, nodding as I tell them and explaining that they knew I was "too nice" or "too happy" to be a native.

I'm slowly assimilating, though. This morning I crossed the street with the signal and found myself playing chicken with a station wagon. It was intent on making a right turn across the crosswalk, and I was intent on not letting it, since it was clearly my turn. It slowed, and when the woman behind the wheel realized that I wasn't going to back down, she stopped the car and waved magnanimously at me, as though she were doing me a huge favor. I gave her a cold little smile and terse wave of my own. I'm sure she narrowed her eyes behind her sunglasses at the same rate as I narrowed my eyes behind my own, as we "smiled" at each other and went on our way. This city can make the most common of courtesies extended to strangers feel like grand gestures. It's not that people are outright rude, it's just that they can't seem to be bothered to be nice. Does this bother me? Fugghetaboutit, I'm too busy staring down cab drivers to think about it.

The Cloisters

The ornamental garden on the upper level

Ed and I had been trying to go the Cloisters for a few months, but something always came up. Generally that something was rain, and as the Cloisters are said to be situated in lovely gardens, we always considered this good reason to wait until the next opportunity. Saturday, however, dawned clear and sunny, and after brunch we headed north on the A train.

The functional garden

The Cloisters is a branch of the Metropolitan Museum that houses much of their Medieval collection. Situated in a park just as pretty as I'd heard, the surrounding area also has clear views of the (admittedly muddy) Hudson River. (I was quite impressed by the park we walked through to get to the building itself, though Ed lamented that the flowers had been much nicer a few months before.) As the  name suggests, the Cloisters is modeled after a Medieval monastery. It is made of stone from local quarries but supplemented by windows, doorways, arches, and other historic, architectural features imported from ancient European buildings (which were, I hope, slated for destruction anyway). There are two levels, each of which has access to a fetching garden: an ornamental one for flowers, and a functional one featuring the herbs, vegetables, and fruit trees that monks from the period would have grown.

Chapel, partly built from imported stone

Ed and I admired tapestries, triptychs, stained glass windows, statues, and ancient books of hours (whatever that means) and other religious verse. There was even a reconstructed chapel. The Cloisters, fittingly, features religious artifacts instead of everyday objects/art from this period; though as art was limited to religious themes during the Middle Ages, there wouldn't have been much to show even if they had been interested in presenting a more complete picture of Medieval life. Having read Pillars of the Earth somewhat recently, the trip was all the more fascinating.

Though getting to and finding the Cloisters is something of a struggle, I would highly recommend it to anyone looking for an out-of-the-box museum experience. Rather than the claustrophobic experience of most New York museum trips - no matter how large the rooms, they are always crammed with too many groups of tourists and school children talking too loudly - the Cloisters was peaceful and felt almost like a day trip to somewhere far away.

9/11 Reflections

As soon as I was out of the shower on Sunday, I found myself glued to the TV, half expecting to see breaking news about some catastrophic event in New York or Washington, DC. MSNBC was replaying their coverage of 9/11/01, and I found myself watching it for more than half an hour, caught up in remembering what it was like to watch that for the first time ten years ago. It was strange to listen to the news anchors speculate about what was going on; it's hard to imagine a time when we didn't know. I did not expect to be as moved as I was, remembering the confusion and bewilderment of that morning. I had an 8:00 class at Vanderbilt, and when I left my dorm the first plane had just hit. Someone mentioned this in the hallway, and I hardly paused on my way to class, blearily dismissing it as an unfortunate accident. When I returned an hour and a half later, the situation had changed dramatically. A girl on my hall, an only child, was from New York, and both of her parents worked in the financial district. I can still hear the mixture of hysteria and relief in her voice when she finally got through to her mother after 45 minutes of dialing and redialing and learned that both of her parents were safe. The confident, competent young woman I'd come to know dissolved as she sobbed into the phone, pleading with her mother to make it all make sense. It was an explanation that nobody could give.

If you hadn't turned on a TV or seen a newspaper, you'd almost have had no idea that Sunday was a significant day in New York. People shopped, went to restaurants, and took public transportation as usual. There didn't seem to be any tension in the air at all. Minus the media, however, there were reminders. In the afternoon, I accompanied Ed to B&H Camera to look for a lens cap. As we waited, an employee remarked to a fellow worker that this was a very special day for him. "What, is it your birthday?" asked the second. "No," replied the first, "on this day, ten years ago, I almost lost my life." (He seemed to have rehearsed this line.) He told about how the train he rode to work had been running late that morning and therefore missed being crushed.

Life in New York is my reality now, and this makes the attacks ten years ago feel much more real than they did before. Watching all this from Nashville, it felt almost like a movie. It was hard to imagine what it must have been like to be here that day. But on Sunday, as I listened to witnesses describing what they saw as they walked to work, I realized that not only did I know all of the streets they were describing, that this was now the geography that makes up my life. I know what it's like to emerge from the subway station into crowded streets for another work day. I know just how long it takes to evacuate your building from a high floor, using a seemingly endless, spiraling stairwell, and how your head begins to spin after just a few flights, and how the sense of panic when you don't know what's happening can magnify this. Everyone I work with and many people I socialize with were in the city on September 11th; in fact as soon as my boss, who is an MD, heard that there was a fire at the WTC, he hurried from a meeting at the NYU hospital to the site to help treat the people who made it out alive; on a shelf in his office is the hard hat that he was issued during the days he volunteered. (Read a full account of his experiences here.)

I did not visit the memorial site yesterday. Even if I'd had the opportunity to get one of the tickets for the ceremony, part of me felt that it would be ridiculous to take that kind of risk needlessly - it seemed a likely target. Another part of me felt like an outsider: I wasn't there when it happened and have no personal connection to what happened. But I will certainly visit it in the near future, and my reflections will have a new significance when I do.

Memorial site

September 9th, 2011

At the WTC site

It seems that we have recovered from the last wave of warnings just in time to brace ourselves for the next one. Hurricane Irene was preceded with lots of prodding from the media to be prepared for the worst, and the worst never came. Now, with the ten-year anniversary of September 11th on the horizon, people in the city, myself included, are debating just how careful we need to be. NYPD has called in reinforcements from the National Guard and will be working overtime this weekend, patrolling potential targets like the World Trade Center site and transportation hubs. Apparently they are also searching cars, leading bomb-sniffing dogs around the city, and waving radiation-detecting wands at people. This is the force that successfully thwarted the plan to car-bomb Times Square a few months ago, so it seems that, in at least some ways, they know what they're doing. This is sort of comforting, but I am still a bit edgy.

I am not alone; people everywhere seem similarly unsure of just what to do. Mayor Bloomberg has advised everyone to carry on as usual, but to be especially vigilant. I am unsure of how to handle things. Ed has volunteered to give me cab money for the weekend because he thinks I should stay away from the subway. (This from a guy who has decided to fly to London on the 11th...)

BUT

Some people will be avoiding Manhattan, or at the very least steering clear of places downtown that could be dangerous. I can understand that inclination, but on the other hand, it's going to be a pretty significant time to be in New York, and I'd like to be a part of it. I'd feel pretty silly sitting in my apartment all day - which is pretty far away from landmarks important enough to attract negative attention - if it turned out that nothing happened. However, it also seems stupid to take unnecessary risks. So what's my strategy? Well, I'm undecided at this point. But whatever I do, I'll be crossing my fingers that, like Irene, the city ends up over-preparing for an empty threat.

Phew. I faced fewer of these situations when I lived in Visalia.