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.

Enlightened, but Chilly, at Head of the Charles

Ed was quite a competitive rower in and after college. As I know nothing about rowing, I suggested several weeks ago that we go to Boston to watch the Head of the Charles regatta so he could show me the ropes. He happily agreed, having not been to the event since he used to row in it in 2003, and so we met at the bus stop after I finished work last Friday and set off.

Riverside

The first races Ed was interested in seeing Saturday weren't until the afternoon, so we had a leisurely brunch during which Ed taught me about rowing versus sculling (in sculling, each rower has two oars, whereas they use only one oar in rowing) and all the different events we'd be seeing. As nearly always happens, I was fascinated by all the intricacies of a topic I'd scarcely thought twice about before. We got to the river early and started walking upstream to the Riverside Boathouse, where Ed used to be a member when he lived in Boston. Along the way, we stopped at a particularly interesting point in the course where there was a fairly sharp bend followed nearly immediately by a bridge. Ed explained that the coxswain (pronounced "cocksun"), the lightweight person whose sole job it is to call encouragement and navigation information to the rowers, was responsible for their taking the turn efficiently and effectively by instructing the rowers to pull harder on one side at just the right time. The coxswain controls the rudder, but using it creates drag, which slows the boat and is best avoided. We watched several teams of eight women attempt to take the turn. The first made a smooth turn and sailed right through the center pilings of the bridge, and I suspected that Ed was making a bigger deal out of this than was necessary. Following teams had more difficulty however, among them a boat that nearly hit the piling, two that clashed oars as they fought for position under the bridge, and one boat that had to stop almost completely, turn, then continue on. Ed was right. Again.

The boathouse, once we arrived, was a bit spartan. The lower level was filled with racks of boats and oars stored in easy access to the floating dock, and the upper level featured an erg room with a few weights, a balcony, and little else. We stood on the dock to watch the race, and Ed ran into a few people he used to row with and exchanged pleasantries. We spent several hours watching boats skim by, and Ed told me all about the reputations of the different teams and what constituted good form. It was surprisingly engaging (bear in mind that this comment comes from someone who enjoys watching distance running), though I was pleased when it was time to go because I was absolutely freezing. Standing still by the water for a few hours had driven the feeling from my fingers and toes. After I'd thawed out, we went to a bar to catch up with a few of Ed's rowing friends, where I met several Olympic medalists, one of whom had won the gold; now she coaches rowing at Michigan. They were a fun, raucous, very tall bunch.

Spirited dogs wearing Riverside colors

Boats waiting to cross the starting line.

My friend Mike joined us the next morning, and we spent a few minutes standing at the start of the race. The boats start at 10-second intervals and so the winner is determined based on whose time is fastest, not who crosses the finish line first (though there is a lot of passing during the race). We saw several crews dressed in costumes, one of which seemed to have a video game theme (Mario, Luigi, Batman...) and one of which was outfitted in different kinds of wings. We eventually took a much-needed coffee break, during which Ed and Mike chatted about engineering and I fantasized about climbing into my cup and floating around in the scalding coffee.

All in all, it was a great weekend. I got to learn a lot of new things about a sport I was barely aware of before, and one that was a huge part of Ed's life. Still, I hope the next rowing event I attend is during summer.

Underwhelmed: The Movie

Disclaimer: I'm going to be intentionally vague in the following post to protect the innocent. If you're interested in specifics, I'm happy to pass them on to you; I'd just rather not publish anything too damning for all to see.

The Friar's Club held their third annual Comedy Film Festival this past week, and Ed and I were invited to go to one of the films. I knew little about it, but was interested because a) it was going to be at the Friar's Club, and b) having attended Sundance, I wondered what another film festival would be like. There are film festivals just about every week in this city it seems, and it's becoming increasingly meaningless to have your movie featured at one; my friend Adelle, who is in the fashion industry and knows nothing about movies beyond the fact that it's a good idea to eat popcorn while watching one, told me recently that she and some friends are planning to create a film festival in San Francisco in 2012. Adelle is a smart, capable, very cool person, but the fact that she's planning an event like this illustrates my point well: just because your film is picked for a festival doesn't mean it's any good. This, however, was the Friar's Club, and not amateur hour. The film we were going to see had been featured at several other film festivals, even winning some, but I'd heard mixed reviews.

It was not until Saturday that I learned that we wouldn't actually be watching the film at the Friar's Club, though Ed attempted to console me by pointing out that we'd be right next door. Hmph. The theater was tiny - I'd guess it couldn't/shouldn't have held more than 60 people - but it was quite luxurious. We sat on long couches arranged on tiers, though those who arrived later than we did had to make due with benches arranged along the aisles. It ended up being  a full house, and I was very glad the theater did not burst into flames during the movie.

The crowd was pretty interesting. There were a lot of young people in ripped jeans with scraggly beards and backpacks who looked like products of film school. There were also lots of older women with bleached hair, daring clothes, and too much eye make-up. According to the directors' talk after the movie, quite a few actors from the film were in the crowd, though Ed and I didn't recognize anyone.

The film was preceded by a short called Mr. Bear. The volume was too low for first 45 seconds, so the crew restarted it, overcompensating so that it was almost painful. Despite the blaring soundtrack, both Ed and I really enjoyed Mr. Bear, a very dark comedy about mistaken identity. There's not much of a market for short films, though the more I see, the more I find that I really like them. The crew seemed to have figured out the volume by the time the feature film began, which was a relief.

I had proctored the PSAT earlier that day, which meant getting up quite early after what had been a late night. Ed was given the assignment of poking me if I nodded off (we were in the front row) but apparently I was pretty subtle about it when I did, because I lost somewhere between five and ten minutes of the film before he noticed and nudged me awake. Unfortunately, it seemed to have been a very critical five to ten minutes, because things didn't make a whole lot of sense after I'd regained consciousness.

The film was just ok. There were a lot of parts that were clearly meant to be funny that weren't really, and there was a fair amount of unrealistic dialogue, which is something I can't stand, though I'm never sure whether the writer or the actor is to blame. Later, when talking with one of the directors/writers, I couldn't bring myself to lie outright, though I tried to sound positive; for example, when she mentioned that one of her professors from film school had come to the screening, I commented that it must be great for her professor to see that two of her former students had made such a successful movie. I'm not sure how well I pulled it off, but I tried.

Andres Rosende of Mr. Bear

The Friar's Club Film Society has one of the more poorly-designed websites I've tried to navigate. The award ceremony was Sunday night, and this morning I spent ten minutes trying to figure out who won before giving up. The closest I was able to come to an answer was a slideshow posted by WireImage. In it, the writer/director of Mr. Bear is holding an award, as are several other people. The writers/directors of the film I saw are not in the slideshow. I have no idea what the guy from Mr. Bear won, if anything, or whether he was just holding the award for a friend for a minute when the photographer happened to snap a shot (there was no caption). I think I'd have heard if the film I saw received any awards, though. I was able to learn that, for $35 a year, I can be a member of the Friar's Film Society. I think I'll put that money toward my Sundance package instead.