Snowshoeing Adventure

My friend Michael found coupons for an outdoor excursion company that organizes snowshoeing trips and several of my friends and I purchased tickets right away. I've always wanted to go snowshoeing and had been dying to get outside. Really outside. I walk to and from work every morning and jog to the gym, but none of this feels like it counts. I wanted to see trees that weren't surrounded by slabs of concrete and birds that weren't pigeons. This is daily life in New York, but somehow it feels even more urban in winter, so I was very excited for this trip. After eagerly gathering all my ski gear the night before (we were told it would rain so I wore waterproof clothes, though thank goodness it never did), I met the van near Penn Station early on Sunday morning and we drove north for a little over an hour to a national park called Harriman. Our guide, Vaughn, showed us how to strap on our snowshoes and gave us about 45 seconds worth of instruction and we were off. It seemed like a rather skimpy introduction, but it turns out there's not much to snowshoeing - at least not in the conditions we faced.

The second peak,

Snowshoeing, I am told, is a very rigorous activity under normal circumstances. This has been a warm, relatively snowless winter, however, and so instead of facing drifts of fluffy snow we set out over trails made icy with packed snow and thin coverage. The metal teeth on the bottom of the shoes turned out to be great for digging into slick surfaces, allowing us to ascend and descend steep, icy areas with ease. I did not like having to step over lots and lots of rocks, however, which wasn't easy with the large, cumbersome plastic frames. Apparently this isn't really a factor in traditional snowshoeing because all of these hazards are covered up. But taking into consideration solely the amount of energy expended, we had an easier time of it than most snowshoers because we didn't have to maneuver through thick snow. Also, we did not have to install fins on the back of the shoes that you usually need for extra flotation, so our feet (which still felt pretty large to me) were smaller than they'd have ordinarily been.

Once I got the hang of the shoes, I turned my attention to the sublime scenery. Other than the sound of our walking--which was often pretty loud as we clattered over ice and rocks--it was still and peaceful. We started by a large lake and encountered lots of little brooks as we walked. For a Californian whose main experience with snow has been on groomed ski runs, the winter woods were magical. I loved the way the drifts extended over the pools of water, and the ice crystals on the pine needles were almost ethereally lovely. 

Our route zigged on and off a trail; we aimed for ice and snow to skip the bare patches. We climbed two "peaks" during the day and had lunch on the first one; although they weren't exactly precipitous, they did provide us with a nice view of the rolling hills and, from the second peak, the lake.

We spotted deer all over the place. I suppose they're used to people being nearby, because while they didn't exactly let us pet them, they weren't nearly as skittish as I'd have expected and didn't bolt until we were relatively close. We spotted lots of deer tracks as well as subtler bird tracks and imprints that were probably made by dogs, though we imagined we were seeing the trails of snow leopards. We ran into other hikers three times during the day, two of whom were accompanied by ecstatic dogs who bounded from one person to the next, seemingly deliriously happy to find more people sharing this enchanted space. Our greetings were always perfunctory, however, as they couldn't wait to charge back into the woods to continue exploring. We were the only ones in snowshoes; other hikers wore YakTrax-like chains that wrapped neatly around their boots to give them traction in the snow.

Our group consisted of seventeen people, though it felt small and friendly. There were five in the group I'd come with and I quickly became buddies with a foursome because three of them were Germans who pretended to be very impressed by my mangled high school linguistic skills. A few couples and our fearless leaders made up the rest of the crew. All in all, everyone was very good company, though we were not necessarily great hiking buddies. One woman was a very, very cautious walker in her snowshoes and we found ourselves waiting for her and her fiancee to catch up every fifteen minutes or so. I'm sure this shortened our route, but it gave us time to chat with each other and look around so I wasn't too sorry. 

One part of our walk was covered with downed trees. Vaugh explained that trees tend to grow their root structures to support them when it's windy, and because winds typically blow most strongly from the same direction all the time, the roots on one side of the tree are deepest and thickest. Hurricane Sandy, however, blew in from the opposite direction. Unprepared for this, many trees were knocked over. It was quite a sight. 

I could have kept going for hours, but it was getting dark. We piled back into the van and went to a nearby bar and restaurant where we shared beers and an enormous meal. I returned to the city in high spirits and eager to go snowshoeing again, though perhaps not this year. I want to try it out in some deeper drifts next time, and that's unlikely to happen before next January or so. 

Crackpot Thursday

I really enjoy working with clay. I also really enjoy drag queens. So I accepted my friend Mary's invitation to join her and some friends for a pottery class at a studio called Mud, Sweat, and Tears taught by Sybil Bruncheon without hesitation. The studio is in Hell's Kitchen, and I'd actually noticed it before but had never taken much notice of it. I arrived with a purse full of beer--Crackpot Thursday is B.Y.O.B--and was joined shortly thereafter by Mary's group of five, some of whom I knew. A few others trickled in for the class but the whole group stayed small - only eight.

Sybil

After we'd settled in around the work table, Sybil hit the scene. She wore unbelievably long false eyelashes, blue eyeshadow, and precise triangles of blush. She referred to herself as "Mummy" and called us all darlings. I was the only one who had ever worked with ceramics before, so she demonstrated a series of hand building techniques (no wheels for us, which was fine by me) that was part instruction and part comedy routine. We giggled our way through the 30-minute performance and sipped wine, then were given slabs of clay and told to get to work.

There were a number of molds available to use, making it easy to shape bowls and platters with perfect lines. We were encouraged to roll doilies or stamps onto the clay for texture, and employees of the studio bustled around giving us suggestions. I made a secret project with which I hope to surprise Ed (so I won't give it away here) and a coffee mug that turned out to look more like a tankard. I was the only one who managed to turn out two projects. We had 2 1/2 hours to work with, but most everyone was new to the techniques and was also more easily distracted by the food (pizza and snacks) and drinking than I; I was so absorbed in my work that I hadn't finished my first glass of wine by the time we adjourned. We left our pieces to dry. Mud, Sweat, and Tears will fire them for us and, for an additional $5 per piece, will even glaze them for us in the color of our choice and fire them again. We were given the option of coming back to glaze them ourselves, but I decided to shell out the $5. I definitely want to go back, but I'm not sure when that will happen and it would be best if I could just pick up my stuff and go.

Sybil hugged us goodbye at the end of the evening and gave us fliers for Wild West Bingo, a Monday night event she hosts in the West Village. Mary and I already have plans to pick up our pieces on a Monday and head straight to the Village for more quality time with Mummy.

Legit Lit: Granta

This is an unconventional Legit Lit post; I write this evening not about a recommended book but a literary magazine. For lovers of the written word, I can think of nothing more satisfying than an evening spent with an issue of Granta.

I first became acquainted with Granta when its editor John Freeman spoke at several literary events at Symphony Space. I was intrigued, but not spellbound. A few months later in an airport, however, I saw an issue sitting on the shelf of a bookstore I visited. I must have had a book with me to read on the flight that I wasn't too excited about because I bought the issue and devoured it. I immediately asked for a subscription for Christmas (thanks, Mom!) and am now happily leafing my way through my second issue.

Granta's history, I learned while doing a bit of research for this post, is rather fascinating. It began as a student periodical at Cambridge University in 1889 and continued successfully for almost a century in this vein. Notable contributors include A.A. Milne, Ted Hughes, and Sylvia Plath. When the student body lost interest and the publication fell on hard times in the 1970s, it was adopted by a group of postgraduates who reimagined and reissued the magazine as a showcase for "new writing," drawing from the work of authors outside of Cambridge. John Freeman is the first American editor of Granta, and the magazine is owned by Swedish Sigrid Rausing who heads one of the largest philanthropic organizations in the UK.

According to its mission statement, Granta believes "in the power and urgency of the story, both in fiction and non-fiction, and the story's supreme ability to describe, illuminate, and make real." Pretty great, right? So far the issues I have read have included only short pieces but no poetry, and two of three have contained photo essays. Each issue is dedicated to a theme, such as medicine, family, travel, betrayal, etc. The brilliant little bursts of writing make for a nice break from the slow burn of a novel. I've been blown away by the quality of the pieces, which has been outstandingly high, and most stories leave me gazing out over the edge of the page after I finish them as I grapple with the important and interesting issues raised. 

Granta is known as a sort of crystal ball in the publishing world because of a list of British novelists to watch that it published in 1983. Since then, it has published other lists every few years and an astonishingly high number of its honorees have gone on to be recipients of, or runners-up for, prestigious literary prizes like the National Book Award. Granta has pointed to authors like Ian McEwan, Salman Rushdie, Kazuo Ishiguro, Alan Hollinghurst, my beloved David Mitchell, Zadie Smith, and many other contemporary heavy hitters back when they were new on the scene. This is all very exciting, and I look forward to reading about a new novel that takes the book world by storm and remembering fondly that I read one of the author's early works in an issue of Granta. 

More and more, I find the short story to be one of my favorite iterations of the writing craft. Granta consistently delivers a premium selection right to my door on a quarterly basis, making me feel sure I'll be a subscriber for years to come. 

"Blizzard" Photos

The huge storm that slammed New England this weekend mostly spared New York. I picked up supplies and we powered up our solar cell phone charger, but on Saturday morning things were, if snowy, hardly catastrophic. We went for a walk and then pretty much carried on as usual. Here are some pictures from our adventures:

About 3:00 Friday afternoon watching the snow begin from my office window

Outside my office, going home for the day. Slippery sidewalk! I took the train instead of walking as usual. 

Todd and I survey the snow on Saturday morning

The garden behind our apartment

I opened the window enough to expose the snow on the windowsill. Todd sniffed at it.

Cappers dug in it and pulled some inside!

Snow on our skylights

We went for a walk, headed west

No salting or ploughing on the walkway along the Hudson

Kids enjoy a small hill in Riverside Park

Sleet left over from the previous afternoon

The Abbey Gets Racy

I know it's really just a soap opera with classy accents and longer skirts, but I'm really, really into Downton Abbey. I received the first two seasons on DVD for Christmas and Ed and I blew through them in an embarrassingly short time. I, who often find my eyelids drooping around 9:00 P.M. these days, stayed up breathlessly to watch the last two episodes of Season Two only to discover to my horror that I was wide awake when the final credits started rolling at 1:00 in the morning with work only a few hours away.

Typically I purchase tickets for Selected Shorts series only when authors I admire will be speaking, but when I saw that there was a performance coming up called "A Night at the Abbey" I booked immediately. The four stories chosen had some of the same themes that run through the show, and the icing on the cake for me was that Jim Dale, narrator of the Harry Potter audiobook series, would be reading one of the stories. Dale's voice has accompanied me up and down the state of California and back and forth across the country on countless road trips, encouraged me while doing large cleaning jobs, and kept me company during marathon baking sessions. I've listened to each book several times and am endlessly impressed by his talents. So it was with great eagerness that I took my seat next to Ed in Symphony Space last night.

Jim Dale, standing uncharacteristically still

As always, the selections themselves and the performances were great. First, we heard an excerpt from the novel The Buccaneers by Edith Wharton read by actress Clea Alsip. It's about an American heiress who travels to England to get married and her experiences as a sudden member of the aristocracy, so Alsip had no need to put on much of an accent, though she did do a nice job with her British mother-in-law and husband. Next, we heard an excerpt from Below Stairs, a memoir written by former kitchen maid and cook Margaret Powell and read by actress Jayne Houdyshell in a delicious cockney accent. I was struck by the humor she brought to the reading, because when I focused on just the words themselves I don't know that I would have found the book to be all that entertaining. I'm not sure I want to read it on my own; I'd rather have Ms. Houdyshell come read it to me. I wonder what she's doing on Friday. B.D. Wong, also our host, did a masterful job reading Saki's "The Reticence of Lady Ann," which is so funny that I had to link to it. Wong comes off as a bit awkward when he's just winging it, but give him a page to read and he metamorphasizes into a spellbinding pro. Finally, Jim Dale read a delightful piece called "Jeeves Exerts the Old Cerebellum" by P.G. Wodehouse. When I listened to the Harry Potter books, I always sort of pictured Dale sitting on a stool with a novel held in one hand before him as he read; he seems to have a rather dry sense of humor. To the contrary, he's a dynamic performer who gesticulated so enthusiastically that I thought he was going to knock over the podium on several occasions. He waved his hands, bobbed up and down, and seemed to virtually bubble with enthusiasm. It was a great performance, but a bit disappointing as well because this story was only the first of a two-part series called "Jeeves in the Springtime" and I felt it ended with a bit of a cliffhanger. Fortunately, the sequel is available online for free, so my lunch hour today is booked solid as of now.

There were two scheduled additions to the program that came as a surprise to those of us in the audience. One was an appearance by Chip Kidd, designer of book covers (B.D. Wong: "Think of every book cover you've ever looked at and liked and it's probably his."), author, snappy dresser, and very funny dude. Kidd regaled us with a reading from an author he dubbed "the Rachael Ray of her day, only with class." It was from a "cookery" book and explained, in unbelievably dramatic and pretentious language, what to serve and what not to serve, how to make mint jelly and turtle soup, etc. I wish I knew how to find the text so I could share it; I've never seen Ed laugh so hard in a Selected Shorts performance. The other feature was a screening of an episode of a spoof on Downton Abbey called Downton Sixbey that runs on the Jimmy Kimmel Show. Its writer, A.D. Miles, introduced it and warned us that it was a bit more, er, scatological than the folks at the original Abbey would ever dare to be. He was right, but it was still pretty funny. The name, by the way, comes from the studio where it is filmed: 6B.

The artist, who likes to wear a mustache while topless

There was one unscheduled addition to the program that came as a surprise to those of us in the audience as well as those on- and backstage. As A.D. Miles walked up to the microphone, a woman in a hat stood up near the front of the theater. She said something too quiet for me to hear, and she was pointing either a digital camera or a cell phone at Miles. "This," said Miles, "Is the most awesome thing I've ever seen. There is a topless woman in the audience." I couldn't see too well, but Ed confirmed that this was indeed the case. She repeated her words a little louder and then Miles repeated them into the mic, something about "topless shock syndrome." "OK, thanks for that. Topless Shock Syndrome," said Miles, then launched, rather professionally for a comedy writer, into his introduction as though nothing had happened. Several theater personnel fluttered around the row where the woman was seated, but she didn't seem to be causing any more disturbance, was possibly fully clothed again, and was seated dead center so that removing her would have caused minor havoc. In the end, they chose not to act and the rest of the program proceeded smoothly.

Of course I googled "topless shock syndrome" the second the show was over. Apparently this woman is an artist who tries to shock people out of their misconceptions by showing up in public places and at performances without a shirt on. She's writing a book about her experiences, too. Or something. Surrounded by the stellar literary and performance skills at Symphony Space, I have to say that I found her "art" shocking alright, though perhaps not for the reasons she hoped.

Sundance Film Festival, Take Three

On the chairlift for our first run on the first day

As always, Sundance this year provided a nice balance between great skiing and great films.

That is the sentence I should have typed to start off this post about my third trip to Utah. Alas, you know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and me. Everything started out rosy. I was very excited to try out my brand new boots and Ed and I had a great first day at the Canyons where we were joined my my brother, dad, and my dad's friend Meredith in the afternoon. My toes felt chilly a few times, but I fired up my new electric boot warmers and was instantly toasty again. Day Two was snowy and Ed, Anthony and I drove to Snowbird to meet up with my friend Nic, one of the best skiers I know. I filled the important caboose position (someone has to) for the morning, but after a late lunch break decided to strike out on my own for the two hours we had left to us. Visibility wasn't good because of the snow, and there were lots of rocks and icy patches that I kept coming upon without warning. I was doing OK trailing after the others but wanted to slow things down. It's a good thing I did, because my left ankle started to feel really sore as the afternoon went on. I figured it was just a wrinkle in my sock or a misaligned boot tongue, but prodding and tugging mid-run did no good. In the hotel later that night, I discovered a lump on my ankle. I figured it was just swollen and would improve by the next day but realized this wasn't going to be the case within a few turns of my very first run that morning. I had to sit the rest of the day out. That evening, my dad gave me a quick examination and concluded that I had developed a ganglion cyst, probably because of prolonged pressure and rubbing from the boot over the course of two days. Eeeeeeew. 

First aid, by Dr. Ed

Ed helped me rig up a pad made of Molefoam (a thicker and less pleasant-sounding version of Moleskin) with a cyst-sized hole cut out to spare my ankle. It worked a bit, but after about an hour or so at Park City I'd had about all I could take and had to turn in early. I was pretty disappointed to have to sacrifice two full days of a four-day ski vacation, especially since the whole point of buying boots was to prevent this sort of thing from happening. I've got my fingers crossed that I'll be healed up in time for a trip to Colorado with Ed in March and that the boots will be broken in enough by then that nothing else gross will happen. 

Waiting for one of the shorts series to start

I enjoyed many of the films we saw this year. My favorite was called The Inevitable Defeat of Mister and Pete. It's the story of two boys whose drug-addled mothers abandon them in the projects for the summer. Obviously there are some tough moments, but there were funny parts as well, and the ending was a good one. We also saw a film called No that's been nominated for the Oscar for best foreign language film. We watched a wrenching but very interesting documentary about the huge earthquake in the Sichuan province of China called Fallen City that was great, though overly long. Usually, I really look forward to going to one of the short film series that Sundance puts together, and this year we went to two. The first was a collection of standard shorts, but the second was a new one for us: documentary shorts. It was quite interesting to watch such short documentaries, some of which were only about ten minutes long (though one was much, much longer). The standing favorite in our group was one of the shortest, a film called "Whistle" about a Polish referee who presides over adult-league games in a country that takes soccer very seriously. The poor guy was often the most hated person on the field. It was subject I'd never have thought to explore, but one that was very interesting to learn about. My favorite scene was a shot of a pheasant running frantically across the field in the middle of the game; for these players, games were almost a matter of life and death, but moments like that reminded me of how ludicrous it all was. 

The No Name Saloon, minutes before the excitement began

Sundance is apparently rife with movie stars, but my last two years haven't  yielded any sightings to brag about. I saw the back of some football player's head, apparently, but I only know that because a bystander mentioned it aloud and I don't even remember his name. I've also seen some actors on stages at the end of films, but I don't count really count these times; in my book, you have to just sort of come across someone unexpectedly. This year, Ed and I visited the busy No Name Saloon on Main Street one evening to kill a few hours before a film. I scanned the crowd hopefully but came up with nothing. "I can't believe we still haven't seen a single celebrity," I complained. (It should be noted that we'd been in the bar for five minutes and it was our first day in Park City.) "Michael Cera just walked through the door," Ed replied. "Ha, ha," I said, annoyed. We'd already seen Michael Cera in a New York bar, and I did not appreciate his humor during this time of personal dejection. "Seriously, turn around," said Ed. Yup. There was Michael Cera, about ten feet away. We did our best not to stare-New Yorkers try to be extra jaded when we see famous people-but a young rube at a nearby table yelled, "I love you, Juno!" Mr. Cera gave him a contemptuous smile and beat it for the back of the bar with a few friends. Later, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I found myself walking into a narrow hallway at the back of the bar just as he was coming out of it. We looked at each other, then turned sideways as we continued walking so that we'd both fit. I considered telling him in passing that I love his work, which I do, but my nerves and sense of decency got the best of me. Based on the look on his face as he came into the bar, he was anxious not to be in the spotlight tonight. Plus I'm a weenie.

My new friend

Although I was disappointed about the skiing part of it, Sundance was, as always, fantastic. I was pleased that my mom and brother were able to come, and I think both enjoyed it enough that they'll  be joining us next year. I hope my cyst has healed up by then, because Michael Cera is probably going to want to hit the slopes with me.

Superbowl Sunday

Superbowl Sunday was eventful for me, and though there were some low moments, it ended up being pretty good. I got up early to bundle up and head to Central Park for my first race of 2013, the four-mile NYRR Gridiron Classic. The event was preceded by a throwing contest to determine who could chuck a pigskin the farthest. I was pretty sure I stood no chance and so showed up just a few minutes before the gun went off. The ever-present CNN temperature display just south of the park informed me that it was 23 degrees when we started the slog, and I opted to jog it under the circumstances. Most of me warmed up pretty quickly, but it wasn't until the third mile or so that my hands finally stopped aching. It had warmed up to 25 degrees by the time I finished. I decided to run home after the race, and I had the salty, slushy, wet running path just about to myself. Go figure.

Pre-game crowd, destined to get much denser

After a very long, very hot shower, I relaxed for a bit before heading to a bar with Ed to watch the Superbowl with a group of his friends. Many of Ed's friends happen to be Ravens fans and this was a dedicated Ravens bar, so you can imagine that excitement was high. I was not keen to go--pounding music and thick crowds are not my idea of a good time under the best of circumstances--and things proved to be even worse than I'd feared. We arrived just after 4:00 for a kick-off that wasn't scheduled to take place for about two hours. Our party had reserved a table in an elevated section of the bar, so I figured we'd at least be able to sit down and have breathing room. No such luck. The amount of space that I'd anticipated was for our group alone was split between three groups of our size. The place filled with customers, most of whom were young, drunk, decked out in Ravens gear, and screaming over music that was so loud it hurt. I attempted to yell to people for a while, but gave up after my throat grew sore and it was clear that my yelling wasn't really overpowering the music anyway. I drank one cheap beer and stood around miserably waiting for the game to start and planning a route to the nearest exit in case of fire. I'd go home after half-time, I decided. But the crowd was so huge, loud, and obnoxious by the time the ball was kicked off that I didn't even make it through the first quarter.

With about five minutes to go, I bailed. I called my friend Jeremy, an ardent sports hater, and met him at a quiet, dimly lit martini bar in Midtown. The game was on, but the set was tiny and set on mute. The place was nearly empty and blissfully peaceful. We complained about sports fans and loud bars and went our separate ways early. It was a good end to what had been a dismal night.

I'm hardly a football fan, but I do enjoy watching it now and then under the right conditions. Next year I plan to sit at home with a six-pack of microbrew and some high-quality snacks to watch the game in peace.