That's why New York's my home

In a supremely dorky move (or a supremely frugal one, or possibly both) I found myself checking out lots of cds from the Visalia public library this summer. I had a great time loading them on to my computer and bolstering certain genres. Mostly I found some wonderful classical music, but a compilation I stumbled upon called "New York Songs" seemed like just the thing to pysch me up for my upcoming move. It's a great cd, full of older, classic songs that celebrate my new locale. In one of my favorites, Sammy Davis Jr. compares New York to Chicago, St. Louis, San Francisco, and Hollywood, and notes that although other cities all have their charms, New York trounces all of them. The chorus goes, "That's why New York's my home, let me never leave it, New York's my home sweet home."

I find myself making similar comparisons as I ride the incomparable Bolt Bus (clean, spacious, and equipped with wireless Internet!) back to NYC after a wonderful few days in Boston. I've always liked Boston, and was disappointed that my search for potential grad. schools this time last year didn't turn up any I was interested in around the Boston area. It would have been fun, I thought, to live there for a while. Now that I'm settled in New York and have visited Boston a few times, I've concluded that New York was absolutely the better choice.

While New York has its snobby areas, you can always find a gritty character or two even on Fifth Avenue or the Upper East Side, evening things out and making you feel a little better about not being dressed to the nines. Obviously, Boston is a diverse city and has its rough neighborhoods just like New York does. But Boston seems to be more segmented in that certain types of people seem to stick around certain parts of town almost exclusively. Some people might cite that as a boon, but I happen to like a little variety when I people-watch. New Yorkers can be pretentious, true, but in a more worldly way than Bostonians, somehow, which I find far more appealing. And in Boston, you can't pass the time you spend waiting for the T counting rats on the tracks because there aren't any (rats, not tracks), making the subway a far superior mode of transportation despite the grime. Boston is colder and grayer than New York, and I use that phrase to describe both the weather and the general demeanor of the people I encounter there. Some of my dearest friends are native Bostonians, but I'm beginning to suspect that they are exceptions.

I have to agree with Sammy's parting words: "So save your money, save your railroad fare, 'cause when you leave New York, you don't go anywhere."

Not ladies' night

Recently, I went to a trivia night organized for students of all of the Columbia graduate schools – TC, business, architecture, social work, etc. I arrived to find a packed room, bags and bags of salty, crunchy toothsome treats, and two glistening kegs of beer. What really took my breath away though was the number of males in the room. Probably only 30% or so of those in the crowded room were women. TC is 75% women, and I didn't realize how much I'd gotten used to that environment. It was borderline overwhelming; it almost reminded me of coming back from Japan and hearing English from so many different directions simultaneously. I wonder if that's what it feels like to go from an all-girls' high school to a co-ed college. Girls taught in single-sex environments supposedly come out more confident, but they must have some advantage I don't because I felt borderline panicky for the first few minutes.

Once I had regained my composure, I focused on helping my team to stay hot on the heels of the winners up until the last round, when we dropped to 3^rd place. (Who pays attention to current events anyway?) I think 3^rd place when you're competing against other Columbia grad. students is pretty respectable, frankly. We had a fantastic time, and I've got my fingers crossed that another trivia night will happen soon.

The Pitter-patter of Scaly Little Feet

I've made something of a habit of looking for rats on the subway tracks. They're not exactly swarming all over the place; I see one only once every few trips. I'm sort of grimly fascinated by them, and don't recoil, as many do, when I see one scurrying between the rails, stopping to sniff at pieces of refuse in search of food. I track their progress until they're swallowed up by darkness again. They're sort of endearing in a way.

This was before the other day, when I had gotten off of the train was headed toward the turnstile. A medium-sized brown rat came tearing around a corner, dodging people (who were just as enthusiastically dodging him) as he went. As I said, I like rats, but I have learned that I like them from a distance. It seems that I'm not ready to push my relationship with them to the next level.

The Age of Aquarius

Every two weeks or so, TC makes a limited number of discounted tickets to a particular Broadway show available to students. I didn't see the first few ("Westside Story": seen it; "Wicked": not really interested; "In the Heights": huh?) but when I saw posters for tickets to "Hair," I was one of the first in line. My friends Crystal and Jacqui and I went to see it together on a Sunday afternoon.

I had seen the movie, and although Eddie warned me that the musical is quite different, I hadn't expected it to be SO different. Even going into it with background knowledge, I still had trouble following the plot, which wasn't really introduced until there had been about 20 minutes worth of scene-establishing songs and developed very slowly over the next hour and a half. I liked the movie's interpretation better because it was easier to follow (which indicates, I guess, that I am bound by the rigid structures imposed upon me by The Man and therefore learned nothing from "Hair").

That said, I loved it. The music has been running through my head continuously since then and has yet to get annoying. Not only was the music played live, the musicians were actually on the stage in front of the backdrop. Some of them were even perched on an antique pick-up truck-turned-stage. The actors were all young and energetic and startlingly talented. They used not only the surface of the stage as a performance space but the aisles as well, even up in the nosebleed section where we frugal TC theatergoers were sequestered. They handed out flowers and danced with audience members. At the end of the show, the audience was encouraged to come up onto the stage and dance with the cast.

Take that, whitey.

Below, observe country music star Taylor Swift:

At Heritage on Tuesday, two of my favorite girls had an urgent, whispered conversation punctuated with swift glances in my direction and audible repetitions of "Should we tell her?" Spidey Senses a-tingling, I sauntered over and asked them what on earth had them so worked up. "Miss," said Negla, "You know who Taylor Swift is?" My pop culture IQ qualifies me as severely handicapped, yet trainable. I replied that I'd heard of her somewhere, for some reason. "You know what she looks like, Miss?" Negla pressed. I replied in the negative. "You look like her," Negla proclaimed, Chelsea nodding emphatically at her side.

Now Ms. Swift is an undeniably attractive young lady, and I can't say that I was particularly offended by this comparison (after Googleing her later that afternoon to find out who the hell she was, of course). However, claiming that I look like her is, putting it mildly, a stretch.

There's an age-old stereotype that all Asians look alike. So, some say, do all black people. And Mexicans. And Indians. And (insert additional non-white groups here). Heritage doesn't have a single white student. Could it be that minorities think we all look alike? I guess there aren't that many white people running around their neighborhoods, and maybe the similarity is more striking to them than it is to me.

I'm just grateful that, if my students do indeed fail to see major differences between white people, they didn't point out my striking resemblance to Chelsea Clinton, or a pre-Trim Spa Anna Nicole Smith.

Tony makes an offer I can't refuse.

Of course, an offer to come hang out with me (and with Jeff, and Kyle, two of his high school friends) is pretty hard to refuse, particularly when there are decadent dinner plans and promises of good bottles of wine in the mix. After a Saturday night at a French restaurant in the East Village, I met up with the three boys on Sunday morning for a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.

We walked from Jeff's apartment, which took ages (no one seemed to know where we were going, despite that fact that our party contained two geologists, who I'd always assumed knew how to find their way around, as well as two iPhones). It was worth it though. The picture above is taken with Manhattan behind us and Brooklyn in front.

This is the Manhattan Bridge. Although we had trouble finding the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge, we seemed to come across the entrance to the Manhattan Bridge every few blocks. This should give you an idea of the straightness of our trajectory.

This is looking back at Manhattan after we'd crossed the halfway point. The bridge takes about 20 minutes to get across. The weather was unbelievably gorgeous - high 60's and clear. Unfortunately, New Yorkers are no dummies, and it was pretty crowded walking across as everyone scrambled to take advantage of the unseasonal weather.

Well, it was mostly clear. If you peer into the hazy area to the left of the buildings, you can just make out an unimpressive darkish protrusion that is actually the Statue of Liberty. This picture is a testament to the beauty of New York, and also my inability to adequately control exposure on my camera.

Anthony was delighted to take this picture with me. He did not once threaten to throw my camera off the bridge if I took one more picture, or suggest that an action shot of him strangling me would be a nice way to remember our afternoon. The Sears Tower and the Chrystler Building are behind us. (You may have to take my word for this.)

The intrepid explorers arrived in Brooklyn at last, famished, and staggered into a breakfast joint Jeff was fond of to land ourselves at the bottom of a 45-minute wait list. Nothing a few bloody Marys didn't fix, however, and there was a pool table and an outstanding live band (yes, at breakfast-time on a Sunday) as well as plenty of people who are way hipper than I'll ever be to gawk at. All of this served nicely to pass the time until we were seated and could inhale our meals. Above, admire Jeff's form as he flags down a cab for our much quicker and much more expensive trip back to Manhattan.

A great visit from Anthony, and a great time in NYC.

"Don't it always seem to go..."

"...that you don't know what you got 'til it's gone?" Well Joni, I'm doing my best to appreciate my idyllic walk to Heritage. Twice a week, spend 40 minutes walking two miles to Heritage High and another glorious 40 walking back. (It's generally more glorious walking back because I'm glowing with the assurance that I haven't been liberated of any personal possessions by my young charges, our Hope for Tomorrow.) Here are some pictures from my pleasant commute:

I spend all but about four blocks walking through either Morningside or Central Park. In the mornings it's generally pretty quiet, and in the afternoons people are walking children and dogs and partners and friends along the sidewalks. I enjoy both settings.

One of my favorite things about the walk is the opportunity to listen to podcasts and lectures (of my choosing, from the Learning Company and NOT by my professors) on my iPod. It's great to be learning something that I'm not going to have to write a paper about later.

Alas, as this entry's title indicates, I know my strolling days are numbered. The bus, which I can catch four blocks from my building and which stops literally outside the high school, takes about 30 minutes and costs $2.25 each way. It's loud and crowded and rather reminiscent of one of the lower circles of Hell which Dante describes so vividly. Nothing short of seriously perilous weather would get me to board that thing, but, alas, that's just what's coming in a few short weeks. In the meantime, I'll try to keep Joni Mitchell's wise words (ungrammatical though they may be) in mind and savor each walk as though it were my last of the season.

Chris Milam

Chris Milam is a friend of mine from Vanderbilt. Freshman year, we were lab partners in our loathed astronomy class and would occasionally attend Vandy basketball games together. Chris is originally from Memphis, and despite the fact that he adores the South (and has the same tolerance for northern climes as a hothouse orchid) he has moved to NYC recently to further his career as a singer/songwriter.

Chris was considerate enough to play a show at a venue on Columbia's main campus last night, which, from a commuter's perspective, was great for me. He's a very good performer. His real talent, though, lies in writing lyrics that are at once witty and profound, painstakingly crafted and spontaneous, and always real. I've always admired his way with words, but a few minutes in a coffeehouse with the average young male singer/songwriter makes him infinitely more appreciate-able. (See, Chris would probably never write a word like "appreciate-able. I told you he was good.) The guy that played before him last night was decent enough, but his songs were essentially strings of cliches set to music. I found I could predict his next line about 75% of the time based on the rhyme scheme. Chris's music is anything but predictable.

As a final thought, these are the kinds of things that happen in New York. People who have no real business crossing my path again for any logical reason are always visiting for the weekend, here for an interview, moving in, or whatever. Living in the city is expensive, but it's certainly saving me lots of plane tickets and tanks of gas: my visitors come to me.

Run, marathoners, run

I went to watch part of the NYC marathon on Sunday with my friend Jacqui and her boyfriend Jake (who has a Tennessee accent which made me very nostalgic). There was a possibility that it would rain, but it ended up being just overcast, which was good news for the runners and spectators alike. The day was perfect for running: not too cold, no glaring sunlight, and pretty fall foliage to look at.

The marathon route takes runners through all five boroughs. It begins in Staten Island (getting there in the morning is apparently a huge pain because it involves taking a ferry) and ends in Central Park. We couldn't get anywhere near the finish line, but we watched from about mile 20 for a while, then moved to a chute beyond the finish line. Each runner who finished got a medal and a reflective blanket – it gets chilly the second you stop running when you are all sweaty.

It was really inspirational to watch. We saw several runners spot people along the sides of the course who had come to watch them run, and it was great to see their faces light up as their loved ones cheered them on. Some spectators had signs, and most took pictures as people jogged by. One girl was running in yellow tights, a yellow long-sleeved shirt, a yellow hat with bear ears, and a red t-shirt that said "Will Run 4 Huny." Fun idea, but I'll bet being dressed as Winnie the Pooh got hot after a while… Another guy was running in a Minnie Mouse dress. For the most part, though, there weren't a whole lot of costumes (although there were lots of t-shirts with clever phrases on them). Lots of jerseys had the names of different countries on them; apparently this was a pretty international event. Some people had written their first names along their arms or on their shirts, which was a great idea because then the people in the crowd cheered them on by name. It's not a foolproof system, though. Jacqui yelled, "Go Oliver!" and looked a little embarrassed when I pointed out that I don't think "Olivier" is pronounced that way.

Jacqui ran a marathon once, and so talking to her about it was interesting. I got answers to burning questions such as "Didn't you get tired?" and "What happens when you have to pee?" and "No, seriously, weren't you, like, WAY tired?" Jacqui said she loved doing it, but was unlikely to do one again. Honestly, I've never been interested in doing one before Sunday. It's something I might consider now.

Halloween in the big city

Halloween this year was a two-night affair. I went, in costume, to a club in midtown with some girls from TC on Friday night, and on Saturday night I went to the annual Halloween parade in the East Village before meeting my friend Eddie at a house party in Harlem.

This, alas, is the only picture I have of my wearing my costume, so I am posting it despite my not-so-fetching expression. I was a Freudian slip (get it?). Below, by the way, is a picture of my Krazy Glue-covered fingers after sticking the letters onto my slip. Eddie, to my left, was a homicidal maniac, although by the time I met up with him he'd gotten rid of most of his costume, which apparently was cumbersome. Eddie and I taught English together in Japan, and it's great to be in the same city he is again. To my right is Jake, whom I met for the first time at the party. I believe he went as a slacker, since his costume consisted solely of that mask.

I got only one or two good pictures from the parade. It was dark and so most of them came out blurry. (I eschew flashes.) It was really crowded despite the pouring rain – thank goodness I thought to bring an umbrella and wear boots – so I can only imagine how many people must show up for this thing when the weather's good. Anyone who wanted to could walk in the parade, and my little group chose to do that rather than standing on the sidelines just watching it all go by. It was a good choice, I think: It kept us moving (and therefore warm) and made things much more interesting. Among some of the more memorable costumes we saw: Barack and Michelle Obama, balloon boy (Falcon, the kid whose parents claimed to have sent him up in a homemade balloon), several Tetris pieces accompanied by the theme song on someone’s iPhone, a bowl of ramen noodles complete with chopsticks, a FemBot, a piece of bacon, Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf, Popeye and Olive, Salvador Dali, and Andy Warhol. I was surprised to see only one Michael Jackson.

The party was in an incredible three-story brownstone in Harlem. Apparently Eddie knows a few of the guys who live there from college. It was a typical house party – fun, but nothing too exciting. All in all, it was a fun Halloween, and this was definitely my favorite costume yet.