Me and Frank Sinatra

I had my first visitors this week, longtime family friends Roger and Bonnie. They were visiting other friends upstate and took the train into the City for the evening, and since they know New York well we were able to skip the whole tourist thing and just hang out.

We met at Grand Central and walked to Soho. Roger announced that we were in danger of missing our 5 o’clock beer, a fine (new to me) practice, especially after a long hot walk downtown, so we got to Fanelli’s just in time to keep the tradition alive one more day. We stopped by my apartment, which Roger seemed less than impressed with, though being a real estate genius he’s well aware that Location trumps Amenities (read, a bathroom door that closes all the way). Then they very generously treated me to a delicious dinner of pate, rock shrimp, paella and Chardonnay at Blue Ribbon. Lesson: it’s a luxury to have friends who are not also broke grad students, saving one from a diet of ramen noodles and the occasional cheese slice from Ray’s.

This week I found myself settling into a daily rhythm, one very different from my Taos life. Before – because I lived seven miles out of town and had to drive to get anywhere – it was much more regimented: now it’s time to go out and see friends, now it’s time to be home writing, now it’s time to run errands. But here it all blends together and I feel more spontaneous, less constricted.

For example, in Taos I never ran errands at night because once I was home, I was Home. But now after dinner I’m often craving a walk, so I go out in the cool of the evening and buy a book I need for class or pick up milk, then take the long way home and meander. I don’t cook much, since I only have two stove burners and a counter the size of a hardback, but here you just let everyone else do the cooking, which doesn’t seem much more expensive than making it from scratch and is certainly tastier than microwaved Lean Cuisine.

There’s also no need to stock up on anything because you can get whatever you need any time day or night. Run out of toothpaste for that before bed brush? Throw on some flip-flops and head to the all night Duane Reade. You don’t even have to put on street clothes or comb your hair, because New Yorkers would just yawn at a wild-haired person in pajamas. I do recommend pants, however. Not that I would know about being half naked in public. (Hi, Mom!)

And it’s strange that even though I’ve spent plenty of time in New York as a visitor, I pictured living here as one giant battle with the masses. Like every time I stepped out the door I’d be swept up in a river of people, and have to hope to be dropped somewhere near my desired destination. But if you stay off the major streets – Broadway, 5th Avenue – it doesn’t seem like that big of a city at all. There’s actually room to breathe.

People who have lived here for years would probably say, Just you wait, you’ll feel claustrophobic any minute, but I’m pleasantly surprised that I don’t (yet). And people routinely ask me for directions now, which means I must not look like a tourist anymore, and I’m pretty sure I’m even giving accurate information. (If not, sorry to that couple from Chicago who wanted to know how to get to St. Marks. If you accidentally ended up in the Bronx, oh well! Ha ha!)

Last night I walked along the Hudson amidst joggers and bikers, lovers and families. I saw Ellis Island, where the Statue of Liberty stands vigil, and as the sun set behind the skyscrapers of New Jersey – which is a lot prettier than it sounds – I thought, this is my new home. This is where I’ll publish books and fall in love and make mistakes and push myself harder than I ever have. It was so profound a realization I had to stop myself from breaking into “New York, New York.” Seriously, I had to slap a hand over my mouth just before belting “If I can MAKE it there, I’ll make it ANY where….” at the lady reading on the bench, because that’s how inspired I am these days. Who cares if I can no longer afford nice dinners? Ramen tastes a whole lot better here.

Cinnamon Buns and a Glock

Here’s a totally unexpected side effect to moving to New York: I drink less.

That’s right, this wino has become an Only When I Go Out With Friends Who Drink drinker, and all I can say is: What the hell?

When I was living in Taos, end of day meant a glass (or two) of wine or beer before bed. Missing that Shiraz would have been like the pope missing mass and frankly, it was starting to worry me. Not that I was on my way to Skid Row, just that it was becoming a habit I wasn’t sure I could easily break, or for that matter even wanted to.

But when I got to New York, a few things changed. My apartment doesn’t have a fully loaded liquor cabinet like my Taos house, where the stash never ran dry due to a frightening diligence at stocking up every time I went to the grocery store. And as I’ve already mentioned, buying and lugging heavy bottles seems far less appealing on foot, added to the fact that my new and improved Grad Student Budget isn’t built for extras like fruity Australian wines or my favorite microbrew, and buying the cheaper stuff just doesn’t appeal.

Perhaps more pathetically is that the last few months in Taos were such an excruciating time of limbo, a glass of wine at the end of the day – every single day – felt like one of the few things I had to look forward to. But here, it’s like the City is my playground and I’m on never-ending recess, so boredom isn't an option. Regardless of the reasons I haven’t missed my nightly nightcap at all, feel leaner (and meaner – grrrr!) without it, and the few times I have had drinks with friends I’ve enjoyed it that much more.

Now let me tell you about how I’m training for a marathon and becoming a vegan, right after I get back from the bakery and the gun store. A girl’s gotta have some vices, don’t you think?

Not that there’s anything wrong with spreadsheets.

I’m happy to be guest blogging, along with a whole slew of other creatives, over at Eric Maisel’s Creativity Central. Eric has written a number of terrific books about the creative life, and I’m quite honored to be part of his new experiment. Here’s what I had to say for my inaugural post:

I moved to New York from Taos, New Mexico two weeks ago, and suddenly it feels like I’ve gone from Just Visiting to Actually Living Here. I can pop out of the subway and walk in the right direction versus having to turn around halfway down the block, I’ve quit looking both ways before crossing because most streets in Manhattan are one way, and bedtime has shifted a few hours later to true New York night owl style. Perhaps most tellingly, I’ve quit cooking almost entirely and have started accumulating takeout menus like business cards at a mixer.

Up until now I’ve been in vacation mode, traipsing willy nilly all over the City, not thinking about my classes – and the challenging work they’ll entail – that start at the end of August. That is, I wasn’t thinking about them until I went out with three of my new classmates and one woman, over white wine and Thai chicken, started asking me all about my novel, as in, you are working on one, right? And you’re ready to have it critiqued in workshop, right?

Picture me, fork raised halfway to my mouth, eyes deer-in-the-headlights wide.

Um, I am working on a novel if working on it means opening the Word file every couple days, reading a few paragraphs, then closing it again. I’ve been feeling unsure about which way to go with it – novel or linked stories – plus the writing I’ve done lately has been as uninspiring as a spreadsheet.

I managed to mumble an unconvincing Oh yes, working on a novel, of course, then suddenly became fascinated with the carved radish on my plate. The conversation then turned to the giant reading list we have to “be familiar with” in preparation for oral exams, plus the fact that one of our professors is an especially tough grade-giver. (Grades? For some reason I thought it was more of a pass/fail situation, but nope, there are actual letter grades just like in my undergrad years when I had, ahem, a less than stellar academic record.)

So at that point I did what anyone would have done – I went out in the parking lot and sucked on an oxygen tank.

Let’s just say that vacation is over and reality has arrived, but that’s okay. I love to write and know I’m going to love being in school again. Getting my MFA in New York has been a dream for so long, a few moments of panic aren’t going to diminish my experience. Unless of course the oxygen runs out.

Or maybe the umbrella in my bag looked suspiciously like a gun.

In Taos, if you can’t get it at Wal-Mart you pretty much have to buy it online, so I was excited to move to a place where I can get absolutely anything I want, at any time of day or night, no shipping, no waiting. This place is instant gratification central.

I wanted a few New York guides – a Streetwise Manhattan map (small and laminated, with all streets and public transportation routes), a 2008 Not for Tourists guide, and the City Walks walking tours of New York cards. I thought, woohoo! I don’t have to buy them on Amazon, I can get them at an actual brick and mortar store. So I happily purchased all three from the Barnes & Noble in the Village, and went skipping home.

Then my program director gave us a summer reading assignment, which includes a book I needed to buy. I was thinking I’d just skip on back to Barnes & Noble, then on a jaunt around town I walked past the Strand Bookstore on Broadway.

If I could have smacked myself on the head I would have, but then I would have dropped my cherry pastry and iced coffee, and that I was not willing to do.

The Strand! Of course! Here I was all excited that I’d just spent my money at a generic chain store, when I could have been shopping at the best and biggest bookstore in the country. (They claim to have 18 miles of books, and I don’t think they’re exaggerating.) On my Barnes & Noble outing I may as well have bought coffee at Starbucks and donuts at Dunkin’ and made the bland shopping experience complete.

So after dinner I had me a used book fest, more than atoning for my B&N misstep. I found four books for a dollar each and my assignment book for six. Take that, corporate behemoth!

I did a lot this week, running willy nilly all over the island, but the big highlight was the Louise Bourgeois exhibit at the Guggenheim. Her giant spider greets you in the lobby, while two sensuous curved forms hang overhead. Much of Bourgeois’ art documents her struggle in balancing her life as wife/mother and extremely successful artist. What’s wonderful about the Guggenheim’s architecture is the interior spiraling walkway, so you’re able to see an artist’s work in chronological order literally from the ground up. The creative progression is fascinating.

I walked back from the Guggenheim, which is on East 89th, and it took me a little over an hour and a half to get home. I strolled past tony Upper East Side residences and Central Park, down 5th Avenue past Bergdorf’s and Bulgari, through the Village, past NYU and Union Square and Washington Square Parks. I had started a couple heel blisters the day before and felt my Band-Aids give out halfway home but thought, how bad can it be? It didn’t hurt too much, so I strolled on. When I got home I took off my Pumas to see the heels of my socks bright red with blood, my skin raw. Lovely.

I spent a relaxing afternoon in Washington Square Park with yet another pastry and iced coffee (anybody have a number for Dessertaholics Anonymous?) reading and people watching. Enjoying the shade with me was a mélange of nannies and their tiny charges in strollers, NYU students having earnest discussions about economic theory and the Federal Reserve, a teenage girl with the sides of her head shaved leaving her with only a strip of faded fuchsia hair on the top (is that “style” actually back?), tourists with cameras and guidebooks, and an old man in black socks and sneakers reading the Post’s gossip. I was so happy sitting there I almost cried. I am not making that up.

Then I had my first late night subway ride. I went out with some new friends – Queens College second year students, three smart, talented women – and took the E train from Forest Hills at 3 a.m. More than once a guy sat down in my car – always at the other end – but then moved to a different one, so maybe my Tom’s natural deodorant isn’t quite as effective as I think. Or maybe it’s that my hair is so big in this humidity they thought if they got close they’d lose an arm. Or maybe I just look really tough and they knew they’d be asking for trouble if they didn’t behave themselves. Sure.

Water, Water Everywhere

One of the reasons Soho is such a great location is because it sits within walking distance of both the Hudson and the East River. This weekend I went on a quest to see the New York City Waterfalls, an installation by Danish artist Olafur Eliasson that features four enormous waterfalls in the East River.

I had already seen one of them from Brooklyn on July Fourth:


But I wanted to see them all at once, so I walked about 25 minutes through Chinatown, down Canal St. and across Bowery to the Manhattan Bridge that connects Lower Manhattan to Brooklyn. There’s a dropped pedestrian walkway along the south side...


which runs next to the subway line:


It was a rainy day, which gave Chinatown an even grittier feel:




There was the visual riot of graffiti:



And the eerie calm of the sky hovering over the river:



And then, of course, were the waterfalls. Here's one of the four under the Brooklyn Bridge:


The rain really started coming down at that point so I race-walked back to my apartment, bobbing and weaving around the umbrellas that sprang up everywhere like a sudden bloom of nylon flowers. I made it, drenched but happy, another excellent day in New York.

I am not penis-obsessed, despite recent posts.

For my New York July 4th I took the C train to Brooklyn to gather with the hordes in the most populated borough and watch the Macy’s show from the promenade in Brooklyn Heights. I had time to kill before dark and I decided I needed an All American Dinner, and what better than a burger and fries at Five Guys, where I was informed my fries were made from potatoes that had traveled from Burley, Idaho for the privilege of being dipped in a vat of hot oil and devoured. They also tell you where the beef is from, but that was a little more information than I wanted – knowing the potato’s hometown isn’t nearly as upsetting as knowing the cow’s.

The menu includes calories – a good thing if you’re counting them, though it takes the blush off the cholesterol fest when you know that a “little burger” – no cheese or mayo – and a “regular” fries cost you 1100. And though the burger was fine, I’m reminded once again of the fact that I could never eat beef again and be totally happy. And maybe I will. (I was vegetarian for ten years, so that wouldn’t be much of a stretch.)

Then I wandered down to the walkway along the East River, with the Statue of Liberty posing regally in the distance, and stood around with the rest of Brooklyn waiting for the sun to go down. I claimed a spot behind a woman in a wheelchair and her friends, and watched as a frantic mother and father improvised a port-a-potty with a McDonald’s soda cup. They tossed out the remainder of dad’s soda and had the toddler pee into the cup, then tossed the urine into the bushes. I’m not sure why they didn’t just have him pee directly into the bushes and save the dad his soda, unless they were saving the son the humiliation of exposing his fledgling penis to the crowd.

The crowd(ing) grew as we got closer to go time, and about half an hour before dark a family of seven wedged its way between me and the wheelchair, creating a half-cocoon of thankfully very short people. If it would have been cold I would have been grateful for the body heat, but since it wasn’t I was a little less than grateful. When the youngest started yelling I became even less grateful, but he quieted down to a low-grade whimper when the fireworks started. (I felt badly for him, since he was obviously frightened by what sounded like god making the biggest vat of popcorn ever.)

Then there were the two couples with strollers who decided to camp out next to me and cut the walkway space by half, so people were grumbling and crawling over me and the family of seven to get by. Oblivious to their obstruction, they chatted about play dates and Exciting Career Opportunities and where to get the best Greek yogurt, until someone apparently got too close for even their oblivious comfort and one of the young dads said with loud, annoying authority, “No pushing! Babies here!” Um, arrogant annoying person? There wouldn’t be any pushing if you hadn’t planted yourselves directly in the flow of traffic. But then they got over it and went back to discussing how miraculous it was that their 401(k)s were growing despite the terrible economy. I quietly hated them.

And then what we’d all been grumbling over and waiting for – one woman said, “I wish they’d hurry up and start so I could enjoy it and go home!” – were the fireworks, which were truly spectacular. Oohs and aahs and spontaneous applause arose from the now harmonious horde like some sort of joyful symphony, as we became a community united in our love of a good show and celebrating the holiday. When it comes down to it, you hate being part of the crowd, then you love being part of the crowd, which is probably the essence of the entire New York experience.

I Unfortunately Missed “Vogue” and “Material Girl”

I bought my very first MoMA membership, where $75 gets you one year of unlimited visits plus perks like members only viewing days (only me and three million other people, excellent!), plus no waiting in line, free film screenings, and reduced prices on educational programs. Each admission is $20, so you start saving money pretty quickly. Such a deal.

MoMA is midtown, at 53rd and 6th, and since I’ve been walk deprived for so long I decided to hoof it and (once again) skip the subway. It’s about an hour each way, but Manhattan is flat so it’s not too taxing. I saw the Dali in film exhibit, and rested my dogs in the sculpture garden amidst the Picasso and Giacometti and German tourists. Despite the fact that I was a musician in San Francisco and just spent the last three years as a music columnist, if I had to pick one cultural category over all others I’d pick museums. Nothing inspires and calms me the way great art does.

On the walk home a guy standing on the corner in the West Village was shaking a can full of coins and singing a medley of Madonna hits. A sample: “Like a Virgin, ooh like a virgin, papa don’t preach, no! (vigorous can shake) Papa, don’t do it….” He was missing most of his front teeth, which didn’t at all detract from his own special artfulness.

My friend had recommended a bakery in my neighborhood called Once Upon a Tart, and walking by it I decided to treat myself – as if MoMA wasn’t treat enough – to an exquisite chocolate and pear tart. At $6 it didn’t feel extravagant, and I figure the three and a half hours of constant motion earned me the right to have pastry for lunch.

Today it’s Independence Day, so I’m going to put my independence to the test by going solo to watch the Macy’s fireworks extravaganza. Not only is it July Fourth, but this year is Macy’s 150th anniversary so the show is bound to be even bigger than usual. (This is America. Size matters.) Wish me luck as I brave the hordes in Brooklyn Heights and attempt to find my own little spot to ooh and aah. I feel full of hope lately, both for myself and for our country – the tide seems to be turning, and not a moment too soon. I hope you’re feeling some hope on this day of celebration, too.