photo diary 2

Some snaps from the past few days walking around town. Also all of these pictures are taken with my iPhone 5S and edited on my MacBook Pro for anyone who was wondering. 

Nolita side street 

I had to google a good spot to get a picture of the Chrysler

Interior Grand Central 

more Grand Central Beauty 

secret bar above Grand Central 

Entrance to Grand Central Terminal 

i'm a writer

On Thursday, when the rest of the city was consumed with the forthcoming World Cup match between USA and Germany I found myself on the Upper East Side, between 90^th and 91^st streets at DTUT, another coffee shop (where else do I go), trying to write. I hadn’t even realized there was an important match coming up until the barista approached me and said they were turning off the Wi-Fi so everyone could watch the game. 

“But I don’t even see a TV in here, ” I argued.

“Oh, well we’re projecting it on the wall over there”, and she pointed to a very large empty white space on the wall behind me. “The projectors right there.” My roommates watch Netflix the same way; I didn’t know projecting was a thing, apparently it is in New York City. Fortunately though, the barista was kind and gave me the password for their other network. So I popped in my headphones, continued editing my photos and attempted to focus. I’ve been surprised by how much time I’ve taken out of my days to blog. I used to spend so much time thinking about writing instead of actually doing it. Some days I feel like I’m keeping a daily journal of my feelings, others I’m detailing the events and tours of my adventures. If I’m not walking the streets, finding my next bagel, or seeing a free event or gallery, I’ve been writing and I can honestly say I’ve never felt better.

Almost everyone I have met since coming here, including my roommates, friends of friends, even strangers, is focused on something creative, or at least something personally fulfilling. Take for instance my two roommates. One is a very private, passionate musician, focusing on producing and performing from what I can hear through the thin walls of our apartment, catchy, ambient R&B. I notice him staring at his computer day and night so intensely, rocking back and forth in his chair, moving with the music, feeling each beat. You can’t help but envy his focus.

My other roommate, the one who hasn’t sat in almost 20 days, is hell bent on going viral. It’s deeper than just gaining YouTube views though. He's excited and passionate about it, and wants to share something he's doing with the world. His project is called nomoresad and as a friend described it, “It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen or heard of in a while.” What he does is send individual, personalized videos to anyone who requests them of him dancing, in the hopes of promoting the idea of not being sad anymore, spreading positivity by any means, cheering people up when they're down. They mainly consist of him wildly jumping around, shaking his limbs, or slow dancing with his dog; the videos are hilarious while also being oddly touching. He’s doing this for recognition, sure, but also it’s about doing something for a stranger, someone who is going through a hard time, and making them feel better, if only for a short period of time. You can see for yourself at nomoresad.tv, it’s definitely worth checking out.

* * *

My friend who works in SoHo performed at the Chipped Cup, a hole in the wall coffee shop in the basement of a tenement in Harlem. It was her first set in front of a live audience. She covered ballads and classics from such varied acts as the Eagles, Dixie Chicks, Fleetwood Mac and Beyoncé. Unprepared, scattered, talking back and forth with the audience of mainly her friends, laughing between songs, she let her voice make the statement, rather than the organization of her set. And her voice is outstanding, broad and smooth, complimenting her guitar skills beautifully. Halfway through, the barista gave her a tip jar (more like a bucket), and since most of us in the audience were poor, everyone decided to put little pieces of paper with words of encouragement, or ideas of places she could perform next instead of the few dollars we had. I shouted out after Travelin' Soldier by the Dixie Chicks, “Next up, Madison Square Garden!”

Afterwards, I joined her and all her actor friends at the Harlem Public next door, a restaurant and bar that gave overflowing bowls of free buttery popcorn as appetizers. My bourbon had one large round floating ice ball inside. It was dingy in a clean way and you sat very close to the patrons next to you, stool next to stool. The sounds of the crowd and music bounced off the renovated brick walls. Once the conversation started flowing as freely as the booze I thought to myself that ever since arriving in New York I have struggled with explaining what I do, who I am, and why exactly I’m here when people ask me.

I interviewed my new acquaintances as any good writer would, and asked what they did for work, which neighborhoods they lived in. They’re all in acting school, pursuing careers in show business. Most of Manhattan is pursuing something with regards to the arts or humanities. One works at a pharmacy in Brooklyn to support himself, another a software company in Midtown. They ask me what I do and I quickly divert the question and ask them how they ended up in New York. One young guy, from Puerto Rico, left a lucrative and successful career in Chemistry to fulfill his dreams. Another, a beauty from Portugal, has been in New York 10 years, studying, struggling, living. I listened as they explained what brought them to New York and what has kept them here, how they knew no one, and had to start from scratch. I think about my situation, and what there is for me in San Diego; a job, actually a few, too many friends to count, my family, my comfort. I think about how easy it would be to tell these people all of that, what I have now instead of what I have to look forward to. So I made a decision and after they asked me once again what I do, two bourbons in my system, feeling loose and surprisingly at ease, I smile, look up and say, “I’m a writer.” 

photo diary 1

I went with one of my roommates to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden a couple of days ago. On Tuesdays you get in for free. You couldn't tell it was a tourist attraction though. The Gardens were full of people reading, couples holding hands, and not many people actually looking at the plants. It was more like a meditation garden. I was disappointed I had missed the cherry blossoms, with their fallings pedals of pink. I felt that if anything, the Botanical gardens were a glorified park, albeit with much more variety of trees and flowers. Yet what beautiful trees and flowers. I find it very ironic, and a bit strange that I'm living in a city known for its density, tall buildings, and crowded streets yet I've taken more pictures of nature and greenery than anything else. Anyways, here are some pictures from the gardens, a place where my heritage of landscapers contributed to my appreciation immensely.

Lilly Pads!

* * *

Sue told me about a free exhibit in the East Village that practically no one knows about. It's located in the continuing renovation of Cooper Square, at Cooper Union, in the basement of the building. The exhibit is called Surface to Structure, and features dozens of artists from all over the world using the artistic technique of Origami to construct different objects and shapes out of not only paper, but metals, bronze, etc. It truly was one of the most beautiful exhibits I've seen so far on my trip. From animals, to geometric 3D shapes, to even outfits, Origami never looked better.

The old Cooper Union Building located across the street. 

* * *

And finally, I saw my first Broadway show last night, at the Cort theatre on 48th street. A play, not a musical, called "The Cripple of Inismaan" with the star of the Harry Potter film series, Daniel Radcliffe, as the lead, the cripple. I got a cheap ticket, and therefore a cheap seat, on the balcony, with a clear view of not much other than the rotating set, and the tops of the actors heads. The play, like much of Martin McDonagh's work, is funny and morbid, dealing with a young boy named Billy, who has been crippled and therefore labeled an easy target his whole life. After simply trying to decipher what was being said in the thick Irish accents, I concluded that not only did I find the play not all that funny, but when a fairly large couple decided to switch seats and move right in front of me for the second act, I almost entirely lost interest. Instead I found myself looking around at the theatre, its immaculate design and intricate central chandelier, and imagining all the important plays and musicals that had been produced here in the past. Still, it's almost always worthwhile going to see a live performance, because you remember the experience of being there and not necessarily what you had watched, and it was a memorable experience to say the least, even if I wasn't a fan of the play.

Right outside of the Cort theatre. 

sue at lincoln center

"Whoa, when did everyone start lining up?" I asked out loud, out of breath, after speed walking the 6 blocks from Columbus Circle to Lincoln Center.

"3:30 maybe, don't worry we'll get in," said an older woman with a platinum blonde pageboy haircut, a paisley scarf wrapped around her shoulders protecting her from the sun. Her purple sunglasses were bigger than her head, and she was wearing so many different contrasting colors I knew I had to sit down right behind her and strike up a conversation. Confident that if I made a friend in line, she'd hold my spot if I wanted to sneak away for a snack, which I eventually did. I was two hours early to hear Alan Cumming, the flamboyant and eclectic Scottish actor known for his stage and film work as well as his role on "The Good Wife", to speak on acting.

"I love Alan. This line is going to get a lot longer, but I've waited in lines my whole life in this city, I'm confident we'll get tickets, just be positive." She told me.

"I thought getting here two hours early would be good enough. I thought I was going to have to go inside and ask someone where to stand. I didn't think a line would have formed wrapped around the building already," I replied.

"Well, then you're not from New York", and I nodded my head in agreement.

Her name was Sue, and she was reading "The Widow's Guide to Sex and Dating." And as soon as she got out her SPF 45 and squirted some in my palm because she noticed my nose looked a little red, I knew we'd become friends. There is absolutely no shame in admitting my first friend I made in New York is a 75 year old woman. Go figure.

"I live in the Village, Greenwich Village. I've been in New York since college. We did live in Chelsea, my late husband and I, but in those days there were drug deals going on right in front of my building, in broad daylight. Chelsea wasn't as nice then. So we moved a little south and I've been there ever since. I'm president of my co-op board."

If you live in New York, you know that living in the Village, let alone being the President of your co-op is sort of, kind of a big deal. I dug a little deeper, asking some more questions and learned that she was a teacher, of multiple languages, and that her husband was not only a very well known music composer, whose work had been played at the Philharmonic and all over the world. He was also a classical music critic for the New York Times. Sue was also on the board for the New York Public Library. The city was in her blood, and she started name dropping to the point that my head was practically spinning. Even if I didn't get to see Alan Cumming speak, at least I got to meet her.

"You know, James Franco lived a couple buildings down from me, Uma across the street, I can't remember some of the others. But they're always around. Celebrities love the Village. It's not like Midtown where tourists will stop them to take a picture or sign an autograph. They can be anonymous, just like everyone else." I looked at her with my eyes wide open.

* * * 

The last pink ticket was given to Sue, and I didn't get one. I was the next person in line, I was so close, but the woman announced that it was over, there were no more seats, no hope. The auditorium had been filled. Sue turned around and said, "You need to wait, someone always doesn't show up, and you're next." So I did. As the line dwindled down, and everyone was let in, they stopped at me, and I waited, remaining patient. I did get in, of course, racing inside to see only a partially full room. I scanned the room looking for Sue, just to tell her I indeed got a seat. She was in the front row, dead center. Walking up to her I smiled and said, "I'm sitting in the back, but I got in!" She smiled and gripped my hands.

The gentleman next to her, an acting teacher from San Francisco, interrupted, "Hey, my friend isn't coming so I'll just scoot down one and you two can sit together." I swear I could not stop smiling. And I didn't stop for the rest of Mr. Cumming's talk. It was one of those too good to be true New York moments. Taking the almost 40 minute train ride to get to the Upper West Side, with just a slim hope of seeing this event for free, and not only did I see it, front row, but I got to meet one of the kindest and most interesting people that I've encountered in the city so far. We exchanged emails, and she promised she'd take me somewhere nice to eat in the Village one night, and would tell me more old New York stories. Like how she met Paul Newman outside of a theater after one of his performances of "Sweet Bird of Youth", almost 50 years ago, and almost collapsed at the sight of his blue eyes.

I walked along Broadway down to 72nd street and ate two hot dogs at Gray's Papaya, overflowing with sauerkraut and relish, watching all the different New Yorkers passing by. I thought to myself, did any of that really happen? Has it really only been a week since I got here? I rushed back to Brooklyn, anxious to write this story down.

the first weekend

Friday night after a day where I experienced my first New York City bagel at a place called simply, "Beygl", and got lost in Prospect Park, twice, I went to the High Line. The High Line is an old elevated subway track no longer in use that has been transitioned to a tourist and local favorite along the west side. One, because it's free, and two, because it's beautiful, giving a rare perspective of walking the streets of New York, only three stories up. Running through Chelsea and Hell's Kitchen, I didn't know where to turn my head as I walked, walking north there's the glistening Hudson river and New Jersey to my left, and to the right, the tall buildings and zooming taxis of the city. It isn't just a place to walk though, there were people tanning on lawn chairs, vendors selling lemonade and pretzels, and people commuting, it's a pleasant change of pace from walking the streets.

After walking down the stairs from the High Line I stumbled upon a free art gallery, with prints of old Hollywood actresses. Audrey Hepburn made over to look like a geisha, a Marilyn Monroe triptych, among others. The space, like I believe many of the galleries and art shows are in New York have large open air rooms, with brick layer backdrops and piping hanging above head on the ceiling. I saw the artist, or what looked like the artist, in skin tight black jeans, hopping around from patron to patron. He was the spitting image of an early Bob Dylan, curly black hair, circular sunglasses. The dingy space was furnished with a black and white piano, and a drum set, neither being used, an abandoned recording studio left to deteriorate, a stage lacking an audience.

* * * 

Everything that I had done on Friday I did on a whim, with no plans and no real place to go I just went where the heavy winds of the city took me. For Saturday, I determined to take advantage of what was happening in New York RIGHT NOW. What I mean by that is, every day in New York City, a restaurant is opening, and some local favorite is closing, an artist is removing his pieces from a space so a new exhibit can come into existence. It's all apart of the ebb and flow of the city, the sights change suddenly, sometimes drastically. Especially in the case of the century-old Domino Sugar Refinery in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. 

Kara Walker is one of the most important and well respected artists of the late twentieth century. Dealing with subjects and images of race, identity and sexuality in her works, ranging from cut out silhouettes, to musical compositions, to the current sculpture and installations located in the decaying Domino Sugar Factory. The building and its surrounding area are located in South Williamsburg, along the East River in what is now prime, up and coming territory for the ever gentrifying and transforming Brooklyn. The factory is to be destroyed, and turned into what most likely will be luxury condominiums, and commercial retail stores. 

Much of the power of the exhibit called "A Subtlety" comes from the not very subtle central structure, a massive, white, Mammy-looking character positioned as a sphinx. A contrasting image of the willing and happy slave of Jim Crow history with the size and power and strength of an ancient Egyptian artifact. You cannot tell whether she is opening her eyes with blazing intensity or closing them in submission. Throughout the building there are other small sculptures, little half-smiling boys holding baskets, or a bunch of bananas. Each of these were made using sugar (molasses or resin), even the sphinx (along with other materials). As the exhibit has gone on, many of the small five foot little boys have either melted, or collapsed, slowing deteriorating as the sun has been hitting them each day. All of this is a comment on not only the building, and its eventual destruction, but also on America's history with sugar, and specifically the African American's experience. 

It truly was a spectacle to see, and also quite absurd seeing the many tourists who waited 30 minutes to enter, taking pictures in front of the structures, smiling, even laughing at its explicitness. Maybe they were appreciating the novelty and strangeness of the art rather than trying instead to understand the work's meaning. Regardless of the immediate experience, I am glad I got the opportunity to see it before it goes away, as well as the factory in which its located. It is events like these throughout New York, free, unique, and open to the public that you just don't get anywhere else, and its an exhibit whose images I surely won't forget anytime soon.

I'll conclude with some pictures from my daily excursions to Prospect Park.

on being lonely

When the the checkout guy at the Trader Joe's on Atlantic asks if you prefer paper or plastic and it's the first time you've talked to someone all day, and you smile and respond and crave a follow up question, really any conversation, you know you're feeling lonely. The past few days I've spent most of my time wandering the streets of Brooklyn, checking Google Maps, scurrying across intersections, gazing upward at unfamiliar buildings and I've barely spoken to anyone. I have experienced an abundance of time to myself, unlike in San Diego, where all I do is see and talk to people I know. I have time to think about the next place to go, the next meal to eat, the next picture to take but primarily I think about the people I see on the streets. It's comforting. I imagine their stories, how the couple walking their tiny dog met, about why the woman on the train is crying unconsolably, about the homeless man I see each day when I turn onto Franklin, and why he remains there.

Many people say that New York City is the easiest place in the world to be alone, because in a way you never are. You wake up, walk outside of your apartment building, and there are people everywhere, surrounding you. Of course you don't know any of them personally, yet in its own strange way there's solace in the strangers around you. Everyone is alone together. For two days now, I've had to navigate myself around different neighborhoods, from Park Slope to Chelsea, taking in sights that are free and familiarizing myself with the Subway. I've taken advantage of the Brooklyn Public Library and its location mere minutes from my apartment as a refuge from the noise and heat; a place to write and observe. 

Yesterday, feeling particularly blue, I went to see a movie at the classic Angelika Film Center, where my worries could be washed away by the worries of fictional characters. Seeing a movie always seems to calm me down, something about the way everyone is forced to be quiet, sit still, turn off their cellphones, and focus, it's a refreshing experience. Hearing the train rumble and scream by in the background was something I wasn't expecting, but ultimately I understood that with the theater being underground, of course you would hear the train. 

After the movies, I wandered until my feet hurt, and grabbed a pistachio gelato, and walked around the West Village craving a friend. I got off the subway in Brooklyn and walked along Atlantic all the way to the edge of the East River where the smell of people barbecuing, and the silhouette of Manhattan overwhelmed me emotionally. I'm still adjusting to the fact that I'm here, and this is the view in front of me. Being lonely, while sometimes unbearable, is much different than being alone. And in New York City, you never are. 

And here are some pictures from my endless wandering the past few days... 

washington square arch 

west village 

"Beygl"

today

Walking along Eastern Parkway 6 blocks south from my apartment toward Prospect Park, the trees obscure the sun, and the moms with double strollers outnumber the taxis. You look to your left and there's the Brooklyn Museum of Art, a few blocks down the elaborate gold-tinted entrance of the Brooklyn Public Library looms large. I quickly escaped the heat and found solace in the air-conditioned luxury and free wi-fi of the library. Everyone inside was quietly working on projects, typing up manuscripts, laughing at YouTube videos. I hadn't even realized how close I was to this street filled with so many amazing spots, I'm starting to truly appreciate where I landed here in Brooklyn.

After my time at the library I wanted to do something interesting and FREE before meeting up with a friend of mine who I met when I came to New York in January. The first thing that was listed on TimeOut New York's "free things to do today" was a gallery exhibit on the Lower East Side that was mere minutes away from Miansai, the shop where Amanda works in SoHo. After taking my first cold shower of the day and feeling refreshed I got on the train. Once again I missed my stop, or so I thought. It didn't stop where it was supposed to go according to the app I've been using so I kept crossing east 7th street,  looking like a crazy person, going from side to side wondering how I missed 2nd avenue. Ultimately I realized that going uptown the F train doesn't stop at that particular station, but it does going downtown. So backtracking, I finally made my way to the gallery.

I won't even pretend to act like I can comment on art in any intelligent way accept to say that I appreciate and respect it. No other city in the world wants you to appreciate and respect art more than New York. At Salon 94, located on the Bowery between pizza places and deli's, lies Jayson Musson's "Exhibit of Abstract Art", an homage to the old comic strip "Nancy" that ran from 1933 - 1982 nationally in daily newspapers. A parody of pop/ modern art, the exhibit features colorful and mocking canvases of "art exhibits", as well as fiberglass structures of an ice cream cone, and what appears to look like a cousin of the Pillsbury dough boy with a bullet blown through his middle. Eye-popping and funny, the space was a blinding white square, and I was the only person there beside the receptionist. Here is some of the work:

***

My friend works at Miansai in SoHo, on Crosby, a cobblestone block where she's seen Jake Gyllenhaal walk by exactly 3 times. "That's the only reason I got a job here," she told me seriously. Miansai is one of those immaculately designed narrow spaces that thrive in Soho (a shopping haven), combining nautical themed leather goods like wallets, bracelets and organizers with tea and Kombucha. Those totally go together, believe me.  We wandered across town to the west side and along the way caught quite a performance in Washington Square Park amongst the hundreds of stressed NYU students. 

33 Crosby, Miansai 

There were two twin brothers and another guy dancing, jumping, bouncing, doing all sorts of crazy gymnastics in the middle of a huge crowd. They announced they had toured world wide with the Harlem Globetrotter's, Alicia Keys, among many others, and also Michael Buble, wanting to make sure the white people were listening too. I wish I had a recorded a video, but their finale was one twin literally spinning, flat on his stomach, on top of the other twin's head. They called it the human helicopter and it looked like one. The faster the crowd clapped, the faster he spun. It was crazy, funny, entertaining and made me grin. 

Ending my first night out in New York City we went to a restaurant in Chelsea named unironically Elmo, no red puppet in sight. Over Blue Moons, and a veggie burger,  my friend and I caught up and immediately I recognized I was getting more and more comfortable with each hour passing in this city. You're alone until you're not, you're left wondering until you're distracted by a face, the train, the sirens. It's comforting to know that the other people around you no matter how long they have lived here are learning each day, and doing interesting and creative things. It's been only a few days, and already I've seen so much, walked so many blocks, and met so many new people that the nerves and anxiety from when I first arrived are quickly starting to fall away. 

it's hot

I got off the Subway at the wrong stop this morning, Broadway and Lafayette. I was heading towards midtown, Rockefeller Center at 50th street, but since I was riding the train alone for the first time, and it was so crowded I felt like the woman to my side was close to nearly climbing on top of me, I decided the minute I heard "Broadway" to just get off. It sounded familiar enough, I'll find my way. I should have known better. Broadway stretches the entire length of Manhattan. I ended up in the tiny but mighty fancy neighborhood of Nolita (North of Little Italy), a mere 40 blocks from where I needed to go. Whatever, walking could do me some good. 

After wandering north on Broadway for almost an hour and seeing so many designer stores & boutiques where all I could afford is asking for a business card, I found the nearest Subway and made my way uptown, iced coffee in hand. When I went to Rockefeller Center in January, during my first time in New York, a man stopped my roommates and I right before the GE Building's main entrance and told us to wait, "They're filming a movie right now." We were all so excited about the prospect of seeing a film set, that the fact that it was early January, 10 degrees, and practically snowing, didn't even set in. He was lying, of course he was. He wanted us to buy a hat. And I did. It said New York on it. Of course it did. 

30 Rock in June is much different. There are still obnoxious merchandise peddlers, but there no longer remains the 100 foot Christmas Tree standing in the center, and people dancing on the ice skating rink way too well. Instead there's a 50 foot Jeff Koons art installation, that's half Dinosaur head, half rocking horse head, with over 100 thousand flowers placed strategically to fill it in. The GE building, with the address 30 Rockefeller Plaza, is one of the most striking in the city, and has some incredible panoramic views of Manhattan. Rockefeller Center is actually 19 total commercial buildings located between 48th street and 51st street in Midtown. Today, like most days I assume, it was a hive of businessmen and women buzzing around in chic clothes, texting on their phones, smoking cigarettes, having important conversations.

Christie's Auction House 

30 Rock / the GE Building 

There are a lot of things to admire about these buildings, and the tour I went on showed me none of them. Where's was the "Saturday Night Live" Studio, or "The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon", where is Liz Lemon, and Jack Donaghy? All kidding aside, I did learn quite a bit about how wealthy John D. Rockefeller was, and how he was the inspiration for Mr. Burns from "The Simpsons", and that his wife Abby was the sole reason any fine art was anywhere near the place, and that art deco is amazing. But it was the top, the Top of the Rock, that I really wanted to see.

From 70 stories up, everything is quiet, and the city looks like a lego set built by a very ambitious toddler. It's punctuated by spikes, arches, and spires, and then right in the middle of the concrete jungle, an actual jungle, Central Park. A green rectangle of peace. It's nice to appreciate and see the city from this perspective, up high and away from the chaos. After the Rockefeller Center history lesson and tour I had a thought, it's really freaking hot here.

green peace

 * * *

You don't realize you live in a desert until you don't anymore. Being in San Diego, you often take for granted what the word "weather" actually means, because there isn't any. Let me define weather for you, "the state of the air and atmosphere at a particular time and place". Since the air never changes in San Diego, I was in for a rude awakening in New York City. At this particular time of year, the air is thick and wet, like walking through a warm cloud. My roommate described it like this, "Living here, one day is like living three days anywhere else. In the summer it's even harder." The air weighs you down, making you tired at 3 pm, when you should be jazzed until 3 am.

After stopping by Bryant Park behind the New York Public Library which was just 7 blocks south of Rockefeller Center on 42nd street I decided the weather had won, I needed water, food of substance, and a nap. So I did just that, right after almost dozing off on the 4 back to Brooklyn. When later on I took a walk to Prospect Park with my roommate and his "runt" Great Dane named Bro, short for Abroham, we talked a lot about the weather. He explained to me how it wasn't that different from where he grew up in Indiana, and that ignoring it is the best way to forget about it. Exactly, accept I'm from a place where it's dry as a bone, and that Brooklyn is melting me away.

I soon quickly forgot about the weather, because as I was walking in Prospect Park and then onto a dreamy tree-lined street with brownstones so beautiful I could cry something came over me, who cares that I'm sweating more at 7 pm here than after the gym in San Diego? Who cares that I have to take 2 cold showers a day? I'm living her now, so I decided to just ignore the humidity and shut up about it. We'll see how long that lasts.

just getting started

After a five and a half hour flight sitting between two people in Row 32 of Delta Airlines flight 2639 I decided to ask the older woman sitting to my left if she lived in the city.

"I live in Redlands, that's Northern California dear. Just stopping here in New York on my way to Zurich."

"Zurich! Switzerland, wow!" I replied bewildered. The woman looked at least 75 years old, a shock of white bangs amongst her graying hair like Rogue from X-Men fell on her forehead. "Why are you going to Zurich?" 

"It's a trip I'm taking with a few girlfriends of mine, we are going to Zurich, and a bunch of other surrounding countries to go cross-country hiking. It's apart of the Rhodes Scholar program." Without knowing anything else about her, I immediately felt a wave of relief. Here I was, biting my nails, gripping my thighs, anxiously looking out the airplane window, nervous about staying in Brooklyn for the summer, when this woman right next to me, triple my age, was on her way to go hiking across Europe. I assumed, like Rogue, her superpowers came from her hair.

* * *

The cab driver who took me in an unnecessary circle around the outskirts of Brooklyn on the way to the apartment where I'm staying wasn't nearly as special. He had a checkered yellow and pale blue shirt on, and was frantically talking on the phone the entire way to someone I could only assume was his boss who never stopped yelling. I looked at him, watching him rub tobacco under his lips and opening his door when traffic would slow to a halt to spit, he looked at ease. There no more yelling, no more honking. The sun started to burn through the half open windows when I began looking at my phone, distracted. The cabbie then turned around and said something, "Look over there, you're missing it." I looked out the window and saw the New York City skyline. Even in the harsh light of 3 pm it was beautiful. I hadn't even realized where I actually was. Trying to make conversation I said to my cab driver,

"Do you ever get tired of it? The city? Driving?"

"No not yet. I'm just getting started kid." Me too.

i wasn't ready

For the longest time I've told people I want to be a writer.

"What do you want to write about?" many would ask.

"The movies, TV, theater, music, really anything involving culture in general." And they would nod their head and say encouraging words to me, and while I listened and tried to take to heart the advice I received, I would think to myself I don't know where my focus is. Where can I find some inspiration? Reading the New Yorker magazine gave me some. Diving into the archives to discover some of my favorite critics opinions was a casual pastime for me, like working out or photography is for others. And I wanted to write like those guys, because they were smart, passionate and driven, getting their point across in ways that were both insightful and honest. But every time I would sit down to write, or even attempt to think about writing, something would get in the way: a job, my friends, my life, but mainly myself. Nothing was ever good enough to put out there. I would be sharing not only my opinions and thoughts, but would be exposing my personality and quirks. Was I ready for that? Nothing and nobody could push me. I had my excuses and it was always "I'm not ready."

* * *

From an early age I loved New York, or perhaps more to the point, I loved the way New York seemed. In television sitcoms I enjoyed like "Friends", "Will & Grace", "Sex and the City", the city was a romantic fantasy that contained all the typical New York City trappings: tree-lined streets, bottomless incomes, cosmopolitans and cappuccinos. I quickly learned many of these shows didn't even film in New York. And while I knew that that wasn't what New York was really like, I still wanted to go and experience it myself. I wanted to see the places I had seen on the silver screen, soak up the culture, wander the streets and get lost. And now I'm actually doing that.  FOR 2 1/2 MONTHS. New York has inspired me, literally moved me. It has been the thing that has finally pushed me forward. No other place in the world would get me to move across the country away from my friends, family, and jobs than this place. I hope its worth it. 

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I first went to New York City this past January with my two former roommates. That trip was a whirlwind, negative-temperature-ridden, touristy dream, I knew the whole time it didn't show me what New York was really like, and that was okay. But now having just landed at John F. Kennedy International Airport, alone, and with 10 weeks ahead of me looming full of possibilities, I'm starting to realize this might be the place to stir something in me, FORCE me to write. So this blog, while new and still unsure of its focus much like its writer, will be about my adventures here, the people I meet, the sights I see, and also how you can uproot your life, your circumstances, your everything and try for something great, something for you.

A lot of my life I haven't been ready for the things this world has thrown at me. So while I'm in New York I'm hoping to be challenged but also enlightened, to be able to gain confidence, and also to be able to learn from the strength of those around me, and use it to strengthen myself. So in a sense it's not about being ready or not ready, but in fact being willing, and so for all the times I've said to my friends, peers, family "I'm not ready", this adventure is to prove that I am. That I'm trying. Here goes nothing.