shakespeare in the park(ing lot)

I set my alarm for 5:30 in the morning last Saturday. For those who know me, I do not wake up early well. The grogginess lingers in me, sometimes even after I have my daily latte. But I couldn’t avoid it any longer. The time had come; I needed to wait in line for free tickets to Shakespeare in the Park. The annual and beloved tradition in New York City was beginning its second production of the summer, where famous actors perform the famous words in the famously lovely Delacorte Theater. Each summer in the heart of Central Park, with Belvedere Castle looming in the background, and the hum of the wind blowing through the forbearing trees, thespians along the likes of Morgan Freeman, Al Pacino, Meryl Streep, and Anne Hathaway perform under the ghostly influence of the Bard. It’s one of the most popular summer attractions the city offers, based in no small part to the fact that it’s completely free, if you don’t believe in the saying, time is money. A recent article in the Post took note of the economy and environment waiting in line. Hundreds of people arise at dawn to sit, stand, or sometimes sleep along the dirt and cement pathways of Central Park, yearning for the hot ticket of the summer. It’s not unusual for there to be over a thousand people in line. This is my story, bear with me, it does have a happy ending.

* * *

On a good day it takes 45 minutes to get to the Upper West Side from my apartment in Crown Heights. And that’s only when the trains are running normally. So after dragging myself out of bed at 5:45, putting on my clothes, brushing my teeth, and patting down my wispy hair, I grabbed a book and my fully charged phone and proceeded on my way. I got on the 2 train heading into Manhattan, that ran north on the west side. The population of the subway at 6 am on a Saturday has your usual suspects: weary-eyed workers either just finishing a graveyard shift or just about to start an early one, people sleeping, hipsters still drunk from the night before, and the occasional homeless person who has been riding from the Bronx to Bushwick back and forth the whole night. With my sunglasses on (the better to stare) and headphones in, I wondered if anyone was stupid enough to do what I was doing. I glanced across the car and saw a precious couple with two beach chairs, and enough bags of snacks to supply them for a week. I knew where they were headed.

72^nd and Broadway, my stop. I avoided taking the B along Central Park West because it had been touchy all week, some days under construction, some days not running at all. I walked to the 81^st street entrance of Central Park and followed the winding pathway until I saw the Shakespeare fans, apparently WAY more dedicated than me, already lined up. There were people on large flannel blankets sitting in circles, games of monopoly being played, pizza being consumed, it was 6:45 in the morning, for goodness sake. There were even two women on a blow up mattress, sound asleep, snuggled in their covers. Did people begin waiting outside the park at 3 am before the park even opened, I asked myself? Mind you, the box office doesn’t even start giving out tickets until noon.

As I made my way up the seemingly endless line of theater fans looking for the end, walking over a bridge, through the dirt and pavement, on the grass, and back to the dirt again I must have passed 500 or so people until I reached the end. Initially very discouraged, I thought back to a few weeks previously at Lincoln Center and the relentless positivity of Sue and how even when I was told I wouldn’t get a ticket, I did indeed get one, and I even sat in the front row. I was determined to stay hopeful and made friends with the two girls behind me who came much more prepared than me. I may have had a good book, and trusty headphones, but they had iPads, and down comforters. I sat on the grassy knoll just behind the fence where everyone lined the pavement and began to wait. 7:10 am I was settled in, I wouldn’t know my fate until 1:15 pm.

view from Belvedere Castle 

I adored this statue, especially the slightly popped legs 

* * *

The Post was right, there was an economy to waiting in line for Shakespeare in the Park.

“Chairs $2, comfy, comfy. Chairs $2. Better than the ground, yes I’m looking at you, sir.” I glared from my position sitting cross legged on the grass at the peddlers who were obviously way smarter than me. They knew better than to wait 6 hours for anything. At least they were making money. But who were they kidding, I woke up this early for something FREE, I wasn’t going to shell out $2 for a chair, even if my butt and legs did begin to cramp and go dead. I did shell out $6.50 for a bagel and water that Andy’s Deli located on 78^th  and Amsterdam delivered to my two new friends and me in line. People were getting coffee, bagels, donuts, egg sandwiches, pretty much any breakfast food imaginable delivered to them by speedy little delivery boys on their rusty bicycles. There were even guys giving out cards telling everyone they would wait in line for them next time, for money.

Continuing on their way they shouted out, “No more waiting, no more lines. We’ll do that for you. Call us for your next line.” In Manhattan, there’s money to be made everywhere, at any time. 

* * *

At about 9 am, one of the interns or volunteers or whoever the minions that work for the Public Theater are, came walking up to our neck of the woods. It probably took them a good 10 minutes from the box office entrance. They did this frequently, always someone new, someone irritated. You could spot an employee from a mile away with their bright lime green and canary yellow t-shirts, MUCH ADO/ KING LEAR printed on the front. Rushed and looking as exhausted as the rest of us, they rarely answered any of our questions with honesty or even sincerity. They were doing a job, and really didn’t care if we got tickets or not. That I understood. Collectively all we wanted to know was if we had a chance to even get tickets, should we continue waiting? Was there any helping us in all this madness?

“Yeah, I don’t know. You’re kind of in a gray area all the way back here....Yeeeaaah, it’s pretty busy today.” Yeah we know it’s busy, I thought to myself.  One of the guys behind me, perhaps a little too clever for his own good, responded,

“What shade of gray are we talking about here? Light gray, medium, charcoal?” He smiled crookedly, all of us in the vicinity cracking up under our breath. 

The Public Theater employee chided back, “Well you know there are 50 shades of gray.”

I should have left right then and there. Poor literary references have no place when we were all waiting for tickets to a performance of Shakespeare’s “King Lear.” But I didn’t leave, and neither did anyone else, even after another Public Theater employee told us at 10:45 am that our chances of getting tickets were slim to none. I held steady and so did the crowd around me, and the arguably 200 people behind us. Time moved slowly forward and at 12 they started distributing vouchers, which in turn could be exchanged for tickets later that afternoon. We all inched ever closer, the Delacorte far away in the distance, unattainable. Once the front was in sight, the line screeched to a halt. A loud voice began booming out, “Ladies and Gentleman we are only offering single tickets now, you will no longer be able to sit together with your group!” That’s fine I thought, I was alone anyway.

Literally less than a minute later, I saw from the corner of my eye that lime green and yellow shirt dart past all of us stragglers in line, counting heads. He breezed past my new friends and I, his mouth moving silently. We were just going to make the cut. I knew it. After 6 patient hours, how could we not? Being positive would pay off. I would get a ticket, and so would the happy people around me. Suddenly I heard a scream, the shirt was yelling from behind us, waving his arms wildly.

“Ladies and Gentleman, tonight’s show is SOLD OUT. I repeat, tonight’s show is SOLD OUT.”

Belvedere Castle 

lovely bench outside the Castle grounds 

 * * *

Later that day, scrolling through Instagram at Le Pain Quotidian in Union Square, looking at the tiny square pictures of people’s small memories from that morning: mimosas at breakfast, San Diego waves, a friend’s adorable dog, I grew very upset. What a waste of time! My whole day devoted to that night, now that night no longer a possibility. Self pity on anyone is never becoming so I resolved to find something else to do, something better. I would still have a fun, still have a culturally fulfilling Saturday night in New York City. After all, I only have 4 weeks left. Shakespeare in the Park could suck it.

unfortunately the only pic I snapped down on the corner of Ludlow and Broome streets 

Looking at the club free time website (where I get much of my free event information), a title shouted out at me, “Shakespeare in the Parking Lot.” I laughed out loud, how ironic. Here was the information: 8 pm tonight, the Lower East Side, a parking lot on the corner of Ludlow and Broome streets. The performance would be “Twelfth Night”, a comedy of mistaken identities with a romantic's swoon, Shakespeare’s specialty. Well he was expert at every genre. It would be a contemporary setting, modern wardrobe, but the Bard’s original, beautiful words. I couldn’t wait. It sounded perfect. The moment I got there I sat down in the front row, maybe an hour early, a dozen die hards scattered about. An older woman began talking to me almost instantly. It was her birthday and you could sense the joy emanating from within her. She had blond cropped hair, parted down the middle, a little messy from the humid day, a toothy grin, and ice blue eyes. Her husband walked up to us perhaps even happier than her, with even icier eyes, and a nicer head of hair than me. We began to chat, and their accents came out, Canadians. Suddenly their happiness made a lot more sense to me.

I learned they were on a trip to New York for nine days, hotel hopping, and both were teachers, taking advantage of the summer break from school. Just prior, they had spent an entire month in Montreal. They told me about all the different lounges and bars they've been to, how the atmosphere of New York was intoxicating and inviting. The night prior, the wife woke up the husband at 1 am to go to some underground bar named "Fat Baby". Laughing out loud at the name, I asked them how it was. 

"This big black guy was standing outside. And he instantly started laughing when we walked up. So we started to laugh too. He asked us for our ID's and smiled while saying, 'You two are too young to be here'." They explained how they danced until 3 am along with what they assumed to be minors in an under ground bar on the LES, and they had the time of their lives. I could learn something from them. We joked and laughed, swapping New York stories until the show began promptly at 8. 

"Twelfth Night" was unfamiliar to me until the play began to take shape and memories from a junior college literature class reappeared in my mind. The plot became obsolete very quickly; the poetry of the language, the literal closeness of the actors, and the physical beauty of the two leading players overwhelmed my senses, and I let the genuine experience of the whole night take over. This wasn't Shakespeare in Central Park, but in fact more special than that popular attraction. It had authenticity, and contained a passionate set of actors performing in a strange environment with raw determination, and even more it had a rapt audience ready for anything, for something different and exciting. 

* * *

On Saturday night on the Lower East Side, the air was heavy and crisp at the same time, the parking lot an abandoned gray square. The dilapidated brick tenements lining the enclosed block had graffiti of every color and design on display. As the sun set, the sky turned its usual black navy, and the amber filter of the street lights lit the actors as if it was 3 am in an underground parking garage. Eventually, the lower east side came alive along with the actors. Drunken locals yelled out profanities and inane ramblings on Ludlow Street behind us. Pedestrians walked through the background, gazing at the spectacle of the show, stopping to listen. A crowd would gather then retreat until ultimately growing in size back again. Sirens blared from ambulances, forcing the audience to lean in and listen carefully, so as not to miss even the smallest turn of phrase or caustic remark. I noticed the McDonald's across the block and how strange its golden arches and red awning looked in the neighborhood. The performance ran close to three hours but felt much shorter. It truly makes a difference when you see the effort and the work, as well as the excitement and the passion of the people behind the show. I mean literally, I saw them change costumes and look at scripts from behind parked cars closely near the stage. 

After the show was done, the creative director of the Drilling Company (the company that produces the plays each summer) came into the middle of the stage and talked to the audience. It was the last performance of "Twelfth Night" and after the next production, "Othello", was to begin the following week, this space would no longer be hosting Shakespeare in the Parking Lot. A twenty year institution would have to move, if they could find some place to move to. Of course, something else was to be constructed there soon. A museum or a luxury condominium taking over the space to start making money. Nothing lasts forever, especially when it comes to empty real estate in New York City. 

* * *

Everything happens for a reason. I'm not sure I believe that philosophy as a rule, but it's hard not to when you live in New York. When one thing doesn't work out, you aren't just going to go home (especially if it's my apartment) and sulk. You find something else, something better. Meet more people, try a new thing. If I would have gotten tickets to the Public Theater's production in Central Park I would never have learned about Shakespeare in the Parking Lot and never got the chance to emerge myself in its special kind of charm, watch its aggressively talented young cast, and most importantly, I wouldn't have gotten the collective experience of the occasion, and all the feelings that came with it, before and after. Because when all is said and done, I think Shakespeare would have respected the plastic white folding chairs encircling the grungy cement of the Lower East Side much more than the 6 hours of agony waiting in line for assigned seats at the distinguished Delacorte theater. 

-

A little post script for those curious. I did end up seeing "King Lear" in Central Park this past Tuesday starring, among others, Annette Bening, Jessica Hecht, and the incomparable John Lithgow in the title role. I waited in line the only day of the summer where tickets were offered at the Public Theater box office downtown on Lafayette Street. 3 hours, wasn't that bad. I had distractions. Of course, it was a stunning production, the weather was perfect, and I came to the conclusion that there is a reason people wait in the lines. The stars. They're worth it, for the most part. I will never forget seeing John Lithgow as Lear for the rest of my life, if only for the overpowering stammer of his voice and the visible spit of his diction. But in all honesty it wasn't the experience I had at Shakespeare in the Parking Lot, and you know something, that's ok. 

photo diary 4

I wanted to share some more pictures from the past couple of weeks with everyone. My adventure continues each day bringing me to new neighborhoods, historic districts, interesting people, and of course delicious food. One thing about New York that most agree upon is that its incredibly photogenic. From the architecture of the buildings to the beauty of the parks, there are interesting spots to capture all over the city, and sometimes in the most peculiar of places. I bet over 100 years ago when these tenement buildings of the next couple of pictures were housing 1000's of immigrants in extremely poor situations, taking a picture was the last thing on anyone's mind. But now, the renovated buildings of the lower east side have a rawness and authenticity that enrich each building, giving them their own distinct character.

corner of Orchard Street and Stanton Street 

Ludlow Street 

I think I've mentioned Smorgasburg before, the outdoor specialty food event that happens every weekend in Brooklyn Heights and Williamsburg. The food is incredible. Popsicles, cucumber-mint lemonade, ramen burgers, hand-cut fries with 10 different specialty aioli's. I decided to go all out because a friend (she knows who she is) told me I had to try the Red Hook lobster roll sandwich. Glad I did, but for $16 I'll try it again next summer. Here are some snaps from the Brooklyn Heights Smorgasburg..

I visit Greenwich Village more than any other neighborhood. There is a feeling that washes over you while walking down the tree-lined streets that can only be described as comfort.

One of the oldest off broadway theaters in the city, on Commerce Street. 

frosting cupcakes at the infamous Magnolia Bakery 

Last Friday I went to Uniqlo Free Fridays at MoMa and barely waited in line. The museum was swarming with tourists taking advantage of the free admission, but I made it my personal goal to capture the museum at different angles, and found what appeared to be the only Braque (one of my favorite artists) painting in the place. 

staircase 

bird's eye view 

Georges Braque 

Earlier this week I made my way all the way up to Columbia University. I imagined myself being a student, walking underneath the trees, carrying my books to class, mingling with the professors. Who knows? Maybe graduate school here is in my future. I won't hold my breath. 

* * * 

Some random moments ...

looking towards Manhattan from Weehawken before dinner with Aunt 

drinks at the Frying Pan on the Hudson 

Cafe Lalo on the Upper West Side, where Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks traded barbs in "You've Got Mail" 

Bryant Park outdoor movie screening every Monday through summer 

at Culture Espresso in Midtown, I can't not take pictures of latte art

On Wednesday's in the Bryant Park outdoor reading room on 42nd street they host readings and discussions of new and noteworthy books. Last week I went to one with four debut authors who had just released their first books. Each answered questions about the writing process and then shared horror stories of their book's publishing.. It was both enlightening and entertaining. Writers are always the best people to see because they speak so well, being able to articulate their feelings in a universal way. This week I returned to the park because Piper Kerman, the author of the memoir "Orange is the New Black" that the Netflix series is based on, was going to have a discussion with Emily Nussbaum, the television critic at the New Yorker magazine. I thought my head might explode. Nussbaum is a fantastic critic, and an even better writer, regularly championing obscure and intelligent series she believes deserves an audience and a platform. Personally, "Orange is the New Black" is the most exciting thing to happen to TV since "Girls" three years ago. A provocative blast of fresh air in a television landscape mainly preoccupied with the white male antihero, it focuses on the women at a low security correctional facility in upstate New York. The show centers on issues of race, sexuality and sociology with humor, pathos, and an incredible amount of empathy. After two seasons it remains the best show on TV (well the internet). 

Kerman, who served time in a women's prison nearly a decade ago for a crime she committed when she was in her early 20s, talked not only about her memoir and the television series it spawned but also discussed the major issues and flaws in the American prison system. From her own personal experience she has in turn written this book which has exploded with the success of the television show, allowing her to have a remarkable platform to advocate for prison reform. It's an amazing story, and in her resilience and intelligence Kerman is inspirational in the way she has transformed her life. 

After the discussion I waited for Kerman to sign my copy of her memoir. She said to me that she looked at me in the audience and thought she knew me from somewhere. Apparently I had a familiar face according to her. She was delightful, signing my book with a smile. 

Nussbaum and Kerman

the reading room

Some snaps from a perfect afternoon stroll in Central Park...

 A few more random pictures ... 

for anyone who knows me, this poster is one my favorite things, saw it in a bathroom in a ramen restaurant on the Lower east side

Park Avenue 

And I'll conclude with some pictures of the exterior of the Guggenheim museum, one of the most artistically striking buildings in the city, located on Museum Mile (5th avenue) a few blocks north of the Met. I haven't gone inside yet, but I'm planning to before I leave. The shape of the building, the typeface of the name on the outside, it's all perfect, and such a contrast to the surrounding area. 

Hope you all are enjoying the city with me! Until next time.

loving and hating the subway

"This is a Brooklyn bound 4 express train. The next stop is Borough Hall. Stand clear of the closing doors."

* * * 

I have been in New York now for five weeks and taken exactly one cab ride. From JFK International Airport to my apartment in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. $75. I know. Wait, scratch that, I've taken two cab rides. But the second one was technically an Uber, it was raining, I split it with a friend, rode only 7 blocks, and paid $4, so I barely count that. I take the subway like a real New Yorker. Everyone does. That magical underground connection of electric railway lines that move literally millions of people a day throughout the five boroughs, the subway (or the train as it's usually called) and I have a complicated relationship. Somedays when I wake up, after briskly walking down Franklin Avenue in my neighborhood, the 4 is just waiting for me, as if it knew I was coming (I avoid the 2 and 3, they make more unnecessary stops). The particular car I hop into has few passengers on it, each one thoroughly engrossed in their newspaper or iPhone. I find a seat quickly by the railing, pop in my headphones and I'm off. There is no train traffic up ahead, no weird smells, no one staring at me for no reason, no crying babies or scary homeless people. Nothing disturbs my ride. For a small moment in time the subway and I are meant for each other. This doesn't happen often.

The New York City subway is one of the oldest and busiest public transportation systems in the entire world. It includes a complex grid of underground and elevated railway lines, some run on embankments or open cuts, with a few even running on ground level. It covers all five boroughs, with every line accept one (the awful G) making its way through Manhattan. The trains are constantly being updated, renovated, maintained, in a sense, becoming better. The first underground line started operating in 1904, 35 years after the initial elevated line opened, and it's only exploded ever since. There are currently 468 separate stations, with 34 different lines in operation 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, even on holidays. From recent estimates almost 6 million people ride the subway daily, on weekends it drops to a mere 3.5 million. For a city like New York, with a population of nearly 9 million people, the subway remains the most efficient means of transportation offered.

* * * 

"Ladies and Gentlemen we are delayed due to train traffic ahead. Thank you for your patience." 

* * * 

For those of you who have never ridden the subway before, or their only familiarity with public transportation is raucous and drunken cab rides late at night, in solitary bliss, or trolleys to some destination with family, the New York City subway can be an intimidating and at times overwhelming experience.When I took the train back in January, on my first trip to New York, I rode it with someone I knew at all times. It was a shared experience, which are always easier to handle. There was someone to wink and nod to, a person to laugh with, a face to focus on. You are allowed to smile and chat with the people you know. Once you're forced to ride it alone, as I have now for the past five weeks, you have to put on an entirely new persona, the subway persona, adapting to the riders and locals around you. Your once smiling face transforms to one of confident non-expression. This lack of expression, a face made of stone, cannot waiver no matter who sits down next to you, no matter how bad the person across the car smells, or how loud the homeless person is begging, or how many times a tourist steps on your foot. If you don't have a book or article on your phone to read (sorry, there is definitely no cell service underground), or earphones to shield your hearing, your out of luck. Your attention must be on something. And while staring at your lap is easy it can get real boring real quick, and for the most part eye contact with strangers is not a viable or even smart option. 

Personally I choose to look up above the seated passengers, locking my gaze on a specific advertisement: the jolly Airbnb customers, the new Oprah-centric summer menu at Starbucks, the Upper East Side plastic surgeon's office ad that is simply a picture of a woman's cleavage. The trains that display the subway stops lined up for convenient reference above the windows, with their round lights above going dim once the stop has been passed are an easy distraction. I look up and down and memorize the order, my OCD taking over. When my eyes aren't looking up, they're looking down of course, at people's feet. No chance for eye contact down there. I've seen every type of shoe you could imagine, even some bare feet. Don't ask. Worn out sneakers, scuffed red wings, gladiator sandals, Christian Louboutin's, work boots, even this season's trendy moccasin. While I try not to look at toes, sometimes it's hard NOT to look at them. 

* * *

"Brooklyn bound 4. Express. Next stop, Nevins. Stand clear closing doors."

* * * 

Everyone moves so quickly beneath the city, if possible even faster than when they're up above on the streets. No traffic lights to stop them. Pause for a mere moment, you're subway roadkill. One thing you realize very soon is that New Yorkers always have some place they need to be. And they need to get there as soon as possible. Doesn't anyone want to wander anymore? No they do not. They have reservations to meet up with clients, work to make on time, deadlines to accomplish. There is proper subway etiquette to follow. An important rule that I learned immediately is you must allow the people currently on board the train to get off before you proceed to get on. This allows an orderly flow of traffic. I learned this by seeing a curmudgeonly older gentleman with wispy white hair, walker shaking about, literally scream at someone trying to barge their way in, "Wait your fucking turn, asshole." I thought he was being polite.

Below the high rises and under the steaming grates people whip in and out of the subway cars on a personal mission, metro card in hand, ready to swipe at a moment's notice. If you are one of the very unlucky people who have to swipe more than a couple times for your card to go through, I pity you. For someone new, you have to pay very close attention to the signs. The literally dozens of signs that point you in every direction imaginable. That classic scene from "Pee Wee's Big Adventure" comes to mind, when he's driving at night and the traffic signs become increasingly more absurd and complex, confusion growing into anger leading to fear. Many times I found myself at a dead end I thought was taking me to an exit. I should have noticed I was the only one walking down an abandoned pathway. There is local or express options. Weekday only or weekend nights. Morning or rush hour. Downtown or Uptown. Manhattan or Brooklyn. Queens or the Bronx. And the colors! Red for the west side, green for the east. Yellow for the center. Orange takes forever. Blue is the slowest. On the ride, glance up at the wrong time and you find yourself above Central Park in Harlem instead of across the river in Brooklyn. Trust me, getting lost is an almost too common occurrence.

* * *

"Lades and Gentleman, be safe. Look after you possessions and be aware of your surroundings. If you see something, say something. This has been a message from the MTA service department." 

* * * 

For all that is wrong and weird and scary about the subway, there is something about it that is extraordinary and unique. I think about all the time I spend driving in solitude at home in San Diego, how everyone does. The hours spent in traffic, each one of us, in our own separate boxes, alone, blasting the radio or listening to NPR, illegally checking our phones, swiping through Pandora. The same drive and the same street signs day after day. All routine, no action. The only time driving is scary is when we see a cop lingering behind us, or there's an idiot maniacally swerving beside you. On the subway, you thank your lucky stars when there's a policeman in your car, and practically each ride you feel as if your car is going to fly off the tracks, lights flickering on and off. You get used to it. 

The routine of solitary driving lies in stark contrast to riding the subway daily. Sure, you grow familiar with the stops you frequent, or the major stations where the most people get on and off, but there is always something happening, there are always the people. Below the city, lies another city all its own, with its varied citizens and laws, unspoken rules, and common occurrences. Each line and station carry a distinct personality. You know you're at Fulton street when you see the hoards of businessman headed to the financial district in their crisp suits, briefcases in hand, blue tooth in ear. You know you've arrived to Times Square-42nd because the train becomes a cluster of confused tourists, and frustrated midtown professionals, a surprisingly combustible mixture that I try to avoid as often as possible. Moving uptown on the east side, you see the urban trendsetters of the Lower East Side and East Village with their amazing clothes suddenly switch to the pearls and pumps, and holier-than-thou attitude of the upper east side house wives. Yes, even they take the train. Grand street into Canal becomes the epicenter of Chinatown locals, carrying multiple grocery bags, chatting amongst each other, dragging behind them their daily lives in steel crates. There's rush hour just like on the roads. Less trains run at night, because there are supposed to be less people out and about. I'm waiting for the MTA to realize the 12am lines are in fact even busier than the 3pm ones. 

* * * 

"(indecipherable noise)... Brooklyn express... (noise) delay... (noise) next stop... (noise)... doors please." 

* * *

In the end it's the faces that get me the most. The faces even got to me back in January, when they were obscured by scarves and beanies, when I was a subway virgin. During the summer though, no one's face can hide, there's exhaustion in just standing on the subway platform. The hot air staying still, the only relief coming with the shock of breeze that blows past as the train arrives. The beads of sweat, the tired eyes, the nervous tics befall everyone. And it's amazing to see how the people change as you move swiftly through the neighborhoods and boroughs. It's like pressing fast forward while walking down the avenues. The more you move towards the East river into Brooklyn, the wearier the faces get, the longer the people have to travel. The population that inhabited the train at Grand Central looks very different from when you arrive to central Brooklyn, and you see it. At 9pm on Friday in the midst of the madness of midtown what began as a jam-packed, standing room only 4 filled with a combination of tourists, twenty-somethings heading downtown, urban professionals finishing their overtime and annoying tweens soon thins out. All that remains are the Brooklyn artists, the twee hipsters, the minorities and people of color, the ones who have the longest ride to take. They play candy crush on their phones and look up every so often at nothing in particular. They bounce their heads to the music flooding into their ears through headphones, they sleep with mouths wide open, they huddle and chat in groups. And they've always done this, and continue to every day because they must. Living in New York demands it.

So what is there to love you may ask? For me, it's the fact that everyone subjects themselves to the chaos, the personality and the psychology of this underground world each and everyday. Because really, who in their right mind ever wants to drive in Manhattan, and who can realistically afford taking a cab each day? In the eyes of an evolving artist, the subway provides not only endless inspiration, but also a constant stream of curiosity and questions. Where are they going?.. I wonder what their day has been like... Who is that ridiculously attractive man?.. What events lead this individual to be begging for coins on a half empty train at 2 pm?.. Why is that woman so upset?.. They look like a happy couple... For a writer, there's nothing better.

* * *

"This is Franklin Avenue." At last, my stop. 

queens for the day

When my roommate who doesn't sit invited me to join him and a few of his friends in Flushing, Queens this past Saturday I didn’t give it a second thought. It was the first time he invited me to do anything besides go on a walk with his dog to the park. I was anxious to go explore somewhere he was familiar with, and to meet some new people. He was ready to just sit and enjoy all the ridiculously cheap food. He had just finished his self inflicted 30 day no sitting regimen. I’ve mentioned this before but let me clarify, he didn’t sit down, at all. From the moment he woke up until his head hit the pillow at night he didn’t sit. Leaning was ok, of course, if he needed to go to the bathroom that was fine. But sitting, out of the question.

It was a good thing too, because the train ride into Flushing took a good hour and 15 minutes. It would not have been fun to stand and attempt balancing during the ride. Queens lies to the northeast of Manhattan across the East River, above Brooklyn, and the only train that goes in and out of Flushing is the 7, making it a real adventure to go explore. Flushing is the second largest Chinatown outside of Asia and some say even rivals Manhattan’s Chinatown in terms of population and political significance. Specifically the area around Main Street heading west onto Roosevelt street is now thought to be the political and financial center for Chinese-speaking New Yorkers. While Chinese is the dominant and most prevalent population in the region a significant portion of the area also contains Korean, Malaysian, Sri Lankan, Indian, and Hispanic communities. The neighborhood of Flushing is one of the few popular destinations within the five boroughs that seem completely untouched by tourism and Manhattan influence. 

main street, Flushing 

dragon fruit 

We went for the food. My roommate told me it’s the best and cheapest Chinese in the city. Immediately after the long train ride we went to one of the many French influenced Asian bakeries. Flaky, chocolate drizzled croissants, mini cinnamon-sugar coated rice donut balls, breakfast quiches, blueberry baked French toast, I mean there was any type of baked good you could imagine. You grab a wooden tray and a pair of tongs, and go to town, carefully picking and choosing which ones you like, and it sets you back at the most, $2. One could easily go nuts in a place like this; restraining myself, I only got a croissant and one mini donut.

Next up in our overeating tour was the famous duck bun. Lodged into a market in the center of Main street behind piles of dragon fruit and fresh picked vegetables, roasted ducks hanging from their limbs in the window, you would never know to stop there. There's a small window with two severe looking Asian women, hair disheveled, who yell out, “You! What want?”

“1 duck bun please.”

“One dollaa. Quick please one dollaa.”

the famous duck bun 

interior of Spicy and Tasty 

People shout at you on every corner.  Buy this, taste this, come in here. On each street there are silent women and men who slyly grin and hand out pamphlets and flyers to anyone walking by. I asked what they were for, and how they expect us to understand what they mean when they’re entirely in Mandarin. “Yeah, they don’t care. And honestly they’re either invitations to sketchy bath houses, or anit-Communist or pro-Communist propaganda.”

After cold noodles, and roasted eggplant at Spicy and Tasty we ventured into the mall where there were dozens of stores, selling one of three different products: tacky shoes and women's clothing, iphone/ tablet accessories or Hello Kitty products. I'm not joking. I realized I hadn't seen even one store that sold men's clothes the entire time. My roommate's friend saw an orange and cream short sleeve patterned shirt in the window of a large discount store (it was definitely a women's t-shirt), he bought it anyway. It was $5. At least he has a good story to tell about its origin.

had to take a picture of this menu

* * *

It was interesting to spend time with my roommate outside of the park and meet a couple of his friends. I quickly learned throughout the day they were all musicians, working on different solo and collaborative projects, DJing at trendy clubs in Williamsburg each weekend. Different identities yet similar goals. In Brooklyn, I've come to the conclusion that everyone seems to merge organically with those similar around them, artists looking to collaborate. I thought back to meeting Ariele, and the cluster of artisans making things with their hands coming together in that industrial building in Bed Stuy. There's a willingness to succeed and experiment, network, learn and be inspired by those around you.

The next day I woke up and found my roommate packing up his things, sweeping up the dog fur and dust from his bedroom, putting his clothes in boxes, maneuvering around his always in the way great dane Bro. He had told me a few days prior he was going home to Indiana for a couple of weeks to work on projects and he'd be back before someone new was coming to sublet in August. I'm not sure I believe him. Later that afternoon after returning home from errands, he was gone. His room looked like a model home before someone moves in. The shelves were empty, the hangers in the closet had no clothes to keep them company. His new mattress was stripped of sheets and blankets. My other roommate joined me in his room and said, "I'm not sure he's coming back."

"Are you kidding? He said he was only gonna be gone for a little over a week. Enough time to build his tripod car thing or whatever," I responded.

"I don't know man, he was just going off on twitter last night about thanking New York for everything and that he'd miss everyone. Probably ran out of money. He'll be back. It's his responsibility to find someone to occupy the room." Shrugging his shoulders, he walked away into his room and closed the door. Soon after I did the same.