Island Run

On Presidents’ Day weekend I fittingly met up with friends at Roosevelt Island, which even many long-time New York City residents have not been to. Technically part of Manhattan, it’s a skinny island to the east of the Upper West Side / Midtown East neighborhoods. To go by public transportation, you can take the subway, ferry, or the most unique way, the tram, a cable car that runs on a line high above the East River and makes you feel like you are floating in air.

You can also drive there, which I did once during the height of the pandemic, to pick up a box from a friend who was moving back to her country temporarily and needed a place to store some of her stuff. I was confused that the GPS directed me to go east into Queens and then drive back west to cross a bridge to Roosevelt Island. At the time I thought maybe it was because the bridge between Manhattan and Roosevelt Island was one way. However, according to Wikipedia the Roosevelt Island Bridge is rarely opened because that side of the river is where boats pass.

This most recent time, I took the tram, like everybody else and their mother because the subway was closed for weekend construction. I was headed to the island for a purely leisure activity: jogging with a close friend. I never thought I would jog voluntarily, but it is a pandemic hobby, i.e. one of the hobbies I cultivated during the pandemic. My friend, on the other hand, has been running for years and has been encouraging of my venture into this sport. We had not run together before save for an actual race last year (why not start with a bang?), and “together” is used loosely since she soon disappeared from view during that event. I was looking forward to seeing if I could keep up with her or at least stretch toward my potential, which I know I have not reached.

We chatted as we jogged, which I think is unusual for both of us. It made it fun… and challenging.

Roosevelt Island is a beautiful place to run around. And it feels like a village, a strange thing to say about Manhattan. There are high-rises, but there is also only one of everything. One main street (Main Street), one supermarket, one library… you get the idea.

After maybe a mile, I said I would walk a bit but that my friend could go ahead. She suggested we could walk in the park, which we were approaching. Although we weren’t purposely observing Presidents’ Day, we happened to be entering Franklin D. Roosevelt Four Freedoms Park. (I guess this was more coincidental for me since she frequents the park.)

After a look at the view, we continued on our way, making sure to take a peek at the cat sanctuary, one of the island’s quirks that I had first visited with a friend from Massachusetts who had arrived with a list of off-the-beaten path sites to see in NYC.

After another stretch of jogging, I opted to finish up but encouraged my friend to keep going if she wanted. While she continued running, I took my time walking and stopped along the river in the sun, then headed to our agreed upon meeting point to wait in the shade.

We reunited. After a break at the apartment she and her husband share, the three of us went out to get nooooodles. Yes, noooooodles.

I was delighted to see this rabbit decoration on the door and wondered where the restaurant had gotten it—a couple of weeks earlier, I had looked around Chinatown and bought some cute rabbit decorations for Lunar New Year but hadn’t seen designs like this one. Maybe they had other sources. The island is full of sights you won’t see anywhere else.

Fly Me Away and Come Fly with Me

Recently I attended a show that was a mix of jazz and musical called “Fly Me Away.” As it began I realized it was the first live show I’d seen to feature an all-Asian cast. The writer is super talented. I think one day I’ll hear about all the great work he’s creating and will look back and say, “I went to a free show by him while he was a student.”

The next day, a friend and her husband suggested we go to a café, which was plane-themed and had this décor.

What does it mean!? I already flew this year. Should I be interpreting this metaphorically. Maybe it’s a coincidence.

Return to Seoul

Recently I ventured out on a weeknight to see a film called “Return to Seoul.” I rarely, rarely (rarely) watch movies in theater. But this was part of my new year of exploring more local activities, and I didn’t know if I’d be able to watch this film on another platform anytime soon. It was timely, as I had just gotten back from a trip to the Philippines, and on the last leg my dad and I had a long stopover in Seoul that we used to have a brief adventure in a country neither of us had been to before.

I had bought my ticket online beforehand, but I didn’t need to, as five minutes before the start, the theatre looked like this.

Empty! That’s my red jacket. To, you know, save my seat.

When I had made my way to the room a little earlier, two guys were setting up the equipment to project the film and discussing what they were doing. It felt weird to be watching them, so I wandered back out and sat at a pleasing little café setup the cinema had. After a while, the two guys came out and told me they were done. I jokingly asked if I would be the only one there. “That’s the best way to watch a movie,” one of them said.

Eventually, others arrived, and eight of us watched the movie. It was in Korean, French, and English, a delicious mix of languages and cultures.

Later, I mentioned this film to different friends, and I realized once again that different circles of people are in the know about different forms of culture. A former colleague, a friend I first met at a language group, and a new friend all said they had heard about “Return to Seoul” and were interested in seeing it. Sometimes when I speak with one group of friends, I feel like everyone except me knows about this Marvel movie coming out or this show on Netflix. Turns out I just know about a different film that a different everyone is talking about.

Our Roots Run Deep

Thank you to the two friends who encouraged me to come back here!

I haven’t stopped writing—I write for my job, occasional long emails (well, long by today’s standard of text and app messaging), and to myself in order to untangle tormented relationships. Last night I wrote an email to one of my uncles after I found out from my dad that my uncle and I happened to be reading the same book. (The only difference being that he is on chapter 26 of Helen Zia’s Last Boat Out of Shanghai whereas I am on page 26.)

However, there isn’t anywhere that I write these snapshots of my life and of my life with others. I don’t use Instagram and stopped using Facebook this way a few years ago. But I enjoy reading others’ blogs and enjoyed writing this one.

At the beginning of this year I caught up with a friend in Manhattan. He and I sometimes don’t see each other for months at a time, but he is my first friend from post-college and feels solid. In other words, a gem.

We had dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant (I was craving a banh mi) and had real conversation. I find that in my 30s, my conversations with long-time friends have gotten ‘realer’—almost as if it took more than a decade to unravel some of the dirt we keep inside and to show it to those we have more in common with than we thought. It’s such a blessing to have stayed friends long enough to get to this point I didn’t know was another place to reach.

The restaurant bathroom had this unique door.

When looking for something for us to check out that evening, I finally found an interesting-looking art exhibit at Pearl River Mart, an establishment in New York City that has changed locations over the years. A store that sells Chinese and Asian items, it apparently also had a small gallery at this fairly new location on Broadway. That night was the opening for “OUR ROOTS RUN DEEP: Finding Home in Chinatown” by Chinese American artist Warren King. When we arrived, the artist was speaking. After he took a few questions, we wandered around the sculptures, which were composed of cardboard and glue. They reminded me of my sister, who has also constructed things from recycled cardboard.

On our unhurried walk to the subway, there was a store I had never seen before that contained, to put it simply, cute. Everything inside was cute.

Saturday Night Work in the City

Yesterday evening beau and I saw behind the scenes work on full display in Manhattan. We were walking in midtown, going south on 6^th Ave. Right after passing a grand doorway with two suited men standing in front, we saw a brightly lit window with a man slicing cake inside. I stopped, and we watched him steadily and quickly slice cake and place them on individual plates. The flavor appeared to be funfetti– fun. Behind him, there were staff in black filling the kitchen, walking in a slow line with dirty plates in hand—toward a dishwasher, I presume. Taking it all in, I saw that there were two tiers of cake right by the window, with the top layer missing. It was a wedding! 

When the man was done slicing the top tier, he expertly removed the next layer with his bare hands and moved it to the counter. I was amazed. Those cakes always look so delicate, but he was obviously used to this and was talking with his colleagues while he worked. After carving up the second layer, he walked over to the bottom tier and pulled out little wooden sticks. Who knew there was so much non-cake in the cake.

Walking on, we ended up in Herald Square, where the famous Macy’s department store is. The normally lavish windows were empty. In them instead were men measuring and figuring out how to set up the next display. I’ve walked past Macy’s at night many times (notably when I had a Spanish class on the east side and would walk across town to the bus station afterward), and this was the first time I had happened upon what happens between displays. 

I’ve always loved seeing what happens behind the scenes. It’s what I’ve enjoyed about working in different industries. And sometimes all you have to do is look through a window.

Day Off in January

This time last year, I had some time off on a weekday and was looking for a nearby place to explore on my own. On Google Maps, I zoomed out of my area to see green spots that I had not been to before. 

I drove to a park that was only ten minutes away. After walking past an empty playground and track, I found a more wild-looking area covered in dead leaves. At first it was unclear where the trail was, so I stomped around trying to figure out how to get on a small bridge to the other side. From the broken bench, these trails were clearly not well maintained, and under the bleak January sky the quiet area seemed even more grim. I did see a young couple walking their dog, which was encouraging. I looped around until I found a way onto the bridge.

The other side was weirder. After walking along a few paths, I came to a clearing on the edge of a lake where hundreds of Canadian geese floated. Clearly this was their home. I imagined what it would be like if they all flew up at the same time.

Backing away from the lake slowly, I walked further down another path. I came upon a huge sports field and saw a school across from it, in the distance. After the untouched natural areas I had seen, it felt both anticlimactic and reassuring.

Re-entering the woods, I came across a tire swing and a bunch of boards nailed to a tree. I realized the planks formed a sort of a ladder, which was somewhat charming, and I wondered who had added them. They seemed sturdy, but I only tried the first plank– just in case.

There were also wooden planks and ropes draped around the area. They were left with some purpose but were also random enough to seem strange.

Back at home, I continued my afternoon off by opening this bubble tea kit. I will admit that it was the packaging that enticed me. It was… okay. I will return to the bubble tea shop.

Galettes Inspire Me to Write

It’s been a year! I’ve sometimes thought about writing, but my personal laptop is on its last legs, and then you know how it is. Month after month passes, and then suddenly you have not seen your friend for two years even though you’ve both gotten the Covid vaccination and booster and you used to see each other every week for lunch, and then another variant arrives on the scene and it’s below freezing outside and you’re working from home and go out much less frequently in the evenings and you video chat once in a while instead.. 

But I seem to have gotten off track.

Maybe today was the day I came back to write because I bought a galette des rois, and my last post was a year ago, about my research and purchase of galette des rois in the U.S. The price at the bakery I bought it at last year went up– like many food items and services have since the pandemic started– so I called my second choice. They are operating on limited staff and limited hours and were closed until later this week. Their galette is only a dollar less, so I bit the bullet and went to the same bakery I went to last year.

Oh, those Januarys in Paris when I ate galettes all month, from all over the city, for several euros each. They were abundant. 

But I’m glad I had those adventures when I did, and that I was closer to my original home during the pandemic. Last year my adventures were more local, and all road trips. I had a few moments of that feeling I get when wandering a new city while traveling. Sometimes that feeling wasn’t even in a new city, but on streets I had never been before. I felt it when walking from Cambridge to Harvard Square with my bf and coming across a purple house with painted signs all over the fence and building and strange sounds coming out of it. And when I was delighted by a simple cheese tasting at a goat farm in upstate New York. And when my mom and I happened to be at the right place at the right time for a kite festival at the beach.

Like most people who blog, writing helps me see things in new ways, weave a tale from a specific angle, and reflect on experiences in a clearer way than in my mind, which sometimes goes in many directions at once. I love reading others’ writings too. All that has given me a yearning to come back. With additional inspiration from the galette des rois!

Going for the Galette des rois

After five Januarys thinking about the galette des rois, I bit the fève and splurged on one. Do you ever once in a while do something to make yourself happy? That’s what it felt like. So satisfying.

When I moved back to the States from France several years ago, the first January I called different French bakeries in Manhattan to compare their galettes: size, price. Learning that they were usually around $30, I blanched after having gotten used to picking up galettes all over Paris, from bakeries and supermarkets, for a few euros. All month I would have one or two in my apartment and liberally eat them as a snack. In the States, they are considered specialty items, like most French goods.

Another year, through one of the e-lists I was on I found out about an event by a French group. If I remember correctly, admission was $10 to attend a reception with galettes from various bakeries in NYC. I invited a francophile friend, and we sat at one of the cafeteria-like tables in a room that resembled an after-school space; perhaps it was. There seemed to be mostly French expats, many with their kids. The atmosphere was casual. Not shy, I tasted the different galettes being circulated.

This year I realized it was time. How could I go five years without buying a galette des rois when there are actually French bakeries all over my region and I love its almond flavor so? I searched online and called and messaged bakeries to find out sizes and prices, as I did several years ago. But this time, I chose one to take home. It was about a half hour drive away, the best price, and located in my hometown of Jersey City. My dad parked on a corner (street parking can be a hassle there) while I ran down and fulfilled my dream. I had even called that morning to make sure one would be waiting for me. The box was warm on my lap. It smelled like pastry goodness.

Upon opening the box, I was amused to see the fève in a little plastic bag. Does the U.S. have a safety rule against placing objects in food? Probably. I thought it was funny that the bakery bothered to include the token, which was a plastic toucan. I wondered how they imagined people would use it because it would make the slice fall apart if you tried to insert it. Perhaps one person slices up the galette first and hides the fève under a slice while making sure no one looks? For us this was a moot point, as this particular galette was not for a party, but purely for consumption.

If you are not familiar with the galette des rois, it is associated with the Epiphany, the Catholic holiday on January 6 that celebrates the Three Kings visiting baby Jesus.

The sweet pastry is round and filled with frangipane, or almond paste, and can be in different sizes, from individual to large (although it seems that in the U.S. only larger ones are sold, at least 6″-10″). By tradition, the youngest person at a gathering– who might be a child, but not always– gets under the dining table while another person slices the galette. Without looking, the youngest person says who the first slice goes to, and so on until everyone has a slice. Then everyone can start eating. One slice has a small object inside– the fève, which is often a plastic figurine. That person is crowned king or queen with the gold crown that accompanies the galette, and he or she chooses his or her king or queen.

I have been to gatherings where we did this tradition, one of the first being during my study abroad program in Paris. But during the more recent time I lived there, most of the galettes I ate were individual sized ones with no fève or crown– just delicious almond paste that I alone ate and felt like the queen every time.

Yesterday I recounted my exciting galette purchase during a spontaneous video chat with my friend and his ten-year-old daughter who live in Marseilles. My friend informed me of a regional rendition I had never heard of– the gâteau des rois. I was flabbergasted. What is it like? I wanted to know. He said it was like the galette des rois, but it was a cake. I asked him which one they had this year. He said both (of course– that is the correct answer). I guess I now have my next pastry to pursue, or should I say cake. I suspect it will be harder to find in the States.

Eating Out in NYC (Literally)

Six weeks ago I walked past this VIP outdoor seating at a Thai place I used to meet beau at sometimes. No longer offering indoor dining due to the pandemic, they had set up a single table on the sidewalk. The velvety red rope stood in contrast to the nearby stack of carrots and parked school buses across the street.

New York has been very creative with its outdoor dining. To make up for the fact that customers are seated on sidewalks next to traffic, they have enclosed the small areas in festive colored walls, plants, and decorations.

Since mid-March, I have only had one meal at a restaurant with table service in New York City. One September weekend, I met up with a friend and her boyfriend at a Thai place in midtown. The tables, rather than being placed on the sidewalk, were on the road, separated from the restaurant facade by a bike lane. When we arrived, the server looked left and right, then led us across the bike lane to our table. I was tickled by this. There was even a sign warning customers to be aware of passing bikes.

Luckily, 9^th Avenue is actually pretty quiet traffic-wise.

As we waited for our dinner to be served, my friend pointed out “The Edge,” a new viewpoint at the top of a skyscraper nearby. They had just come from there before meeting me. Because she is a doctor, she had received a free ticket during that period when many businesses were offering perks and discounts to first-responders.

At one point, I crossed the bike lane to enter the restaurant to go to the bathroom. As I stepped through the door, an employee held a temperature gun to my head, which surprised me since he didn’t audibly say anything before doing so.

After dinner, we donned our masks and walked to the Hudson River, something I have done many times in previous summers but was the first (and last) time this season.

Near the river, people were lounging on the grass and sitting at the chairs and tables. I saw one woman lovingly brushing her dog and another two people trying to get their dogs to pose for pictures. I wondered whether the months of quarantine had made dogs’ importance loom all the more large in people’s lives, or whether I had forgotten what New York City pet owners are like. Given the number of pet strollers in Manhattan (not many, but more than you might think), it was probably a bit of both.

Going “Down the Shore”

When I started this blog, I was living in Paris and posted pretty regularly. Eventually, I posted less often, but for all these years I’ve kept up my goal to post at least once a month, save for once. There were times it was on the last day of the month (and then often again within a few days because one post creates momentum). I knew that if I didn’t have this concrete benchmark, I would likely fall off the wagon. And that’s what’s happened! I have not posted here all autumn.

Tonight I opened up my laptop to write, and I realized that I had written the post below on August 4^th! So a few days before the start of winter, here is an account from the dog days of summer.

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The first summer after I returned from France several years ago, I concentrated on learning my responsibilities at my new job and generally enjoyed a wealth of outdoor activities in New York City. Since then, every summer I have used the majority of my year’s vacation days on a trip abroad for two plus weeks. Theoretically, I see the value in taking a day off to rest and relax, but after getting to travelling all the time in Europe, I felt the need to accumulate my days in the States in order to be able to leave it—for a short bit.

This summer, of course, was different due to Covid. No international travel. At the beginning of summer, I thought that maybe eventually I’d do a road trip domestically, but that has not happened. What that means, however, is that I suddenly for the first time have all these vacation days that I am not using in one swoop. And I am discovering the joy in taking a day off here and there.

The first day I took off since January was in the beginning of June. A friend and I took a virtual trip to Italy, which is a story for another day. In mid-June I took a Wednesday off for my mom’s birthday, which I had not done before.

The past few Fridays, beau (who is not French but I will refer to him thus, as it comes naturally to me) and I have headed down to the beach, which we have taken to pairing with a hike beforehand. I now understand the appeal of taking an extra day off without jetting or bussing off to a destination for a few nights. It’s relaxed. In general, I am a night packer because I like to have everything prepared the day before a long trip, but now I can pull out my big sturdy tote bag the morning of and easily toss in a towel, suntan lotion, herbal bug repellent, water, and snacks. There was a time I thought I wasn’t a “beach person,” but these quarantine times have expanded my definition of myself, for the better. I like taking out one of my two bathing suits every week.

No dogs and kites.