Salve

I was stressed and I was worried, and that hung over me during my walk to meet two good friends for dinner.

I came upon this community garden and made a detour to walk through it.

Then, the first to arrive, I sat outside the restaurant and looked down this alley for the first time.

And those things made all the difference.

And I wished that everyone with something weighing on them could feel this wonder to lighten it from time to time.

When I take a walk, I can’t predict where the relief will come from, and that is part of the beauty of it.

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A Tradition Transported

Fête de la Musique became my favorite day when I lived in Paris. It takes place on the Summer Solstice every year. Along with other cities around the world, New York has adopted it and made it its own. Nothing has changed since I celebrated Make Music New York here last year; there are still a lot of free concerts around the city, and it still isn’t mainstream.

When I arrived at the midday concert featuring a quartet performing Brazilian and jazz, there were only a couple of people there. I sat on the grass right in front of the musicians: an Italian singer and a guitarist, drummer, and bassist. Gradually, more people came and scattered about the lawn and ledge nearby. The music was soothing and breezy, upbeat and chill, perfect for a summer day outside.

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The concert I attended in the evening was well-attended (by locals?) in a community garden. Though the seating area was small, it was the right size for the number of people, and there was ample room on the grass. I snagged a seat on a bench next to a lady who had arrived early. The sun was bright and low in the sky as it slowly set in the west. Kids ran around and played and danced and ate ice cream during the performance, which were again a female singer and three male musicians. They were great. I love old love songs, which they honored while adding their own twist.

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After the hour-long performance, I scuttled across the street (is that verb ever used for beings other than crabs?) to meet a friend for tapas and drinks outside. It was that rare café terrasse in New York that is on the quietest of avenues. I am realizing that there are always new places to be discovered.

Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire

Going out four to five evenings a week after work and avoiding the computer during the weekend is not conducive to blog writing, in case that is the schedule you were thinking of following. You should follow that schedule if you are looking to write a post two months after you mean to.

Are you familiar with the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire? If you’re American, you probably learned about it in grammar school Social Studies class. I’m not sure if it’s taught outside of the United States.

On March 25, 1911, a fire broke out in a factory in New York City, and because doors were locked, 146 employees, garment workers who were mostly immigrants, couldn’t escape and thus died.

The incident spurred the creation of work safety regulations, hence its appearance in our history books.

On a rainy afternoon almost a week after March 25th this year, I came upon this outside what used to be the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. Each carnation was tagged with the name and age of a person who had died. It made the whole tragedy a lot more real to me. Mary Floresta, 26. Ida Pearl, 20. Ross Friedman, 18. Esther Goldstein, 20. Frieda Velakovsky, 20. Over one hundred years later, a group had remembered these individuals. I felt a connection with those long gone, thanks to the New York City Central Labor Council, AFL-CIO, which advocates for working people and recognizes the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire each year. DSC00313DSC00314DSC00316DSC00317DSC00318There is a balance to be struck between learning about and from the past and living in the present and moving forward. Sometimes it seems there is so much knowledge to be acquired, taking into account everything known and unknown and the necessity of sifting through countless opinions and worldviews to find one’s own truth. I am glad for these everyday moments to learn and relearn and remember moments that led to progress.

Night Lights

After my Spanish class last week, I walked through Herald Square on my way home. The temperature was freezing (literally), but I stopped and took in the scene. I crossed the street, then turned to look again and take a picture, then walked a few steps, then stopped one more time before continuing on my way. A passerby would have thought I was a tourist in New York for the first time or a resident New Yorker on her last night before moving to a new city. I’m neither, of course. I can walk here whenever I want, and I do, at least once a week after my class.

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I’ve passed through this touristy area many times, but for some reason the atmosphere of colored lights and city night reminded me of certain evenings near the Opéra Garnier in Paris. Some Monday nights, one or two British girl friends and I would meet at the same café for a slice of quiche or a hot chocolate. I’d walk there from work, when it was almost dusk, and by the time we emerged from our chats, it was nighttime. I’d turn the corner to walk to my bus stop, pass lit up commercial stores and theatres, and there would be the Opéra Garnier. Like Herald Square, it was a normally busy area that cleared out on cold nights but kept its buildings aglow.

I think I just realized why I like Hopper paintings. Or do I feel myself expand in these real life scenes because I like Hopper? Rhetorical questions. Words rarely encompass feelings.

I’m not as head in the clouds as my writing makes me out to be. Not all the time, anyway. If anything, my feet are firmly planted on the ground, looking at what’s around us.

Do you get those moments
in between all the running around and responsibilities and worries
too?

Nirvana

Lunchtime in the park in Manhattan. On the next bench over from me, a man sits and chats with his friend who has rolled up and parked her wheelchair next to him. I’ve seen her in the park before; she has some kind of handwritten sign affixed to her chair. They seem to be regulars who linger in the park without anywhere to rush back to. A girl comes by and greets them. She is a student, perhaps in college. I wonder how they know each other. They talk about her classes a bit. In the course of their conversation, she mentions Nirvana.

Man: Nirvana? Is that a white girl? She won a Grammy, right?
Girl: It’s a band.
Man: It’s a band? It sounds like a girl’s name.
Woman: You’re thinking of Rihanna.

An old man approaches. I scoot over a bit to make room for him. He obviously knows the rest of the group, but they merely tolerate him. He is very drunk and has a small bottle of alcohol with him. His manner is subdued, not raging, though he’s definitely out of it. He tries to talk to me about his travels during his time in the service and his anxiety these days, but he has trouble completing his sentences, so his thoughts taper off as quickly as they begin. However unfinished, his brief mumblings reveal more in a flash than decades of greeting a distant neighbor or colleague in passing.

People in the park.

Estoy nerviosa

I was a bundle of nerves even before I left work. I wasn’t hungry enough to eat the dinner I had packed, but I gulped a yogurt and a pudding in succession to stave off hunger over the next couple of hours. I get peckish if I don’t eat frequently.

On the subway, I was so nervous. I also realized that this is what I was missing recently. I’m a thrill seeker. Are we all? I don’t feel inclined to go skydiving or try drugs, but once in a while I love that feeling of stepping outside of my comfort zone and doing things that are in no way dangerous but make me feel uncomfortable.

Life is pretty exciting when there’s all that buildup just for a Spanish II class. The drama, the drama.

The reason I had jitters is that the last time I took Spanish was a year and a half ago. I had started from zero, and while I had practiced vocabulary and grammar a bit since then, I had never become comfortable enough to try speaking with people conversationally, and I didn’t know how much I had forgotten. What if I was way behind all of my classmates? A language course is not the type of class where you can sit in the back and blend in if you’re not prepared; the whole point is to be put on the spot and talk.

This is how it goes when you take a class that is held in a New York City high school, or my experience anyway:

– You take the subway, ascend out of the station into the busy night streets surrounded by skyscrapers, and pass a hotel and Duane Reade on the way to the school. You forgot that school entrances have so many doors in a row in order to allow large quantities of students to enter and exit.

– You flash your ID at the three employees in the lobby. Are they all security, or is just one on duty and the others are hanging out? Seems like a lot of people to be present when there’s not a lot of foot traffic in the evening.

– Your class is on the fifth floor, and you ascend via escalators. For some reason this is really novel to you. You take escalators in subway and bus stations and department stores, but you’re not sure you ever have in a grammar or high school.

– The escalators between the first and second floors are broken, so you walk up them. There are two. You can’t imagine going to class up and down multiple sets of escalators every day.

– Finally on the fifth floor, you go to the women’s room, still very nervous. This class is non-credit and nothing is on the line, but there it is.

– You walk in the classroom, two minutes early. Some desks are grouped; some are on their own and facing the front. People that have already arrived have taken seats near the front that are on the side. Those are the seats you would have taken. There are many seats in the middle and back of the room and still a few near the front that are part of the grouped seats. You take the empty seat that is front and center. Seems logical for someone who is afraid of being put on the spot.

– Class begins. The profesora has everyone introduce themselves—she says you should all know each other’s names—and the reason why they want to learn Spanish. Several people want to travel to Cuba. Two girls are occupational therapists who work with Spanish-speaking patients. A couple of men have significant others who are Spanish-speaking. You say that you want to learn Spanish in order to speak with Spanish-speakers.

– For the next activity, students group into two or three and ask each other questions to get to know each other. Entonces, you each introduce your partners to the rest of the class.

– Then the profesora informs the class that the facilities workers in the hallway want you to move to another classroom because there is a mouse in this one. Lest you forget, this is a school in New York City. You wonder how often this usually happens. Is it a regular occurrence, or did a ráton just want to audit the class?

After all that, it turns out that I am ahead of most of my classmates. I only took one school year of Spanish in Paris, but my impression at that time that we were moving very fast was correct. Perhaps it was partly because Spanish taught to French-speakers can be done at a quick pace given the similarities in grammar and vocabulary, and partly because my teacher was just very good. Whatever the reason, I’m going to be just fine, and I’m definitely going to be much more relaxed before the second class. I’m kind of going to miss those butterflies, though.

On the Go

New York City is truly the city of convenience. Case in point: I came across this postal truck selling stamps:

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Perfect, I thought. I wanted to get the new Wonder Woman stamps and a sheet of ten cents stamps.

They did have Wonder Woman and an array of other new designs—not all post offices are so well-stocked—but unfortunately, no small denomination stamps. I would have had to go to the nearest post office. I was on my way to Grand Central Station and deemed that I did not have time to stop in and see if there was a line to buy stamps.

The nearest post office was right behind me; the truck was parked outside it.

At first I was amazed by this new food truck-esque vehicle, but upon further reflection I see why they set up a truck.

Sometimes I don’t know if having more at our fingertips makes us more or less efficient.

City Citrouilles

A couple of weeks ago, I saw this nice fall display outside a New York City residence.101_1416

Granted, it was behind bars.101_1415

The building’s ground floor dipped slightly below sidewalk level, so these bars prevented pedestrians from falling into the shallow canyon created.

Small square footage doesn’t stop city residents from festiveness.

The Comedy is Outside and it’s Free

Last week a couple of friends and I went to a comedy show in Manhattan. The lineup included Judah Friedlander of “30 Rock” and Michelle Wolf from “The Daily Show.” While shivering in line outside the Comedy Cellar, we struck up a conversation with the young bearded guy with a backpack who was behind us in line. He was in New York for the first time because he was offered a $100 roundtrip flight from his home in Chicago with the condition that he had to stay “for a while.” In fact “a while” was just a week. I wasn’t clear on how he had scored this ticket.

Alone in New York and knowing not a soul, he was paying only $17 a night for a room at an apartment somewhere far out in Brooklyn—he wasn’t sure which neighborhood. One of my friends asked him what subway line he had to take, peppering him with possible letters and numbers, and deduced he was in Bed-Stuy.

His plans included getting some tattoos at a tattoo parlor in Brooklyn because they are known for their traditional tattoos (I did not know what that meant, but he explained that they did traditional designs, like what Popeye the Sailor would have. I honestly don’t remember if that’s how he worded it or if that’s how I translated it in my brain. I think that’s what he said, though).

Later, during the show, comedian Judah Friedlander singled him out and asked what was on his baseball cap, to which he responded, “Fuck, That’s Delicious.” Not sure how I missed that while we were talking to him.

Earlier that day, I saw a woman in a sleeveless shirt and sleeveless puffy vest walking a tiny dog with a sweater.

In the evening, we saw four carolers, two men in tails and two women in bonnets and long skirts, singing outside a dim bar: a study in contrasts.

This is why you should do and wear whatever you want. As long as you aren’t making someone else get a tattoo or expose their arms in winter weather, you’re adding to my entertainment.

Finishing Touches

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To me the weirdest part about this scene was not that a petite man was painted green, solely covered by a loincloth, and about to climb on a pedestal, but that he was painting himself in public. Wouldn’t a professional have come out fully painted and ready to pose?

Am I jaded? No, even though I was not surprised to see a little green man, I was not too blasé to take a picture.

Am I too demanding? Maybe…