Passing Faces

All the Food in China Town

2012-01-15T20:37:00.000-08:00

For several months I have been familiarizing myself with China Town. Were it not for its proximity to DNA and my nit-picky diet (nondairy, low/no gluten, pescatarian) necessitated by an irascible stomach, I may never have made the pilgrimage. Asian food is easier for me to eat, hands down. So back in August I started wandering up and down Canal Street after Sunday dance classes. Then I gradually learned to forage down Elizabeth Street to Grand. I marvelled at the beautiful fish on display: The hunks of tuna five inches thick! The salmon fresher, fattier, and cheaper than anywhere else in the city! The lobster priced at 3 for $28! The tiger shrimp meatier than my fist! Oh, if only I could learn how to cook the blue crabs! If only I could figure out the whole fish! These days I yearn for a bamboo steamer.

And then there is the rice (no gluten!): jasmine rice, sweet glutinous rice, sushi rice, black rice, red rice, multi-colored confetti rice. So many choices and I can only try one kind at a time, multiple bags being too heavy to carry on the subway back to Wash Hei'.

And have I mentioned the sauces: soy sauce (most of which I shouldn't eat due to the wheat involved, but I salivate nonetheless: dark, sweet, light, black, premium, and my favorite, eaten sparingly, thick soy sauce paste), oyster sauce, scallop sauce, Hoisin sauce, Japanese ginger dressing, white miso, red miso, yellow miso, and whole aisles I'm just beginning to discover. Today, I must have looked at all the soy sauce labels in Chinatown until I discovered Nuoc Tuong Thu'o'ng Hang Seasoning Soya Sauce made without wheat (go Vietnamese cuisine!)

And finally the bakeries: fried sesame balls, need I say more? Forget dairy-laiden desserts like cheesecake and icecream, one fried sesame ball and I'm satisfied.

Sometimes life's challenges lead us down roads we would otherwise never have known, where unexpected joys await. Today, China town was decorated for the lunar New Year. Red and gold lanterns, fish, dragons, gold coins, and red envelopes waiting to be filled with money hung in the stores and cheered up the cold wintry evening. And I thought, this is an experience I would never have enjoyed had I not needed a different way. The anger that had sometimes plagued me dissipated. The present moment gently hugged my shoulders. This moment was not fearful, not worrisome, but simply existed along with the other moments that had preceded it, and the ones that would follow.

Goodbye 2011, Hello 2012!

2012-01-01T19:19:00.000-08:00

Some goodbyes are lingering and heartfelt, others need a good kick in the pants and a shove out the door. Suffice it to say that 2011 falls into the latter category. What can you expect from a prime number? I have a soft spot for even ones, especially those divisible by two, four, and six (forget the three, it's anothe raunchy, prime number.) So in my book 2012 should be a very good year.

I say good riddance to 2011. It was the year of natural catastrophes (a tsunami and near nuclear armageddon in Japan, wild fires and winds in the West, an entire state turned into a frying pan [Texas], a hurricane in NYC, a Nor'Easter in October, flooding in the Phillipines, earthquakes scattered throughout the world's fault lines, the only thing missing was a volcanic eruption, but there must have been one somewhere?); economic terror (I don't need to elaborate on this one, 'nuff said); political unrest (almost everythwere in the Middle East, Russia, our own backyard on Wall Street, and, of all places, China); and generalized angst about the human condition.

There were also personal woes: real estate troubles resulting from a discriminative and squabbling coop board that landed me in a fifth floor walkup right after I broke? tore a ligament? in my foot (the doctors couldn't make up their minds, but it still hurts); romantic woes of course (it wouldn't be a prime-numbered year without them); the shared sadness of friends' divorces; and the icing on the cake: this was the year all my socks developed holes.

But there were upsides: good friends who stood by me; an improving job situation; the enduring love of family and strengthening bonds with more remote family members.

Today, Poochini and I took a celebratory walk in Central Park. Everyone's faces beamed with anticipation of the even numbered year ahead. Cabbies let me into the flow of traffic and didn't honk! Even the forsythia were blooming. In January! A cynic might blame this on Global Warming. But it's simpler: the forsythia had caught the zeitgeist of the day. The fluorescent blossoms screamed: Hellloooooo 2012!!!! We're so happy you've arrived!

A Gentler Way

2011-12-18T18:25:00.000-08:00

A little while ago I stood online for pastries at Gideon's. Pies were on sale (half off!), and the line stretched nearly to the door. Two little girls, sisters, made faces at themselves in the mirror while their mother bought bread. Behind me a boy waited excitedly with his father, both dressed in the black and white Orthodox tradition. What kind of cookie can I get, Pappa, the boy asked, his brown eyes round with excitement. His rather replied calmly, let's see what kind they have today. The little boy almost shook with joy.

The decision must have been quick because as I exited with my pie, the little boy and his father followed closely behind. The boy looked into a small paper bag and said, but I wanted a different one. His father explained calmly, you said you wanted that one. But I dooooon't! I want the otha one, the boy whined with disappointment veering on despair. I thought, if only life's disappointments remained limited to those of a six year old, how tolerable life would be.

The boy's father remained unfazed and replied, his voice gentle and comforting, you're tired, let's go home and relax. The boy wiped away a tear, and said sadly, OK Pappa. There was no anger in the interaction, though there easily could have been. And in that way, the two continued down the hill hand in hand, the boy clutching the bag with the cookie to his chest as if it were a treasure. I walked away thinking I had witnessed something beautiful.

Columbia Circle Christmas Market

2011-12-04T17:17:00.000-08:00

Lately the weather in NYC has been more unpredictable than normal. Yesterday temperatures dipped into the thirties. I wore a lightweight leather coat and shivered. Today temperatures hovered in the fifties. I wore my big down coat and sweated. Poochini didn't mind, though. And neither did the hundreds of people converging on the Columbus Circle Christmas market. They squeezed tightly into the narrow lanes of the bazaar. Each temporary shop was topped with a candy cane awning, each peddling unnecessary but tempting items: mittens shaped like bear claws, melt in your mouth chocolate truffles (based on a family recipe), Christmas ornaments, overpriced spices, and costume jewelry with semiprecious stones. People stood on line for bratwurst, gluhwein, pretzels, empanadas, thai satay, and belgian waffles (representative of the Big Apple melting pot).

Poochini braved the hordes, and was rewarded with a pretzel that someone had dropped on the ground. We made slow progress, not just because of the crowds, but because Poochini is a social magnet. What kind of dog is that, people asked. I replied proudly, the Best Kind, and then filled in details: a corgie sheeba mix. Then the inevitable (true, not boasting): what a great combination! Is he friendly? Boy is he ever, my usual reply. So Poochini got a lion's share of loving this afternoon. Even on the subway, with his head sticking out of a purple bag (subway rules-- pets must be in a bag), people couldn't resist smiling at his adorableness.

Now he is lying on the floor, one pooped Pooch after the afternoon's excitement. And I am left thinking, as I often do, what a great choice I made in adopting him (true, even after I discovered just yesterday that he had a gastrointestinal accident on my shoes-- they were old anyway and needed to be thrown away). Amazing that one little creature, just by being his friendly self, can change a life (mine), and bring joy so instantly to strangers in the Christmas market.

Thanksgiving in NYC and at Ballet Arts

2011-11-27T18:47:00.000-08:00

Does the world have to stop just because a turkey is in the oven? Dancers don't think so. Rather than closing on Thanksgiving, Easter and Jan at Ballet Arts thanked everyone for a year of great dancing. The studio stayed open and gave free classes from 11 AM to 6 PM. The reception was decorated with turkey cutouts. Platters of food spilled across the tables-- salami, cheese, crackers, pomegranate seeds, grapes, artichoke leaves, chips, candy, and cookies. Dancers sat on the floor and took up every inch of stretching space.

At Richard Marsden's Advanced Beginning class, roughly fifty dancers crowded along four lines of barres. There were professionals, non-professionals, older women, younger women, one pregnant lady, and four men (two of them quite good.) After the barre and at the beginning of floor, Richard smiled and said to me, doesn't it feel great? Then he did five pirouettes to top it off.

It did feel great. Everyone was festive, everyone giving thanks to this shared community, this love of movement. It didn't matter if your arabesque barely left the floor or stretched nearly to the ceiling. What mattered was being there, taking part in the dance. And I was thankful, once again, for having re-discovered it.

Then I ran off to an expat turkey party in the West Village that grounded my grand jetes for a day. Only in New York.

Holiday Spirit

2011-11-20T17:34:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year when New Yorkers give a collective exhale in advance of the holiday season. Today, with Thanksgiving less than one week away, the subway was already quieter. Some people have already left town. The remainder are anticipating a badly needed break.  Seeing the light at the end of the tunnel (a four day weekend!) makes it easier to breathe.

Here's an example. Friday after work the elevator at W190th St. was jammed full.  People at the front slowly (reluctantly?) stepped forward and made room for more passengers. A young man nearly crushed against one side cleared his throat and said, his voice serious and full of authority "Ladies and gentlemen. I'm sure you're wondering why I've gathered you here today." The elevator gave a collective chuckle.  His companion countered, "Don't listen to him, he's an actor."  Which is not surprising in an area full of artists.

As the elevator door opened, its operator took the actor's example, and said "So long ladies and gentlemen. Have a great holiday." The riders spilled up the stairs to Ft. Washington with smiles on their faces.  With the continued troubles in the economy, the anger and betrayal of trust aroused by Occupy Wall Street, and the sheer terror at the prospect of Europe going under, I had almost forgotten about such moments of collective goodwill.  It takes an artist to put things into perspective.

Jacques D'Amboise in Washington Heights and at the Downtown Club

2011-11-13T18:56:00.000-08:00

Last week, I was able to see Jacques D'Amboise speak at the Downtown Club. Many know Mr. D'Amboise as one of the stars of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers". But that was before my time. I'm enthralled by dance, so I know him as one of the stars of twentieth century ballet. Mr. D'Amboise (born Joseph Ahearn) grew up on the streets of Washington Heights, not far from where I now live. His mother sold hats to pay for his dance lessons, which became his escape from the rough environment in which he lived. It's a typical dancer's story, and one to which I can relate. I escape into dance 3-4 times a week these days.

The lessons paid off for the young Ahearn. He soon rocketed to stardom, becoming a principal dancer at the New York City Ballet as a teenager. As Balanchine's protege, he maintained this role for more than thirty years. The great master staged more ballets on D'Amboise than any other dancer. He studied with other legends: Jerome Robbins, Anatole Oboukhoff (premier danseur of the Maryiinsky) and Pierre Vladimiroff (Pavlova's partner).

I was one of a small intimate audience to the great dancer as he described his life in dance, the topic of his recently published autobiography "I Was a Dancer." He wore orthopedic shoes, but still had a dancer's grace. At one point, he stood, happy to be in the spotlight again, his ego still apparent, and did a mime to illustrate his point. He divulged secrets of Balanchine's life so intimate that I wondered, should he be revealing this? Yet I felt privileged to listen. Ballet is an oral history, stored in a dancer's body, and dies with the dancer unless he passes it along to the next generation.

Which was the topic of the latter part of the evening. After leaving performance, Mr. D'Amboise founded the National Dance Institute (NDI), which brings dance education to children all over the world. This is especially true in New York City where children in designated schools learn the joy of dance (see the documentary "Red Hot Ballroom". D'Amboise had a hand in that.) "I founded the NDI," D'Amboise said, "Because an educated person should know how to do several things. First, he should read the newspaper every day. Second, he should have an appreciation for the beauty of math. Third, he should be able to recite some lines of poetry. Fourth, he should have knowledge of music. And fifth, he should know how to dance." At a time of budget cuts, when the arts seem superfluous to some, I was overjoyed to hear his words.

Of course I bought his book. I thanked him for being an inspiration to so many. And then I threw in that I also was a dancer. Mr. D'Amboise asked, "Where do you dance?" I replied, "Ballet Arts at City Center". He knew the place, it has been around for years. "Used to be at Carnegie Hall, didn't it?" he asked. "Yes, but it's crossed the street to City Center now, " I replied, flushed and excited to be part of the tradition. He looked at me with the dancer's connection: once a dancer, always a dancer.

Sobotchka

2011-10-30T17:42:00.000-07:00

Since I moved to this neighborhood three years ago I have learned some Russian, especially the word sobotchka (rough translation my own, since I don't know cyrillic and this computer can't be coaxed to write it). I learned the word in the Heather Garden from a dark haired man and his blond little boy. We met over a year ago when the boy was barely able to stand. When I approached with Poochini, the father would say quietly to his son, sobotchka, the first syllable softly sighing into the next. At first I couldn't understand him. At first, the son was hesitant to approach my dog. Each time we met, the man would say sobotchka, and show his son how to pet the dog. Gradually, the boy became less afraid of the dog. Gradually, I understood the word. At home, I practiced pronouncing it. As I petted Poochini I would say, my dear sweet sobotchka, and try to make the first syllable lilt as the man did.
Over the last year, I have met the man and the boy several times, always in the garden and always without the mother. Where is she? The boy is toddling quite efficiently now, but lately seems more interested in butterflies than dogs. So perhaps I will next learn the Russian word for butterfly.

Dance Weekend

2011-10-23T19:40:00.000-07:00

The only thing that comes to my mind at present is ballet.  Lately, my hair has been in a bun more often than not. When I let it down, it settles into a large wave at the nape of my neck. This is where I usually tie it with a rubber band before winding it up and securing it with bobby pins.

This last weekend was ballet weekend.  Saturday, I tried out Ballet Academy East (BAE). I entered the second floor studio to find little nypmhs running around in hunter green and burgundy leotards (there is a dress code based on level and age, the youngest wear hunter green). BAE is a training ground for the New York City Ballet (NYCB). Pictures of alumni, now members of NYCB, hang on the walls. Lanky teen agers in black leotards and pink tights, some future members of NYCB, were rehearsing Swan Lake. This place had the same energy I love in all dance studios. Music and movement. Dedication to art. But it felt sterile, too Upper East Side-ish

So I spent Sunday afternoon at Dance New Amsterdam, which is having free class week for members and new customers. I'm a member, and I'm taking full advantage. I started with floor barre, to work my turnout. Then intermediate class (I'm moving up). DNA, along with Ballet Arts at City Center, have become my home away from home.  They both have that lived in feeling of old studios: grunge left by the blood and sweat of past dancers. And they both have showers with great water pressure, a god send during the Fire Hydrant Emergency.

Here's the progress. I've just worked through my first pair of pointe shoes since childhood. I've started doing pirouettes en pointe again. My penche (standing split) is nearly a full penche (full split). I did my first double pique turn a few weeks ago. My chaine turns are quicker and more accurate. But my wobbly adagio needs work. A lot of work.

Why am I doing this? I may never perform again. Yet, when one is drawn purely, simply, and without intervening thoughts to "something", one must act. To do otherwise would be a waste. Especially when that "something" brings such joy, as dancing does to me.

Tchaikovsky in St. Petersburg and at Carnegie Hall

2011-10-16T18:17:00.000-07:00

Recently, I've become more aware when music and dance companies from St. Petersburg arrive in New York. I blame this fascination on my recent trip to Russia. Before visiting last December, St. Petersburg was the frozen Venice of the North and the burial place of my uncle. I had vague thoughts of finding his grave. But who was I kidding?  It was so cold that walking the streets proved dangerous. Ice covered ground that had been frozen solid for weeks. Instead, in Nevsky Monsatery I found art: Tchaikovsky's grave easily identified by its decorations: a curlicued angel and ornate iron gate. Red roses, wilted from the cold, were scattered before it.

So it wasn't surprising that I was recently drawn to the "Tchaikovsky in St. Petersburg" festival at Carnegie Hall, celebrating the 120th anniversary of the great concert hall and featuring the renowned Maryiinsky Orchestra conducted by Valerie Gergiev. Apparently, Tchaikovsky and Carnegie Hall go way back. Tchaikovsky was brought over for the opening festivities of Carnegie Hall in 1891. He was wined and dined, and in return he conducted his own symphonies in the newly opened concert hall.

So, last Monday I bought an obstructed view ticket in Dress Circle (tip: the Carnegie Hall website has a new app that allows you to see the stage view from your seat before purchasing tickets online-- my neighbor's view was nearly the same as mine, but he paid almost twice as much). The concert began with Tchaikovsky's Symphony no.3 in D Major ("Polish").  Rarely performed, the cheerfulness of the major key failed to inspire my imagination (contrary to the program notes).  I was familiar with the waltz and scherzo from Balanchine's Jewels.  But this was Tchaikovsky, and my heart stings wanted more tugging.

That came after intermission: Symphony no. 4 in F Minor. Composed after the failure of his short-lived yet tempestuous marriage, the symphony is filled with the moodiness and pathos of this troubled time in the composer's life. Melancholy filled the hall, followed by a determined scherzo marching on, as one must do despite life's struggles. And then the conclusion, ultimately uplifting and virtually bombastic.

After all, this was Tchaikovsky. How else could the composer of the frightfully cheerful holiday classic "The Nutcracker" leave his audience but with this message:  hope survives despite the tragedies of this world.

Top Floor Apartments

2011-10-02T19:41:00.000-07:00

In the last year, I have gone to great lengths to secure a top floor apartment. There was the place in Brooklyn near Prospect Park, a top floor that faced back (as quiet as you can get in this jack hammer of a city). Never mind that getting to work would have taken over an hour, I fell in love. But the affair was short lived. The board didn't approve. Like the end of many affairs, the board thought letting me down easy meant not explaining why they didn't want me. Was something inherently, unremediably wrong with me? The board remained mute.

After licking my wounds, my search intensified when the quiet old Russian lady above me was replaced by a young, spike-heeled woman with a yippy dog and an overweight boyfriend (thump thump in the night).  So I found the current place: a fifth floor walkup on Thayer Street.  Despite the climb that takes a daily toll on my joints (early arthritis in the hip?), the freedom from someone treading on my head makes the workout worth it.  But the bedroom faces front onto a street so popular that it invades my dreams. My existence is confined to the living room, where I sleep on the pullout sofa and placate myself:  simplifying one's life unclutters the mind, I say. And when that doesn't work, I try another: one room is easier to clean (usually does the trick).

I knew from the beginning that this would be a short-lived relationship. Now I'm salivating over the next top floor place. If all goes according to plan, in a few months I will move into a fifth floor walkup (why let muscles go soft when they have been honed from a summer of mountain climbing?), back facing, corner unit (no shared walls with anyone!)  To get any quieter you'd have to move to South Dakota.

This quest for a top floor place is common among creative types. Take, for example, the Bohemians in La Boheme. They shivered and counted pennies in their Paris garrette. Then there was Monet, who painted the Villas of Bordighera from his top floor vantage point on the Italian Riviera. Think also about V.S. Naipaul, who in his book of personal essays, "Literary Occasions", reveals that the happiest and most productive years in his early writing life were spent in a top floor apartment in London.

Why the draw?  Some might say that nobody wants a top floor place, ergo the rent is cheap (us creative types need cheap rent).  But the truth is that having a separate spot, quiet and removed from the workaday world is necessary for art. Because any creative endeavor demands entering into a zone of sustained concentration, easily broken by stiletto heals overhead or muffler-less cars racing past. So I insist on it, I make sacrifices for it. Peace of mind doesn't come cheap, and is worth the effort. Including the twenty flights of stairs (in total, more if I forget something) that I climb each day.

The Party that Tore up the Street

2011-09-28T19:10:00.000-07:00

Night before last I came home at 11PM to find three bulldozers put-putting and several jack hammers rat-tatting in front of my building. The workers had come prepared. Flood lights transformed night into day and illuminated the destruction that was already underway. I did a jig. The road was blocked off, which meant an entire auto sonido-free night. Still, there was Poochini to think about. He looked at me with yellow eyeballs. His little bladder was overflowing. A walk was required. It was up and down the five flights of stairs for us, Poochini hacking like a smoker all the way. At ground level, neighbors lined the sidewalk, watching the show. My neighborhood doesn't need a reason to party, a realization which had prompted me to institute the Sleeping-in-the-Living-Room-on-the-Pullout-Sofa policy at the beginning of September. Poochini has since become the most pampered pooch around. He has inherited for a dog bed my queen-sized pillow top mattress, which occupies the street-facing (noise-filled) bedroom. While the new policy hasn't done wonders for his cough, the peace of mind engendered by uninterrupted sleep has done wonders for myself. Even when jack hammers at midnight are involved.

Neighborhood Characters

2011-09-19T20:31:00.000-07:00

Getting to know a neighborhood takes time. When I moved to Thayer St. last June, I left behind the familiar faces who I'd been writing about on this blog for three years. There were many more faces in my new neighborhood, but it wasn't until recently that they started recognizing me. Here are just a few.

There is the neighborhood grease monkey who set up business near the fire hydrant outside the corner convenience store. He wears oil-stained coveralls and his garage is the great outdoors, where he leans over engines and shimmies under cars all day, then pockets the cash.

There is the woman who runs the corner convenience store, where in a pinch I buy a carton of eggs (careful to check the expiration date). She used to stand behind the counter, eyeing me suspiciously. Recently she smiled at me and said hello. I had to do a double take.

There is Mr. Haddad who runs the competing convenience store down the street. He was the first to begin recognizing me, when soon after I broke a bone in my foot, he sympathized and offered me the best coffee in the neighborhood (Egyptian strength).

There is the former bouncer who has lived here for twenty years, "Back then the neighborhood was really bad. I came home one day and found a burglar in my place. I pinned him against the wall, he boasted. Then added, do you have window guards yet? You need them. And a security lock.

There is the Asian man who runs the fish store across the street (best fish outside of China town). Last time I bought salmon, he snuck two lemons in the bag.

There is the Russian Lady of Ft. Tryon Park, who I often meet while on morning walks. When Poochini rolls in the grass, she warns, You should check before he rolls there, it could be poop.

There is the tightrope walker who strings his rope between two sturdy trees in Ft. Tryon Park and teeters across in the evenings.

Then there is the Santaria Rooster of Ft. Tryon Park. He appeared last week on the hill leading up to the dog park. The other day, while Poochini galavanted with his doggie friends, the Santaria Rooster cock-a-doodle-doo'd. The next morning, the Russian Lady of Ft. Tryon Park said, they bring them from the Dominican Republic. For their woo doo rites. I replied, guess he was the lucky one who got away. What will he do when winter comes, she worried. I had no answer. Where do homeless Dominican roosters go during New York winters? If only he could fly south...

9/11/11

2011-09-11T20:39:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday I went down to Wall St. It was raining. It was quittin' time. Office workers dodged each other beneath scaffolding that has become permanent in the area. As I crossed the street near St. John's chapel, I looked to my right. There it was: the new building, glistening with modernity. The bottom nineteen stories were lit up with pink lights. The stories above twinkled with white lights and rose up, up, up, until they disappeared into mist so thick it was impossible to see how many stories lay above.

People had tied hundreds of white ribbons to the fence in front of St. John's Chapel. The Remembrance Wall, a sign said. It bothered me. These prim and proper white ribbons were too clean, too crisp, too planned. Nothing like the impromptu walls of remembrance after 9/11. Those held pictures, signs asking after loved ones, mementos, candles, wilted flowers, anything to communicate and share the loss with others. Those walls had been communal, motivated by the need for mutual support. Necessary.

9/11/11 dawned crisp and clear, not unlike the 9/11 ten years ago. By evening low lying clouds had descended on lower Manhattan. At 6PM I went to dance class at DNA (Dance New Amsterdam), near City Hall and not far from Ground Zero (after 9/11 DNA relocated to lower Manhattan in support of the area's redevelopment.) The ceremonies had ended. There were only a few more pedestrians than normal for a Sunday. An extra policeman stood at the corner of Broadway.

I did not need to go to class today, but I wanted to be in Lower Manhattan. I wanted to see the day in a positive way: a reminder of the importance of taking risks, of folding dance and art back into my life, of really living. After class, I walked to the "A" on Chambers. There on my left rose the new building. From its top two parallel beams emerged and projected "11" into the mist. I thought, now that is a suitable wall of remembrance: two beams in the shape of the twin towers rising into the heavens and continuing for infinity.

Hurrication! And Art Prevails

2011-08-31T18:47:00.000-07:00

Hurricane/Tropical Storm Irene passed through NYC last weekend. The TV news broadcast doom and gloom. Downtown Manhattan will be under six to twelve feet of water! New York hasn't been threatened with a hurricane like this in 100 years! The subways will be flooded! Will the Statue of Liberty even survive? Bloomberg Etc. pulled out all stops. The subways ceased running at noon on Saturday. The bridges were supposed to be closed in due order. There were forced emergency evacuations. Central Park and The Metropolitan Museum were closed. It was the first weekend of the Met Opera Live in HD Festival at Lincoln Center, and that was canceled. Even my dance classes were canceled. Which is sayin' somethin' 'cause Ballet Arts at City Center is like the postal service: they don't close for nuthin'.

Late Friday night I started to prepare. As I lugged a gallon of water up five flights of stairs, I decided to take a Hurrication.  In my neighborhood the only time it's quiet is when it rains (car windows are closed, minimizing bass-osity; and street socializing becomes non-existent.) So I slept. And slept. And slept. I slept so long that I missed Hurricane/Tropical Storm Irene. When I woke late on Sunday morning, there was a light drizzle and a moderate breeze. The power was on. And the only evidence of una tormenta was a small leak in my closet, and scattered vegetable debris on the sidewalk. Bloomberg, I said, you over-reacting numbskull.

But there were downed trees in Fort Tryon Park, and flooding in coastal areas was worse. Some parts of the city were without power for days. But for the rest of us, it was business as usual on Monday.  Everyone (those poopers!) showed up to work. The blue sky thumbed its chin at Bloomberg, as if to say, it's still summer and you can't spoil my fun.

After work, I went house hunting (more, much more, on this later-- it could fill an entire book). The Poocherooni came along.  He has a more highly developed sixth sense than I, and at this point I need his help. After beating the pavement, we drove slowly passed Lincoln Center. I had checked earlier about the opera broadcast, but the website was mute.  But Monday evening to our joy, there it was: art broadcast on the big screen. Poochini lay exhausted on the passenger seat. I opened the car window. He sprang to his feet, poked his nose out the window, sniffed, and stared excitedly at the projection of Iphigenie en Tauride over Lincoln Center Plaza.

I certainly chose the right name for you, I said, as I drove toward a parking spot.  The temperature was just right for sitting outside, the sky overhead was clear. I bought a gelato and found a seat.  Poochini slurped up my leftover icecream and stared at the giant screen, true to his nature. It was as if nothing terrible had ever happened. It was the gift of art to us all.

Affordable Housing

2011-08-21T19:30:00.000-07:00

At the beginning of June, I moved off The Hill in search of a top floor (read: quieter) apartment, and lower rent. The overhead bumps in the night from my elderly Russian neighbor had ceased, replaced by spike heals, a yippy dog, an overweight boyfriend, and multiple weekend visitors tromping across the floor. I couldn't hear myself think. So I found a fifth floor (top!) walkup near Dykman Street where the rent is $500 lower than what I was paying on The Hill. I'm in good shape, I said, and the five floors will get the Poocherooni back in shape.

But nobody told me that back facing apartments (e.g. my prior one) in New York are a thousand times quieter than street facing apartments. In my new place, my bedroom faces the street.  My living room faces the street. My bathroom faces the street. And my kitchen faces the street. That might be OK in Minnesota, but in a neighborhood that pulsates with uberlicious mega bass stereos, my writing, not to mention my sleep, have been interrupted. So I broke out the heavy artillery: two fans and an air conditioner ratcheted my utility bill above the $200 mark. So much for being economical.

And did I mention the Fire Hydrant Emergency? During two consecutive weekends in July, the heat index wavered close to 110 degrees Fahrenheit. That's when the neighborhood geniuses set off all the hydrants on the block.  All that luscious,cool, refreshing, oh-so-necessary-for-life water poured down the street, none of it reaching the fifth floor.  In a city as developed as New York, it is a travesty to return home and not have running water. Worse than the third world?  You can make up your own mind. There are people who have lived all their lives in NYC (my ex-real estate broker, for one), and have never heard of a Fire Hydrant Emergency. Such things don't reach the local news.

Earlier in the summer, there were three sexual attacks in my neighborhood in the course of a week and a half. The alleged perpetrator's picture was plastered on kiosks in the park and displayed in local stores. I searched online for pepper spray and walked quickly along well lit streets when returning home late at night.  Unlike the young Upper East Side woman who was recently groped (a horrible experience, to say the least, but different from an attack by a certain number of degrees), these attacks did not reach the local news either.

At such times, I turn to Poochini. He doesn't realize what a dump we're living in. For him, the neighborhood is replete with exciting new sights and smells. That garbage strewn across the side walk?  Mahvelous. Those chicken bones with the meat still hanging off in strips?  Slurpilicious. The shards of broken beer bottles scattered underneath scraggy trees?  Not a problem when there's moldy bread helter kelter amongst bottle tops and single shot vodka bottles. The cop car that's been camped out in the same spot for the last three days? Better to have a cop than not a cop.

Oh, to live a dog's life. This human one is sometimes for the birds.  But then again, to have the wings of a bird, and to fly away, even if only within one's mind...

A Perfect Pair: Semionova and Gomes in Swan Lake

2011-08-01T19:40:00.000-07:00

Some dance performances are so phenomenal that it requires time to fully appreciate them. On Saturday July 2, I took my usual balcony seat at the ABT. For weeks I had anticipated Semionova in this performance of Swan Lake. Earlier in the season I had seen her paired with David Hallberg in Don Quijote. It had been a stellar performance, but the two were missing chemistry, which cannot be invented. Chemistry is either present or not. For this performance of Swan Lake, Semionova was scheduled to dance again with Hallberg, and so it was with a certain amount of relief that I opened my program to read that Marcelo Gomes would replace Hallberg in this performance. Hallberg is an elegantly beautiful dancer, and might well be paired with the graceful Cojocaru.  But Semionova requires the passion and sheer physicality of Gomes.

The magnetism between the two was apparent the moment they stepped on stage together.  Semionova portrayed a heartachingly vulnerable Odette, draping herself in a fluid backbend over Gomes' strong arms. She shone as Odile, performing the grueling 32 fouettes with flawless precision, showing off her prowess with double revolutions during the first five fouettes. Gomes confidently matched her stamina, and allowed her to steal the show. He epitomized the gentlemanly manner of the male ballet dancer, who becomes ennobled by supporting the ballerina and allowing her beauty to shine. The emotion between the two carried the audience on a wave exhilaration until the final denouement, when Gomes leapt heart and soul after Semionova. It was the grandest stage fall I have ever seen. Gomes flung his chest out with all his might. His legs kicked forcefully behind. In the drama of that fall, he made the audience believe that there exists a love so profound that it can lead a man to the ends of the earth.

More followed. The drab, unsatisfying ending in which Odette and Prince Siegfried stand separate but united, side by side in the dawn of the afterlife, was no more. Instead, Semionova and Gomes embraced.  It was the perfect ending to a perfect performance by a perfect pair.

At the curtain call, Semionova and Gomes smiled with obvious joy about dancing together. Semionova accepted with grace the customary bouquet of roses (at the end of a ballet performance, the principal ballerina always receives a rose bouquet, but the male lead receives none; the ballerina usually extracts one rose, kisses it, curtsies and hands the rose to her male lead).  Then Semionova broke rank and offered her bouquet to Gomes, who refused with barely concealed embarrassment. Semionova tried several times to give Gomes the flowers, then outrightly placed the bouquet in his arms. With school boy charm, Gomes bowed to her and placed the bouquet at her feet.  A few curtain calls later, Semionova and Gomes embraced warmly and kissed on the lips.   If you didn't know better, you'd have sworn they were lovers. Which is exactly how you should walk away from a performance of Swan Lake:   believing that love can be strong enough to conquer the spells of an evil sorcerer.

Cuban Heat in NYC: Alicia Alonso and the Ballet Nacional de Cuba

2011-07-24T20:36:00.000-07:00

For over a week, NYC has been gripped by an historic heat wave. Taking the heat index into account, temperatures in Central Park soared near 110 F. On my block, all the fire hydrants had been set off. Gypsy cabs paraded past the torrents of water, taking advantage of the free car wash. Kids and hooligans doused each other with it. In my apartment, my taps went dry.  My drinking water was gushing down the street, and wasting in the gutters under the blazing sun.

Times like these make me wonder why I stay in NYC. That's when I try to divert my attention from life's most recent challenges, when I try to recall New York's advantages. This time, Alicia Alonso came to mind. On June 6, I had attended an artist talk featuring her at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. I arrived late and weedled my way into press seats just in time for her arrival on stage. There she sat not twenty feet from me. She wore an electic blue silk head scarf and a matching silk pants outfit. She still bore the regal bearing of a prima ballerina assoluta. As a young ballet student in southern California, a world away from the New York ballet scene, I had read Alicia Alonso's autobiography: how, injured and confined to bedrest for a year, Alicia Alonso had visualized the classical ballets in her head, determined to return to dancing. Her story had always stayed with me and she had been one of my childhood heroes, something akin to a super hero who only exists in books and on TV. So I could scarcely believe that I was seeing her in person.

One of the doyennes of twentieth dance, Alicia Alonso is a legend in her own time. At a time when ballet in Cuba was virtually unknown, she became hooked on dance. She described the attraction as immediate. From her first dance class in 1931, she wanted nothing more in life than to dance. Her mother had to force her to take off her pointe shoes so that she would not sleep in them. She insisted on walking around her Havana house on tiptoe, and her father wondered aloud, will our daughter ever walk normally again? Apparently not.  She soon outgrew the Cuban ballet scene, and rocketed to stardom in New York where she studied with Alexandra Federova and Jerome Robbins.  She joined the American Ballet Theatre the year of its founding in 1940, and worked with all the greats: Balanchine, Agnes de Mille, Fokine, Massine, Nijinska, Tudor, Jerome Robbins.

In 1948, she returned to Cuba to found the Ballet Nacional de Cuba, bringing the world of ballet to the island.  Today, ballet is huge in Cuba. Alicia Alonso related, "We tour all over the world. We have a fabulous school. Today you ask anyone in Cuba, 'Do you know the Ballet Nacional de Cuba?' and you will get a big conversation about which ballets they like best." Cuban trained ballet dancers fill top positions in the world's preeminent ballet companies, from San Francisco Ballet, to Miami Ballet, to American Ballet Theatre. Alicia Alonso's choreography has been performed by major companies worldwide, including Paris Opera, Vienna Opera, Teatro di San Carlo (Napoli), Prague Opera, La Scala, and the Royal Danish Ballet. She has received several honorary doctorates and numerous international awards, including France's Legion of Honor.

Despite these wondrous achievements, the woman interviewed at BAM revealed many sides, all very human and likable.  She was at times humble, at times humorous and able to poke fun at herself (and others), at times appearing fragile and in ill health, at other times strong and full of ego, and at all times still impassioned by the dance. When asked about what makes Ballet Nacional de Cuba's style distinctly Cuban, she explained, "It is in the hands. There is a volume to the hands. Also, it is in the way we hold the arms. [It is related to Cuban folkloric dance]. Folkloric is soft, not strong, very sexual. The way we dance ballet has that spiciness between a man and a woman." When asked if Lucia Chase asked her to change her name to a Russian-sounding one [as a sign of prestige, dancers used to Russify their names], Alicia Alonso replied, "She wanted me to change my name to Alonsov." The audience laughed at such a ludicrous thought. Alicia Alonso stiffened and straightened in her seat. She continued with great dignity, "Well don't laugh. It sounds very Russian. But it didn't go with me." Then a long pause, and she concluded proudly, "Alonso. Alicia Alonso. That is my name." The audience broke into applause.  A few people stood in ovation. When asked about Russian influence on Cuban dance, Alicia Alonso gave a long pause as if she could not understand the question, then replied, "Uh... we are Cuban. Maybe in the lifts, and that is it. Which is good." More applause from the audience. Asked which role had been her favorite, Alicia Alonso replied, "My favorite role is dancing. But I am very much associated with Giselle."

What keeps me in New York? The possibility of dancing, the possibility of experiencing moments like these, the possibility of being inspired by legends like Alicia Alonso, whose words stay with me: "I found the world through dancing," she said, "This is the most pure way of living, through dancing."

Balletomania

2011-07-17T09:48:00.000-07:00

For the past two months certain segments of the New York population have been gripped with balletomania, all the more intense given the all star lineup that appeared on New York stages this season.

Nursing a nearly broken ankle, I was sidelined from dance class. So I decided to learn from the pros.

For me the fever started in May with Danza Contemporanea de Cuba, rarely seen in the US.  Sulkary by Eduardo Rivero transported me to the Caribbean. Yoruba rhythmns combined with jaw dropping leg strength (deep plies held for impossibly long intervals).  Sultry Latin moves in Horizonte made me want to to buy a ticket to La Habana (I'm writing a letter to Obama-- lift the ban!)  Demo-n/crazy ended with the company holding upside down yoga poses. Supported on their shoulders, their feet jutted up in haphazard angles. The crowd remained silent, waiting for one of the dancers to waiver. None did, so well trained and in control were they.

Then Cuba's classical ballet took over the Brooklyn Academy of Music. There was an artist talk by founder of the Ballet Nacional de Cuba and prima ballerina assoluta, Alicia Alonso (she deserves her own post, one will follow). A legend who has worked with all the greats (Balanchine, Nijinsky, Massine, Tudor, Robbins, Agnes de Mille), Alonso is now in her nineties. Though her health is failing, she still has a regal bearing. I sat in the audience not twenty feet away (press seats!), and could barely believe I was in the presence of my childhood hero. As a young dancer in the suburbs of LA, I had read her autobiography: how after injury she had spent a year bedbound, unable to dance, practicing all the greats classical ballets in her head (this was before TV).

This was followed by the Ballet Nacional de Cuba: excerpts of Don Quijote, Swan Lake, Giselle, Sleeping Beauty, The Nutcracker, Coppelia,  Gottshalk Symphony. Why did they end with the last? Because it had Latin rhytmns? They would have been better served by ending with Don Quijote, the finest rendition of the lot. I had the good luck of being invited back stage. I stood near the wings feeling an exhilaration I had not experienced since childhood: the tense nerves and joyous excitement of imminent performance.

Then American Ballet Theatre season started, a whirlwind of world class performances. Ratmansky's Bright Stream, Julie Kent's 25th anniversary performance in Lady of the Camellias, exquisite Alina Cojocaru, guest artist from the Royal Ballet, in Giselle and Sleeping Beauty (she also deserves her own post, one will follow); fiery, confident, incredibly strong Polina Semionova in Don Quijote (see post: Polina Semionova we love you at the ABT), and delicate, though still phenomenally strong, in Swan Lake, a performance which was the highlight of the season for me (post to follow). Jose Manuel Carreno had been absent most of the season, and he gave his farewell performance in Swan Lake on June 30. Julie Kent and Gillian Murphy joined him in a banner performance, but David Hallberg stole the show with a cunning and devious von Rothbart. And then there was a suprise appearance by the Bolshoi's Ivan Vasiliev in Coppelia, a performance which I unfortunately missed as it had not been announced earlier in the season.

The Royal Danish was also in town performing Bournonville variations, Giselle, The Lesson, and a scene from Napoli. Known for nearly unbroken continuation of the refined classical ballet style as danced in the French court, the men of the Royal Danish stole the show with regal bearing, exquisite extensions, and jumps that were showy enough to command the audience's attention, but without ego.

As if my head were not already spinning, the season concluded with the Maryiinsky Ballet (formerly Kirov) of St. Petersburg.  The visit began with a performance of Ratmansky's Anna Karenina, almost universally panned by the critics and with good reason-- the music is too somber for dancing. I missed Vishneva's performance, but caught Kondarouva's. Her dancing managed to carry me through to the bitter end. I left wondering whether time is needed for appreciation of this ballet, but I have my doubts. The Maryiinsky's final performance on Saturday made up for the ill-fated Anna. It was a double bill of the Little Hump-Backed Horse at matinee, a light-hearted Russian fairy tale that I enjoyed along with the Russian children and round babuskas in the balcony. And then in the evening: Ulyana Lopatkina in Carmen Suite! Fiery! Sultry! Sexy! Ill-Fated! Formerly banned in the Soviet Union! I had only seen her in videos, but the power of her dancing extended far into the upper reaches of the house, which is where I sat.

This season will remain with me always. It brought me joy at a time when I could not dance, and when my living situation had less than to be desired. Now, back in my Washington Heights apartment, the balletomania still with me, the bass from my downstairs neighbor shaking the floor, my ankle on the mend, I can't wait to get back in the studio.

Rare Birds of NYC

2011-06-12T20:02:00.000-07:00

In early summer NYC parks come into full leaf. They dot the city and glisten like emeralds dropped into a wastebasket of concrete and exhaust. These parks hold rare flea market finds to patient observers.

Last week, bleary eyed and weary from a recent move into a fifth floor walkup, I took my morning walk in the Heather Garden. On a bench someone had scattered birdfeed.  Amidst the drab sparrows flitted a fluorescent green and yellow parakeet. He pecked at the bird seed, oblivious to his beauty, all the more stunning against the brown camouflage of the sparrows.  I approached cautiously so as not to scare him away. As I neared, the wild sparrows flew away with instinctive distrust. But the tame parakeet, accustomed to human presence, remained pecking at the bird seed. I neared to within a foot, yet he did not budge. Poor creature, I thought, he must have been someone's pet. And he is doomed. Such a rare beauty will not last through the harsh winter.

Today as I exited Central Park on W72nd St., I stopped short. Sitting on a window ledge of one of those magnificent doorman buildings (what do they look like inside?) blazed a powerful red parrot.  He had muscular talons that gripped the ledge securely.  Emerald, blue, and white feathers streaked across his wings.  His eyes had been made up with brilliant blue and white shadow that circled them like a target. A passerby stood giddily near the great bird while his wife tried to take a photo. The owner, a man mildly past middle age, said anxiously, don't get too close. The passerby paid no attention. The parrot ruffled his wings, and swiped at the passerby with his great hooked beak. I told you, don't get too close. He can do real damage, the owner intoned angrily. The passerby looked sheepish. His wife hurriedly snapped the photo, and the two rushed off. I asked, how old is he? The owner replied, forty-five. I thought, if I'd been with anyone (bird, beast or human) for that long, I might also become angry when a stranger fails to heed requests for respectful treatment.

That got me thinking about Poochini. Once, when we were first getting to know each other, we had walked to the Bethesda Fountain.  The pair of swans that used to come through Central Park in early spring were paddling on the pond. All of the sudden there rose a tremendous squawking and hissing. A woman's toy poodle had fallen into the water close to one of the swans.  The bird had risen clear out of the water, extending her powerful wings, beating them with fury, and pecking at the poor dog. The woman frantically kneeled by the side of the pond. After several unsuccessful attempts she was able to scoop out the dog. I hugged Poochini closely. That was when I learned to beware of angry swans.

We Love Polina Semionova at the ABT

2011-05-22T17:57:00.000-07:00

On Saturday the Boshoi-trained Polina Semionova performed to a sold-out audience at the American Ballet Theatre. Ms. Semionova was on loan from the Staatsballet Berlin, and was performing as Kitra in Don Quixote. From the moment she stepped on stage all eyes were glued to her. Poor David Hallberg and Veronika Part, magnificent dancers both, didn't stand a chance. We (I speak on behalf of the audience) love Polina. Why do we love her? Because she balances unwaveringly en pointe for an unspeakable amount of time in an attitude derriere that she then extends to a lingering arabesque. Because she spins like a top in so many pirouettes you lose count after eight, when she slides her foot down to a sous-sus as if the stage were ice and she a figure skater. Because she does double fouettes without using her arms to help her around, but instead sets one hand jauntily on a hip while the other hand shoots straight up with a fan, demonstrating her prowess. Because, when David Hallberg doesn't get that she really can do more pirouettes at the end of a grueling performance, and stops her after three revolutions, she takes an extra balance just to show she has more in her legs. Because she's not afraid to show off. Because she shows what the female body can do when in peak form. Because she wears a girlish, wide smile that fills the theatre with the joy of dance. Because she makes little girls spin in circles at intermission (this is a fact, I saw it with my own eyes). Because she reminds us of the joyful little girl in all of us, the one who would spin around until she fell down laughing and dizzy, the one for whom anything was possible.

Butterfly!

2011-05-15T19:18:00.000-07:00

Last week on Ft. Washington Ave. I was nearly run down by a four year old squealing with joy: Butterfly! Butterfly! Butterfly! she said. Her stubby legs pumped at top speed, making her pig tails jump up and down on either side of her head. The lilacs were blooming. The sky was crystal clear. And there was no reason not to be overjoyed by the prospect of butterflies. Her parents followed behind, smiling and indulgent. Such displays of exuberance are unfairly reserved for the very young. I wanted to throw my arms in the air and run alongside the girl, rejoicing over earth's power to renew itself each spring.

Several days later, I passed the same girl and her mother. The girl had used string to attach two floppy paper plates to her back. They were decorated with wavy crayon lines and cut on one side to make a straight edge next to her shoulder blades. The mother reached for the girl's hand and said gently, Come on Butterfly. The girl skipped along, her wings fluttering behind her.

Mother's Day in Central Park

2011-05-08T17:49:00.000-07:00

New York 1 forecast rainstorms for this year's Mother's Day, but the mothers would have none of it. They must have talked to the Big Guy and told him what's what. Weather-wise, this was the best day yet. In Central Park, Pooch and I tried to dodge the obstacle course of families picnicking, roller blading, waiting for the carousel, and eating icecream bars. A line fifty people long waited to rent row boats near the Boat House. In between having meltdowns, kids frolicked on the green grass of Sheep's Meadow. And if you hadn't thought ahead and packed your own food (like Mom does), you had a long wait on your hands at the Rickshaw Dumpling truck.

People came at us from all directions. After an hour of frantically trying not to become road kill, Pooch and I decided to be antisocial and ducked into The Ramble. There the crowd thinned, but barely. We duly became lost (no matter how long I live in this city, I never learn my way around The Ramble). Pooch rubbed noses with a St. Bernard, then got confused when, trying to greet him in the usual dog manner, stood in shadow beneath the huge dog's belly. Finally we found our way to the West Side, where we emerged to find a new barrage of families. But the funny thing was, despite the discomfort of the crowds, most people were smiling and polite. These people must be from out of town, I thought. Or maybe, on this Mother's Day, people had remembered a mother's frequent refrain: mind your manners. Which is a gift to all of us.

Oh, New York. I Heart You.

2011-04-24T20:53:00.000-07:00

Today I tied a pink bow around Pooch's neck. Suddenly people in the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue were calling him a her.  Boys can wear pink too, I said, just look at the man in drag over there. I pointed. That's way more than pink. The man stood six feet plus in platforms, and wore fishnet stockings, a bustier, thick fake eyelashes, and a fluorescent pink wig. Others had also gone overboard. In front of St. Patrick's Cathedral, a woman posed while balancing on her head an elaborate seven foot headress made of sprays of violets, lilacs, and blue flowers whose species has not yet evolved. There were little girls with angelic golden curls beneath bonnets decorated with green grass, pink and yellow baskets, and chocolate Easter eggs.  A man wearing a top hat and tails accompanied a woman in an elegant green satin 1940s dress. She struck a pose in a broad brimmed hat covered with a froth of toile and multicolored flowers.

And of course there were the dogs. There was a pooch in a top hat with coat and tails (note: the average, every day pooch is lower case in this blog). There was a golden retriever in a pink skirt and pink bunny ears. There was one of those yippy little runts of dogs (I can't keep their names in mind, there's probably a psychological term for it), dressed in a tutu with a pink ribbon. Three little girls in Easter frocks stood round, oohing and aahing. Everyone loves a well dressed pooch.

The Upper Case Pooch and I paraded from St. Pat's to The Plaza. The day had turned warm and humid. The sky was clear blue for once, and Central Park was irresistible. Days of rain had turned the grass electric green. The trees had burst into pink blossom, and the tulips stood with perfect posture, awaiting admiration.  The Easter Parade had spilled along the path leading to the zoo, where people rested on park benches and forgot to remove their bunny ears.

It seemed like all of the greater metropolitan New York area had converged on Manhattan. There were crowds at the carousel, where I stopped to buy refreshments. Most people were happy today, but there's always a few curmudgeons in a crowd. The hot dog man said, what can I get you. I tried to say, "Diii-et CCo" but was interrupted by a man with a European accent, barging in front of me and ordering water. The hot dog man, unfazed, pulled out the Diet Coke, slammed it down hard to make his point and said, Diet Coke for you, and then pulled out the water for the SOB. It was a small triumph for me, and even though the hot dog man inflated the cost ($3!), I take small triumphs when I can get them. I sauntered away, flamboyantly opening my Diet Coke while the European man argued with the hot dog man over the price of water.

Pooch and I found a bench near the road that on weekdays rings the park in a necklace of exhaust (it's closed to car traffic on Sundays; that's when it becomes a necklace of weekend warriors).  As I fed him popcorn, a pedicab rolled by blasting "Empire State of Mind" by Alicia Keys: Noise is always loud, there are sirens all around, and the streets are mean... Concrete jungle where dreams are made of... There's nothing you can't do...Now you're in New York... These streets will make you feel brand new...Big lights will inspire you...Let's hear it for New York, New York, New Yooooork!

It's days like these that erase the occasional discouragement a New Yorker feels. The hot dog seller who doesn't need to, but is kind in his own manner. The drag queens in the Easter Parade, and other New Yorkers (though not all-- there is an entrenched stodgy component to this city) who have the guts to be noncomformist. And the blue sky that defines the color and occasionally makes an appearance.

Spring Eaves Dropping

2011-04-17T19:55:00.000-07:00

"You know what I want," she said, "I want beer and dinner." She was white-haired and alone. She sat at the table directly across from me. The waiter had placed his hand on her shoulder and listened to her like he would to his grandmother. He knew her. He brought the beer in a lady-like wine glass. She took a sip, then looked at me and said, "I'm Joan. What's your name?" Veronica, I replied. "Where you from?" she asked. Los Angeles, I said. "I went to Glendale College. I wrote for the college paper. I worked at Webb department store. Do you know it? Probably before your time." I shook my head no, I didn't know it, it was indeed before my time. She continued, "I had a friend from that Norwegian town up north. What was the name?" Solvang, I said. "Yes, Solvang!" She grew excited and dropped her fork. The waiter swooped down to pick it up. Just then thunder exploded outside the restaurant. A few people got to their feet to take a look. She said, "I hope you don't have far to go. I'm just one building away." Not far, I replied, I will run if I need to.

But I needn't have run. The thunder was nature reminding us of her power. The day had been beautiful, the first real day of spring when one still needs a light coat despite the blue sky gracing us with her presence. Poochini and I had spent the afternoon in Central Park, where all of Manhattan had turned out. Especially the French part (Manhattan being an outpost of Europe, as we know). The language of luuuuuv was everywhere. People were saying s'il vous plait at the Bethesda Fountain, French kissing at the Boat House Cafe (where I fed Pooch French fries), and smoking in a very Frenchie way at the new food court in Tavern on the Green's former garden, whose exclusivity has been superceded by food on wheels: Pera (a Turkish food truck), The Chinese Dumpling Truck, a soup truck, and an Italian gelato truck (the economic downturn has done wonders for democratizing food in Central Park). The wall of people had over-stimulated poor Pooch, who walked across Sheep's Meadow in paroxysms of nervous coughing. Despite the seizure-like quality of his affliction, I think the outing was good for him. His nose forgot to run. Now, after five hours of wandering, he is lying nearly comatose on his little dog bed, the corners of his mouth upturned in a smile of contentment.

But I needed more of an outing. Maybe it was the sun, but something in me was missing California tonight. When I miss California, I eat Mexican food. So I headed to the Mexican restaurant down the street, which is where I met Beer and Dinner Joan. There are many women like her in my area. Unlike the Central Park crowd, not many speak French. In my neighborhood, they speak Spanish, Russian, Yiddish, and Hebrew. The woman who runs the neighborhood drug store is from Riverside, not far from where I grew up. She came to be on Broadway, and stayed when that didn't work out. There are others. For instance, my neighbor Mrs. Katz, who has Alzheimer's and is obsessed with the layout of my apartment (yours is bigger than mine). There is the old German Jewish woman one floor down from me, who always has her hair done just so, still wears make up, and is completely (snap snap) Put-Together. When she says hi, I do a double take. Her accent reminds me of Dad. Then there was the old Russian lady who lived above me, and whose bumps in the night disappeared a few months ago. She has been replaced by a young woman whose bumps carry on throughout the day. I can't say that I like the replacement. The older neighbors have better stories. Their bumps are less vindictive. As if, after so many years of life's ups and downs, they've learned to go easy on their neighbors.

Twilight Walk

2011-04-10T19:43:00.000-07:00

This blog is staying in The Heights. For three months I've been having an affair with Brooklyn, attempting to leave The Heights for a coop on the other side of the tracks. For three months I've been trying to convince myself that it's the right thing to do. But sometimes the right thing falls through, and you pick up the pieces and move on. And sometimes the right thing turns out to be dead wrong. Suffice it to say that the deal fell through, and I'm nursing bruised feelings toward a coop board that wasted $1000 of my hard earned cash. It seemed like the place held the key to lower housing costs, more financial security, and freedom to write. Even though I met all the requirements, the coop board turned me down without explanation in a curt "sorry for the inconvenience" rejection letter.

So tonight, Poochini and I walked at twilight through the Heather Garden. Despite the lingering chill, spring is trying valiantly to arrive. The daffodils have reached their zenith, though tonight they stood muted in evening's faded light. My favorite tree has burst into white, frothy blossoms overnight. The hyacinths have scented the evening air with sweet honey. And the forsythia blazed fluorescent yellow in the twilight. The evening was warm enough to sit on the Linden Terrace, and so we did. Poochini lay in my lap like a baby. I rubbed his belly and tried to let my disappointment flow into the night air. It almost worked. After all, it's hard to leave Ft. Tryon Park during spring. Tomorrow, we start our search again with the trusty neighborhood real estate broker Louis (who knows my name and greets me on the street). Besides, who would want to read about Brooklyn? That's been done. And anway, that's where all the wannabe writers live.

Slow Spring Recovery

2011-04-03T19:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes things in life happen for which there are no ready answers. The untimely death of a young person, either from despair or accident, is one of these. During the last week, I have been thinking much about Veronica Boehm, who shared my first name and also, I have learned from your messages, shared my love of art and photography. In my walks with Poochini in the Heather Garden, the earth is reluctantly waking up from winter's coma. Daffodils stand upright amidst blue crocuses and purple heather. In the last two weeks, these daffodils have been twice dusted by unseasonable snow. The wind blows off the Hudson, reminding me that recovery takes time. It inches forward, takes a lunge backward, then hesitantly tries to move forward again.

Thinking about Veronica Boehm has reminded me of my college boyfriend, who died aboard TWA flight 800, which was bound for Paris and which crashed in deep ocean just off Long Island. Since then, I have been acquainted with other deaths: a classmate who perished in a diving accident, the murder of a colleague, the sometimes sudden and, all too often, expected death of the hospital wards, and the death of my own father. But the first experience of death can bring unexpected emotions. There is first disbelief (there must be a mistake; they've named the wrong person). Then shock (this can't have happened, how could this have happened?) There is grief (is my friend really gone? I miss him/her.) In the case of a violent death, closure comes with difficulty (for me, in the form of dreams, over years, in which my beloved returned, and I would awaken believing he had not truly died). Then there is acceptance, which at the beginning does not seem possible, or even desirable. Experiencing the emotions as they arise is natural.

Thinking these thoughts, I have not enjoyed the early spring as I normally do. And that is natural, too. This year's spring brings a slow recovery. Lingering cold turns my thoughts inward. Over time, I have stopped looking for rationality in my beloved's death. I have simply accepted it. These days, I think not about his death, but remember him in full youth, with a wide gap-toothed grin (he played hockey, and had a missing front tooth). Nearly twenty years later, this memory still brings me joy. That is the slowness of recovery. Which is also only natural.

Incident at 96th Street: The Third Rail

2011-03-27T18:56:00.000-07:00

Today while I was returning from a practica at Dardo Galletto studios, the A train arrived just as I reached the platform. I thanked my lucky stars for having a short wait. Together with a herd of other New Yorkers I boarded the already full train. I was soon cursing those same lucky stars. Full trains and crowded platforms mean one thing: the train is experiencing delays.  We sat on the platform for twenty minutes. The conductor remained mute.  He made no announcements explaining the delay, no repeated promises offering hope that the train would soon be on its way.

Finally, the doors tentatively closed. They slapped open and closed five more times before they made a final, successful attempt. The train sputtered to life, chugging slowly beneath the Upper West Side. Around 96th street, it stalled again. Then it inched past the subway platform at 96th street. Someone muttered something about a body bag. I was wearing earplugs (the decibel level in the New York City subway system is above the level deemed safe in some factories). I pretended not to hear, imagined that the man referred to some other body bag, somewhere else, at some other time. I had my back to the subway platform. I didn't try to look. Everyone in the train remained silent. No one crooned necks, no one played a peeping tom to someone else's tragedy. There has been too much bad news lately, in the Middle East, in Japan, with the economy, hell, we might as well throw in China while we're at it. Personally, I have been dealing with a coop board whose recalcitrance has got me questioning my faith in others.

After 96th street the train made speedy progress to 168th St., where a woman boarded, sat across from me, and asked, how long have you been on this train? I replied, forever.  I paused to consider whether I should fill in the gap, and then did, someone said there was a body bag. That broke the silence. The woman next to me (who had boarded at 125th St.), added, someone jumped, or was pushed, onto the tracks. I was on the C train. They made us get off and go upstairs while they turned off the electricity [the third rail carries very high, usually lethal voltage], and retrieved the body. The woman across from me, shocked and seeking communion in her distress, looked me directly in the eye.  Sometimes words fail me. I stuttered. I leaned forward, distracted.  As I did so, an item fell out of the plastic bag I held on my lap.  A man standing near me bent over and picked it up. Without saying a word, he tapped me on the arm with it, returning it to me. I had not realized the loss.

That brought back the silence.  Such is life in New York City:  the tragedies and triumphs of life lived in the open,  the fleeting, subterranean sense of community.

Resources for those affected by this, and similar, events:

Samaritans of New York: For those in crisis, for friends and family affected by the suicide of a loved one, and to increase awareness about this issue:
www.samaritansnyc.org
Samaritans 24-hr crisis hotline: 212-673-3000

For those in crisis, or needing more information about suicide and related issues:
LIFENET: 1-800-LIFENET
http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/cis/cis_lifenet.shtml

To find a counselor or therapist:
www.findcounseling.com

To find a suicide or crisis hotline in your state:
www.suicidehotlines.com

National Suicide Hotlines:
1-800-SUICIDE, or 1-800-273-TALK

Rainy Day Central Park: Best Chicken Noodle Soup in NYC

2011-03-07T05:25:00.000-08:00

Today the sky hung low, enveloping New York in a mantle of gray. It was as if the entire city had become smaller, its sounds muted by the clouds. Winter’s bitter teeth no longer tore at the air, though the wind drove raindrops under umbrellas. I decided not to care. I had woken with a cold sore, stomach upset, and an aching head. I wanted to wander. Pooch and I climbed into the car and headed to Central Park. Except for a few hardy souls who smiled in mutual complicity, we had the place to ourselves. Most of the hot dog vendors had gone. The family gospel choir, four children and their father who set up shop inside the arches of the Bethesday arcarde, were there. But they were sheltering from the rain and not singing.

Pooch and I headed to The Boat House. Here's an insider's secret: The Boat House (not the fancy, over-priced section, but the snack bar part), has the best chicken noodle soup in the city. It's made fresh, with big chunks of moist chicken, firm noodles, and thickly cut carrots, celery, and onions. I bought a cup and sat under the small overhang of the bar in the outdoor portion of The Boat House. I delighted in breaking a small rule: in fair weather, Pooch is not allowed in this part of The Boat House. I fed him potato chips while I ate my soup. I gazed at the pond, speckled with raindrops. Live piano music escaped from inside the cafe, harmonizing with the patter of rain on the roof. Birds had spattered the area of the bar where we sat, and uncaring smokers had scattered cigarettes. I decided not to care about either. I had the place and the view to myself.

Some days call for breaking rules and not caring. Especially if a view and the best chicken noodle soup in the city are involved.

Bloody Feet

2011-02-28T18:32:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday the Dardo Galletto milonga started on the wrong foot.  At the pre-milonga lesson, I was paired with another woman. She was well past middle age, five inches shorter than me, and round in girth.  During the warm-up at the beginning of the lesson, our legs became immediately entangled.  Contrary to tango rules (any mishap is due to poor leading and not the follower's fault), she blamed me. You don't know what to do, she complained, you're not following directions. She was the type who's used to being right.  But these days I know enough about tango not to fall for that trick.  If the lead is wrong, the follower doesn't move. I'd taken the blame too many times in the past, and I was sick of that game. I stood still. She grew frustrated, you need to move, she commanded. I replied, I don't feel the lead. I don't know which foot you want me on. Oh, she said, and looked sheepish, realizing she had bossed the wrong person.  I switched partners and avoided her for the remainder of the lesson.

Then the milonga started in earnest.  A man who had come clear from Albany just for the milonga asked me to dance. He was a fan of the pre-milonga teachers, a Russian man and an Argentine woman.  This new partner had danced most of his life: contemporary, ballet, tango. The man knew how to move to music, and the connection wth him came effortlessly.

But then the Tango Bruiser appeared.  He was tall and by all appearances looked like he knew how to dance. I'm tall and often on the lookout for a tall partner. But from the get-go this man had it wrong. He began in close embrace before I'd given any indication that it was OK.  I pulled away, he didn't get the hint. He pulled me closer. His shirt was damp with sweat.  He led me in what I think were ochos, but he didn't give me space to execute them. He barreled ahead, not attempting to connect with me. He stepped on my feet, and blamed me for not following him. I said I don't feel your lead. His command, you need to follow me, there's nothing wrong with my lead. It was a one way conversation, and the only way was his. I danced three tangos with him, and parted with a barely audible thank you (in polite tango-speak this means, I don't want to dance with you anymore, which implies, you dance like shit).

I danced two more tangos before my feet gave out.  Then I sat down, leaned over, pulled up my pant leg to unstrap my shoes, and revealed the damage: a deep gash on the inner side of my left foot. Blood oozed along my instep. While dancing with The Bruiser, he had not left enough room for me to swivel in my ochos. I had hooked my left foot with the heel of my opposite shoe. I looked at my right foot and the second toe was swollen and bleeding from where he had stepped on it. The next morning, bruises appeared on the top of that same foot. Had I danced with a man who'd politely apologized for massacring my feet, I might have felt differently. But this man had blamed me, had made me feel incompetent at the same time that he inflicted pain. In another context, it's the same controlling behavior that abusers show toward significant others. In future milongas, I am steering clear of that type.

Tango reveals different aspects of human nature.  Some people always want to be the boss. So convinced of their infallibility, they don't admit to mistakes. When things go wrong, they blame others. It can make a person feel rotten. Bruised and bloody feet taught me this on the dance floor, but least a tango set is only nine minutes, which minimize the damage.

Personally, I prefer a partner with a mea culpa complex. But that's another tango lesson, and another story...

Valentine's Tango, a Field Study

2011-02-16T18:20:00.000-08:00

Oh, of course. Valentine's tango. Combine a Hallmark holiday with the inherent cheesiness of tango, and you've got a spectator sport. I like to think that I have come to terms with this holiday. Rather than wearing black and heading to the nearest cave, I started the evening at Triangulo. I wanted to see what couples do on a day like this. Coupledom is a foreign culture to me: the expectations, the drains on one's personal time, the need to have fancy pajamas (oops, negligees), require decoding.  Hence, my field study about the customs of coupledom during times of enforced romance.

At Triangulo, young couples converged for chocolate covered strawberries, champagne, and a first tango lesson (for most). Participant observation requires sacrifice, and it was back to cruzadas and ochos for me. While the couples shuffled and tried to avoid squashing each other, I found an impromptu partner. The man had a story. He was alone on Valentine's Day, but wore a wedding ring and looked shellshocked. I didn't pry. I danced, and found myself preaching with the zeal of the newly converted: the key is facing each other, chest to chest, heart to heart, it's how we connect in tango, how I know where you're going (how I avoid getting my toes trampled, I thought). I encouraged:  you've got it, I wouldn't be able to dance if you were doing it wrong. It was noblesse oblige from an aspiring tanguera to a novice, but we all need support on Valentine's Day. Is that one of the rituals? Is weathering Valentine's Day together (this being the key) necessary for creating the codependene that makes or breaks couples? I had more work to do.

Next stop: Highline Ballroom. There was a live tango band, followed by a live tango show, followed by a live milonga. In short, the place was hoppin'. It was dark and filled with couples sitting at tables and eating overpriced Valentine's prix fixe dinners. Waiters carrying plates filled with red meat pushed through the crowds. I stood by the bar, observing. It's what I do. I was born observing, ask my mother. She'll say, she [that's me, change of speaker] was only a few days old, just lying there in her crib, not crying, just looking around, observing, and I [that's my Mom] wondered, who is this little person? I [that's me, another change of speaker] am the last of five kids, and spent my childhood observing the older ones. It was easier than talking over them (darn near impossible).

At Highline, there were men in red shirts, men in ties, men dressed to impress. Their women wore tight, tight dresses, teetered on high, high heels, and draped arms around their men, claiming their territory. There were old couples, talking comfortably without the pressure to fill in silences. There were new couples, twittering and nervous. There was an arguing couple, who left early, to my relief, and vacated a table where I could sit and rest my feet. There was a self absorbed couple, each member preening and staring in the opposite direction, checking out the crowd checking out them. There were well-matched couples, you could see it in their relaxed smiles. And there was Media Noche, the Gibson Girl burlesque dancer who undressed sinuously on stage.  She had a petit hourglass frame. When she reached the tiny glittery bits pasted to her tiny special bits, the men's eyes popped. The women looked the other way. I made note: another Valentine's ritual. Adversity again, either it makes you or breaks you.

After the stage show the place cleared out fast. It was Monday night, and most of the crowd was eager to get home to complete the Valentine's ritual, for which the earlier evening had been a mere precursor. That's when the milonga started. The tangueros came out of the woodwork, and I danced.  I did boleos, ganchos, embellishments, and even one dip. At some point during a Piazzolla piece, I forgot about participant observation and became part of Valentine's Day. And perhaps that's the Valentine's message, that the rituals aren't just for couples. That, taken less seriously, the day is about partipating in love and all its different forms. Pink really is a pretty color, and hearts are kind of cool shapes.

As I left the milonga, a man handed me a long stemmed red rose. I held it in my lap during the hour long subway ride home. I was alone, but I wasn't the only one.

Rufus

2011-02-09T19:24:00.000-08:00

For over a year I have intended to write about Rufus. But Rufus is complicated. The real Rufus hides under a white poofy poodl-ish exterior. Poochini and I have tried to befriend Rufus. But we started on the wrong foot from day one. I know I'm biased, but Rufus started the whole thing. The first time they met Poochini was still halfway down the block when Rufus bared his teeth and went haywire, the frizz on his back standing on end. These days Poochini and I have to cross the street when we spot Rufus.

His owner knows Rufus is difficult when it comes to us. She's on guard. Usually she spots us and reigns in Rufus before he's even on our radar screen. I'll admit that Poochini isn't entirely innocent. There was that episode, while he was on all those steroids for his lung problems, when we passed the elevator door just as Rufus was exiting. That's when Poochini went into Cujo mode and cornered Rufus. But everyone deserves a second chance, and I don't think a little 'roid rage should be held against us. After all, it was medication induced and not indicative of Poochini's true character.

Anyway, the animosity between Poochini and Rufus existed long before Poochini's temporary insanity. I have tried to figure it out, and it comes down to this: just like humans, dogs can't control who likes them and who doesn't. There's that intangible gestalt. You know what I'm talking about. When someone pisses you off from day one, there's no getting around the fact that you're never gonna be friends. Even if Poochini is being bullied by a white fuzzball, I can be thankful that the dog world is simpler than ours. I don't have to explain to Poochini that Rufus not liking him has nothing to do with an inherent flaw of Poochini's, and everything to do with Rufus' own issues. Instead, the two accept each other as mortal enemies and get on with life. Which is a helluva lot less confusing than pretending to be friends when you're not.

Super Heros!

2011-01-31T19:44:00.000-08:00

Recently I have noticed an inordinate number of super heros on the streets of Washington Heights. Blame it on the snowy weather (super heros come out in full force when their powers are needed), but there are capes and masks everwhere. Just this morning I passed the Lone Ranger: a little boy dressed from head to toe in royal blue (blue poofy snow jacket, blue cowboy boots, blue cowboy hat decorated squarely in the front with a red star). Where was Tonto in this urban winter wonderland? At the pharmacy after work today, I passed a more sinister super hero: an older boy staring solemnly from behind a Darth Vader mask (there were heavy breathing and sinus problems involved I'm sure of it-- his mother was buying decongestant).

Walking Poochini past the mine field of yellow and brown mysteriosos that dot the glaciers near the sidewalk, I passed two less obvious super heros: a father and his pre-teen son throwing snow balls (well, now iceballs since temperatures have plummeted, turning slush to ice). You'll never get me, the boy yelled. Hah, you'll see, the father called back as he threw an iceball far and above the boy's head. The boy ran away laughing, knowing that he would soon best his father in other things.

There are inconspicous super heros: the man who helped me dig my car out from more than a foot of snow. The superintendents who chip away at the ice that encrust fire hydrants, and who clear the sidewalks for the rest of us. All of New York is awaiting the garbage collector super heros, whose services have been interrupted due to winter storms. Hopefully they will soon come: the garbage has piled to higher than waist level.

Then there is my personal super hero, Poochini, who leaps for joy when I open the door upon returning from a long work day. He is the 20 lb bundle of energy with the Napoleonic complex, who doesn't realize his size and chases after the 150 pound Cane Corso (Caesar Augustus, Augie to friends), in the dog park. Augie leaps in fright, surprised by Poochini's audacity. Poochini is the super hero who sometimes won't let me write, squirming on the couch for my attention, reminding me to take a break.

We all need super heros now and then. Sometimes, we forget where to look for them.

Trust

2011-01-24T20:54:00.000-08:00

Lately I have been thinking about trust.  A few Sundays ago, as I walked past St.Francis Cabrini chapel, I passed a father and his daughter. The father, hiply dressed in jeans and an urban khaki jacket, held his daughter's hand.  She was a fiesta of pink: pink frills peaked out from beneath a pink poofy winter jacket; pink leggings stretched along pudgy three year old legs that were planted in pink Barbie sneakers.  From beneath his baseball cap the father said, We have to trust each other. The little girl looked at the yellow ice where a dog had urinated near the sidewalk.  I trust you, the father said, do you trust me?  The girl didn't answer. The father asked again, we need to trust each other, do you trust me? The girl nodded, OK, Daddy, she said.

Learning how to trust at such an early age, I thought, bodes well for a little girl's future. But what sparked the father's request? Fear of future betrayal?

That got me thinking. Betrayals of trust come in different shapes and sizes. There are the small daily betrayals, ones that often go unnoticed and rightly so (they would occupy too much mental energy): the unanswered emails, the friend who cancels plans at the last minute, or the neighbor who throws away errant socks rather than laying them on the laundry table to await retrieval by its owner. There are the betrayals to self: when, lacking faith in ourselves, we do the opposite of our intentions. I know this from dance: when I don't trust my Self and my own body, I fall down. Then there are the more significant betrayals: the co-worker who undermines our work by secreting information and keeping us out of the loop; the friend who, thinking us unaware, makes a pass at a boyfriend; the family member who, not having all the information, judges rather than understands. There are the larger betrayals still: lies, infidelity, abuse. Then there are the betrayals that tear at the fabric of society: murder, rape, war.

Society depends on trust. Right now, I'm thinking about making a large purchase, and am dependent on trusting a complete stranger for legal and other matters. Every time I drive my car, I'm trusting my mechanic and the factory workers before him. For adults not clothed in frilly pink and not holding the hand of a hip urban father, trust can be confusing.

Hannah Arendt wrote that trust begins with forgiveness. But forgiveness doesn't come easily.  It ebbs and flows. It takes baby steps, and sometimes falls down.  There are different types of forgiveness, and some of them begin with little things: the man who picks up our winter gloves when we hurriedly stand to exit the subway; the neighbor who takes our laundry out of the dryer and folds it rather than dumping it on top to become wrinkled; the friend who isn't very interested in the movie we've been dying to see, but goes anyway just to keep us company. For the larger betrayals, partial forgiveness may be the only kind possible. But for the smaller ones, the kindnesses of daily life collect into a patchwork of forgiveness, a re-configuration of trust.

That's what I think today, but I haven't made my purchase yet. Stay tuned for details...

Cross-Cultural Bling Bling: Russia and Southern California

2011-01-02T21:00:00.000-08:00

For the last three weeks this blog has been on hiatus while I traveled and visited family, first in Russia and then in Southern California. The following somewhat atypical post (for this blog) results from those travels.

Walking up Tverskaya Street (because in Russia life is hard, hard, hard, and one walks up, up, up, always up, never down, a street), the flashbacks of Rodeo Drive hit suddenly and without warning. Slip sliding along the snow and ice, the thermometer reading ten degrees below zero, the winter night lights up with the glitz of haute couture, the shiny black Mercedes parked in front of the new Marriott Tverskaya, the abundant window displays at TSUM (rhymes with zoom, like the Russian nouveau riche moving at warp speed), the Bolshoi (Nutcracker tickets starting at $700!), brooding under renovation but glowing with promise. On the metro, I sit next to an old, mustachioed, tight-lipped Muscovite, her arms folded resolutely across an ample frame wrapped in matching fur coat and comrade hat, both made of beige ermine. These new fangled comrade hats also come in cashmere. In GUM on the edge of Red Square, I rest my feet outside Accessorize, the only store where I can afford a purchase. In St. Petersburg, I barely set foot in Gostiny Dvor, one of the world's first indoor shopping malls dating from 1785 and where these days Dolce & Gabbana vies for attention with Sonia Rykiel.  Across the street, old women beg in sixteen degree below zero temperatures outside the doors of Kazan Cathedral.

Four days in Moscow, six in St. Petersburg. Then I head to the old Soviet style domestic airport, where I wait in a barely heated pre-departure area. A group of Chinese workers huddles together. A troup of Russian soldiers marches onto a flight headed to Kaliningrad on the Baltic. My gate is changed. I can't ask where. The signs are in cyrillic, the announcements in Russian. A tall, handsome, sharply dressed Central Asian shows up. He speaks good English, is on my flight to Moscow, and helps me find it. To board, we walk outside through blowing snow and upstairs to the plane, which takes off without delay. At Moscow International Airport, trying to help me find my connecting flight, the Central Asian reveals never having traveled internationally. How did he learn such good English?

I fly Aeroflot (barely edible food) back to NYC, then a 2 hour subway ride to my apartment, home at 10 PM, unpack heavy Russia-oriented clothes, re-pack Southern-California oriented clothes, up at 3.30 AM, another 2 hr subway ride, a lay-over in Las Vegas, land in Long Beach, California, where de-boarding is delayed 20 minutes by rain, then a 3 hour car ride (traffic delays) to my family in Rialto. How to explain the disconnect between these two worlds? I am in a sleep-deprived time warp.

I sleep for two days. The temperature is fifty degrees *above* zero (sixty degrees warmer than in Russia). In my haste, I have not packed enough warm clothes, and wear the same sweat shirt day after day (I wash it twice). Family members arrive for Christmas, bringing more food than fits on the table.   My nieces, 10 and 6 years, receive an all-pink Barbi McMansion, with working elevator, jacuzzi tub (with sounds of rushing water), and chandeliers. It is the type of plaything my sister and I had dreamed of having as children. We wait with anticipation for the girls to unwrap it, secretly wishing for our turn. I take my 10 year old niece shopping at Victoria Gardens, an outside mall designed to look like the streets of East Coast cities. Our day stops at Clare's, where she weaves amongst glitter and sparkle, her eyes gleeful.

Southern California is known for bling bling. Russia, in the age of the czars, used to be. These days, bling bling, for those who can afford it, is resurgent in Russia.  While I can't speak for bling bling of the Rodeo sort, it seems to me that in Southern California bling bling of the Clare's sort, and especially of the sort that makes little girls happy, is hanging on.  And I don't see anything wrong with that.

One thing is true: when denied, bling bling comes back with a vengeance. Best to have a moderate, steady supply of it to avoid starvation and keep one's appetite at bay.

Ballet Arts at City Center: A Haven in Midtown

2010-11-28T22:37:00.000-08:00

Ballet Arts occupies the sixth floor of an art deco building on W56th St. To enter, you walk through a nondescript door across the street from the backside of Carnegie Hall. Beside the door, a plackard reads "City Center stage entrance only", and you feel like one of the privileged few allowed entrance to the theatre’s inner sanctum. Then you wait for the elevator, watching the 1930's needle tick down the floors as it traces a slow semi-circle to ground floor. You step into the wood elevator, musty with the scent of decades of dancers. You slowly rise past the floors of administrative offices, until you finally arrive at the safe haven of Ballet Arts.

At Ballet Arts there is no computer system, no minute plastic cards that are easily lost in your handbag and that reduce your identity to a bar code. Here, though the lounge where dancers stretch before class is small, the studio is one of the largest in NYC, a vast art-deco space where one can really move. Here, a German woman, quiet and gentle, sits at a small wooden table. She collects class fees (cash only), places them in a metal box, and writes your name with a pencil in a college-ruled, spiral bound notebook. She quickly gets to know you. Here, the man who runs the place greets you in a Russian accent. He re-stocks the coffee table with oreos, apples, grapes, and potato chips, free to dancers for snacking before class (who says dancers don't eat?) Here on the cozy couches lining the walls, you are not pushed aside by the crowds in the glitzier NYC dance studios. From the roughly sketched paintings of dancers (you suspect they were crafted by a friend), to the teddy bears comfortably slouching on the sofas, to the red roses sitting beside the drinking fountain, to the goldfish tucked away on a shelf, to the Nutcracker that has recently appeared, there is a friendliness that has welcomed me back into the fold.

The teachers at Ballet Arts have trained at famed institutions like St. Petersburg’s Vaganova Academy and the School of American Ballet. They have danced, some as principals, with the Bolshoi Ballet, the Joffrey, New York City Ballet, and the Metropolitan Opera Ballet. They have worked with Rudolph Nureyev, Anthony Tudor, George Balanchine, and Alvin Ailey. Though they have reason to act otherwise, they are patient. It's that kind of place, one that inspires and nurtures art.

I discovered Ballet Arts two years ago, while trying to summon the courage to dance again. In my mid-thirties, I had berated myself (what are you thinking, ballet is for little girls, not for grown women). But I had danced in childhood, the dance had never left me, and the pull was too strong. It was not that I wanted to wear a tiara and prance around in a tutu (I wear a simple black leotard and lime green tights that have snagged and run beyond repair, and that are cut off above the ankle because my legs are too long for normal tights). But one day two winters ago, without second guessing myself, I secretly bought a pair of pink ballet flats. Without telling anyone, I stepped back into the studio. I was sore for three days. But my body remembered those old moves, though my brain strained to remember their names, and my childhood addiction for dance returned in full force.

When I saw a pair of pointe shoes on sale at Sansha for $20, I nabbed them (though my legs were not yet strong enough). Then I began looking for a studio that felt like home. That's when I found Ballet Arts. It reminded me of the old, cavernous studio in which I danced as a child, and which to me was a cathedral. Ballet Arts has that grungy feel that all dance studios should have, and the waiting room that invites communing with other dancers. Many of the teachers at Ballet Arts teach classical Russian technique, which is the style I learned as a child and which my body remembers best.

Most dancers are quiet people. It's the expression through movement that allows us to come alive. When I enter the dance studio, I leave the outer layers of myself behind: life's petty jealousies, the insignificant (in retrospect) slights, the confusions and worries, the occasional belly aches. All that falls away, and I am simply myself. I love the concentration of ballet, the body consciousness, the attention to every muscle (even those tiny foot muscles, usually ignored and abused), the obsessive attention to body position, the emphasis on height and lengthening, the opening of oneself to the audience (apparent in the dancer's forward stance-- one cannot balance without an open heart). Ballet has been called the "science of behavior toward others" and "the body divined". Perhaps that's why some think ballet is an inner club: most cannot understand divinity and steer clear rather than risk failing.

Ballet is freedom through movement. I have expressed myself through movement since childhood, when I put on the Mary Poppins record, rolled up the rugs in the sitting room (the better to spin and slide on the wooden floor), and danced until I fell down with joy. I'm not alone among women in this feeling. In her recent history of ballet, Jennifer Homans (dance critique for the New Republic, and former dancer for the San Francisco Ballet), speaks of Marie Taglioni's fame. Born into a family of Italian dancers in 1804, Taglioni is widely recognized as the first truly successful ballerina. Homans refers to Taglioni as a "woman's dancer", and links this to the mores of the time, when "'Decent' women had to settle for a subdued and controlled life, but underneath they were desperate to abandon their ‘soft and calm existence' for 'storms of passion' and 'dangerous emotions'. Taglioni lived what they could only dream: a fully expressed life." In ballet, women are the stars of the show, one in which the overarching aim is emotional expression within the constructs of the story. Is this why some are still uncomfortable with this art form?

Ballet demands patience and sacrifice. Last summer I went back en pointe. I did one impatient releve and now have a black toenail that is still healing four months later. Since then, I’ve worked on proper form and developing my leg strength. In the last month my hamstrings have grown progressively tighter. Yesterday, while stretching before class, I said to my teacher, the more classes I take, the stiffer I become. He smiled and said, that's good, that means you're getting stronger and you're training correctly. Have you ever seen how NYC Ballet dancers walk? They're stiff. That means they're strong. But, I said, what about my flexibility? Splits and backbends? Well, you have to stretch, he said.

Ballet is constant challenge and self competition. What keeps me hooked is when my body works as it should: when I do a pirouette with correct form (and sometimes a double, and soon a triple); when, while doing pique turns, I am able to keep my eye on the spot and traverse the entire dance floor without becoming dizzy; and when I can get my leg just that much higher in an arabesque. That’s when I feel most connected to myself, to the music, to the imaginative audience for whom I am dancing, to the mystery of expressing myself through dance. In a world whose sharp edges stifle creativity, and whose brash assertions of self subvert beauty, in ballet I am finally allowed to express myself through a form that glorifies the feminine. I have great admiration for the masculine, but today’s world is over-balanced with it. Ballet turns that order on its head. In explaining its popularity with women, it seems to me that Balanchine correctly said: “Ballet is woman...Woman is the world and man lives in it."

That might explain the facial expression of the quiet Korean woman who I met a year ago. Now in her mid-twenties, she is learning ballet for the first time. Late on a Tuesday evening, after class at Ballet Arts, she sat on the floor of the lounge and, bending over to sew the ribbons on her pointe shoes, looked at me with pure and radiant joy.

Bakery Tango

2010-11-21T15:43:00.000-08:00

On Tuesday, Tango appeared unexpectedly. The sky had drizzled all day, I needed to be in a better mood, and so I headed for Gideon's, the neighborhood bakery where pastries are half price after 4:30. From the 1950's sign, to the round formica tables, and the types of pastries (cherry danishes, chocolate rugelach, rainbow sprinkle sugar cookies), Gideon's is old-fashioned. Which suits the elderly neighborhood socialites. That day, there were two long-time girlfriends flirting with a tall white-haired man smartly dressed in a wool jacket and navy trousers. You keep getting better looking all the time, one of the women said. The man looked embarrassed, but pleased. He smiled, absorbing the compliment. In a corner opposite them sat Tango, looking nonchalant and dipping a French cruller in his afternoon pick-me-up coffee. I stopped dead and blurted, Tango, what are you doing here?! Nice to see you, too, Tango replied. It's been awhile, I said dumbly, trying to disguise the truth: Tango was a sight for sore eyes. From the low tech sound system (the boom box behind the counter) played a fancied-up Julio Iglesias version of an old Carlos Gardel tango: El Dia Que Me Quieras (The Day When You Will Love Me). Tango and I looked at each other with unspoken understanding, that song weaving our thoughts together. Are we back on? Tango asked. I nodded.

I carried that song with me for more than a day. I found the lyrics on the Argentine Ministry of Education website. Written in the future tense, the lyrics are tinged with sadness and longing, but ultimately full of hope: the day when you will love me, the roses will dress up in celebration (will that day ever arrive?), the day when you will love me, there will only be harmony (yes, I'm sure that day will come), the day when you will love me there will be no more pain (I have hope, that day will arrive sometime soon...) However others might complicate matters by saying that tango is life, love, relationship, art, Argentine national identity, whatever, I read those lyrics and thought it was something easier. Some say that tango is also (and simply) a language, a dialogue, a conversation of connection between two people. Though I am still a tango novice, I tend to agree with this view, and venture to add that tango is also poetry (dear to my heart). Below is a link to the song and the lyrics in Spanish (without accents, as I can't figure out how to insert them in this dag-blasted blogger program), with my own English translation (hopefully not too terribly flawed):

El Dia Que Me Quieras-- Tango by Carlos Gardel

El Dia Que Me Quieras (1935)             The Day When You Will Love Me

Musica Carlos Gardel                           Music Carlos Gardel

Letra Alfredo Le Pera                           Lyrics Alfredo Le Pera

Acaricia me ensueno                             The soft murmur of your breath

el suave murmullo                                  Caresses my dreams.

de tu suspirar.                                        How life is full of laughter

Como rie la vida                                    When your black eyes
                                                                       desire to look on me.
si tus ojos negros                                   When it is mine
                                                                       the shelter of your laughter
me quieren mirar.                                   lifts me up like a song.

Y si es mio el amparo                            It heals my wounds,
    de tu risa leve
que es como un cantar,                            Everything, everything
                                                                    is forgotten.
ella aquieta mi herida,

todo, todo se olvida.

El dia que me quieras                                The day when you
                                                                        will love me
la rosa que engalana                                  The rose that beautifies all

se vestira de fiesta                                     will dress in its finest
                                                                        for the celebration.
con su mejor color.                                   And the church bells will ring

Y al viento las campanas                           Saying that you
                                                                     are already mine
diran que ya eres mia                                And the fountains will
                                                                     sing madly about our love.
y locas las fontanas

se contaran su amor.

La noche que me quieras                      The night when you
                                                                   will love me
desde el azul del cielo,                          The jealous stars

las estrellas celosas                                From the blue sky above

nos miraran pasar.                                  Will watch us pass by.

Y un rayo mysterioso                              And a mysterious moonbeam

hara nido en tu pelo,                               Will nest in your hair,

luciernaga curiosa que veras                    Like a curious glow-worm
                                                                      who will see
que eres mi consuelo                              That you console me.

El dia que me quieras                              The day when you
                                                                     will love me
no habra mas                                          There will be
    que armonia                                             nothing but harmony
sera clara la aurora                                   The dawn will be clear

y alegre el manantial.                                And the spring will
                                                                       bubble happily.
Traera quieta la brisa                               The quiet breeze will

rumor de melodia.                                     murmur with melody.

Y nos daran las fuentes                             And the fountains
                                                                      will sing for us
su canto de crystal                                    in their crystalline voices.

El dia que me quieras                                The day when you
                                                                        will love me
endulzaran sus cuerdas                              The singing birds

el pajaro cantor.                                        Will sweeten their chords.

Florecera la vida,                                      Life will bloom,

no existira el dolor.                                    Pain will not exist.

La noche que me quieras                          The night when you
                                                                          will love me
desde el azul del cielo,                               The jealous stars

las estrellas celosas                                    From the blue sky above

nos miraran pasar.                                     Will watch us pass by.

Y un rayo mysterioso                                And a mysterious moonbeam

hara nido en tu pelo.                                  will nest in your hair.

Luciernaga curiosa que veras                     Like a curious glow-worm
                                                                          who will see
que eres mi consuelo.                                That you console me.

Consulting the Oracle

2010-11-14T09:38:00.000-08:00

I approached cautiously but with reverence. There on a throne of marble sat Dance, flanked by Song and Story. Dance rested her graceful hand on a knee draped in gossamer as green as the forest through which her acolytes frolick. She leaned to her right, concentrating on what Song, in a gown of aquamarine that undulated like ocean waves, whispered into her ear. Story sat aloof, silently observing and adorned in pure white. I knelt, unable to summon words. I watched them, wondering how to break through the morass of absorption and distance. Finally, I gathered courage and said:

Ahem.

No response. It had taken me a long time to find these three and I wasn't expecting this kind of reception. I fidgeted and rubbed my right calf, which had grown numb from kneeling. Dance and Song continued in consultation, Story looked omniscient and wise. I did another wind up and said:

Ahem!

No response. I looked around the glade in which the throne sat. It was a vision of pastoral bliss. Birds flitted. Clover bloomed. Bees hummed. Brooks bubbled. If I'd been more effusive, I might have imagined Pan jumping about with magical pipes and mischievous schemes. But I wasn't feeling expansive. I'd loved these three for so long, and now they refused me. I waved my arms, danced about, and shouted:

Hey! You! I'm down here! Look at me! I have a question for you!

Dance looked down and said curtly, Can't see you. The sun's in my eyes.

I moved into the shadows. Can you see me now? I said, hopeful.

I see your left foot, Dance replied, imperious.

I need your help. I need some answers.

I don't give a flying fuck about you and your questions! I'm old and tired. Leave me alone, Dance screamed, then turned her back on me.

This was unexpected. I didn't have a ready reply.

Song, less asinine but equally imperious, broke the silence and apologized for Dance, Her arthritic hip is acting up, explained Song, But you should know better than to address us directly.

I had no choice. You were hiding from me.

You should know by now. You can't see a shooting star by looking at it directly, Song instructed, and turned her back on me.

I looked at Story with desperation. They've both abandoned me, I moaned.

Story, wise in the ways of human emotion, explained in her gentle but knowing way, We're all angry with you. You've been impatient with that Tango business.

I have.

That makes you nervous.

It does.

Then go. Live. And forget about us. We've been around for a long time, and we'll be around for much longer still. Live your way through it with patience.

But I need to know... is Tango art?

That is not for you to decide, and Story turned her back on me.

Tango Confessional

2010-11-07T07:47:00.000-08:00

Oh mea culpa, I have sinned! Three Hail Mary's and four Our Fathers and still my conscience plagues me. I didn't mean to do it. Things got out of hand, my curiosity got the better of me, and before I knew it I had strayed away from Tango. Cha-Cha was tempting. But it wasn't just Cha-Cha. It was also Hustle, Fox Trot, Salsa, and Viennese Waltz. All in one night! I know what you're thinking, can hear the sharp intake of breath, the eyes wide open with judgment (you ought to be ashamed of yourself!) But the weather has turned cold, the days are shortening (which means the nights are lengthening), and a girl needs variety from time to time. Tango and I weren't getting along. Tango had bristled under The Rules, felt put upon, hemmed in, confined. We were on a break (not a break-up mind you, just a break). We each needed some space.

It all started with a Groupon (those mouth watering deals sent over the internet with discounts to spas, restaurants, wine tasting events, scuba diving lessons, and, yes, even dance classes held all over NYC-- I'm not a spokesperson for Groupon, I just like a deal). Tango is an expensive habit, and supporting it can turn a person into a junkie (how do I get my next fix?!) So, a few weeks ago, I received a message about a Groupon discount to "Dance With Me Studios" in Tribeca. I carefully checked the website before purchasing (I am an informed shopper). The schedule listed "Intermediate Tango". That's for me, I said, After two full months of Tango training, I can confidently say that I am Intermediate Level (no one can ever accuse me of not being ambitious).

Last Thursday I walked through dark streets and drizzling rain, past the art galleries and designer chic stores of Tribeca, took the stairs down to the basement studio at 466 Broome St., and stepped into a plaster wedding cake. The place looked like it had been plucked from a Beauty and the Beast sound stage. There was fake gold gilding on the walls, and dozens of petite crystal chandeliers sparkled from the ceiling, while sconces crawled up the walls. I felt a pang of longing for dear old Sandra Cameron Studios, where I had taken my first Tango class, and which was tastefully decorated in elegant white on white. Oh, the receptionist moaned, we don't have that class anymore (referring to Intermediate Tango), but you can take Beginning. No. I. Can't! I absolutely cannot take one more Beginning Tango class, I thought. But instead, I politely inquired, what other classes are offered tonight? Well, there's a Mixed Class. That's a good one, she beamed.

That's when Cha-Cha walked in, with his fast-paced knee-bending, hey-dance-with-me, it's-all-about-fun adolescent attitude. And I did, and it was fun. But a little empty. So Hustle barged in, looked me up and down, and grabbed me away from Cha-Cha. Hustle swung me and swirled me so fast that my head spun. It was then that Fox Trot saw what was happening and decided to intervene. He pranced right in, took my hand, and with that upright stance of his, marched me up and down the dance floor until my dizziness cleared. But then Salsa swaggered in, with his swively hips and that I-know-you-want-me look in his eyes. I'll admit, I was distracted. But Salsa made me feel uncomfortable. I had started to pull away when in glided beautiful, elegant, Viennese Waltz with his pouffy hair and silk cravat. He swept me around the dance floor to the tune of Edelweiss. We were still gliding when Tango re-entered the scene. I felt nervous. It had been awhile since we'd seen each other.

What. Do you think you're doing? Tango asked, valiantly trying to disguise wounded pride.
I stopped dead. Waltz slunk into the corner. Nu...nu...nuthin' I stammered, Just dancing.
I'll bet just dancing, Tango replied.
But we were on a break, I defended myself, and there were all these other dances, and I got curious.
Oh, Tango said.
And also, I didn't know you felt this way. You can be a little hard to read sometimes.
Oh.
And sometimes you can be so serious.
Oh.
And also, you're awfully complicated.
Oh.
And here I paused to consider whether or not I should continue, and (though in hind sight I realize this was indelicate), I barrelled ahead, Sometimes...well...it's just that sometimes...well, you can be a little cheesey.
Come on now, gimme a break, Tango fired back, And Cha-Cha's not cheesey? I thought we were having fun.
We were.
What about the milongas? Those were fast-paced and up beat. And what about Nuevo Tango: Otros Aires and Gotan Project? I thought you liked them.
I did. I do. But... sometimes, I wonder. All this fish net and glitter and skirts slit up to here (I indicated my hip) and stillettos. Sometimes it doesn't feel like me. Sometimes I just want to wear jeans and a tank top.
Tango looked delighted. That's fine by me, then paused and added, But... can you sometimes still maybe wear the stillettos?
Maybe. I'll have to think about it. I just don't know. I'm not sure...
When do you think you might know?

And that's when I reached out my hand, and Tango grabbed it, and there was that same undeniable connection that Cha Cha and Waltz can't hold a candle to (and Salsa isn't even in the same league), and Tango sighed and said, Dios mio, what shall we do...

Halloween Tango

2010-10-31T09:13:00.000-07:00

Since August I have kept a minor secret, known to close friends, family, those able to read between the lines on my facebook profile, people on the subway platform, and the occasional passerby (OK, so maybe it's not that much of a secret, but I haven't yet mentioned it on this blog). I have been trying to learn how to tango. It all started in July during NYC Tango week. After years of being a closeted tango fan, of wishing (like Dorothy's lion), if only I had the courage, and of embarking on a failed trip to the Buenos Aires tango festival, where nerves and cracked ribs failed me, I strapped on stilletos, tried to ignore my tallness (nearly six feet), and ventured into a tango studio. The month of August passed on a wave of exhiliration. There is a connection in tango which, when present, is almost immediate and narcotic. The first time I experienced this connection, the room faded away-- all that existed was the music, the dance, the other person. Not realizing how little I knew helped create an illusion. As long as I dance with a man who knows what he's doing, I can tango, I thought. But as in any partnership, each member must hold up the respective ends of the bargain.  In September, I changed studios and danced with new partners. These men knew what they were doing. But there was no connection. I stumbled. I stepped on toes. I grew frustrated. The men grew frustrated. I could not recreate that first connection, and I felt myself retreating into a shy world which, if I'm not careful, comes easy to me. October, spent on vacation in Egypt (more on this later), was tango-less.

Last night, I ventured into tango again at Triangulo's 12th anniversary Halloween tango party. I opened the door to the third floor studio on W20th and 7th to a roomful of costumed tangueros (a Russian sailor, a Thai dancer with pointey shoulder epaulets, a Mr. Money Bags, and many, many flappers) and a three piece live tango band.  A mural of a Buenos Aires milonga covered one wall, and old fashioned chandeliers decorated with spider webs hung from the ceiling.  There were empanadas, bowls of Halloween candy, and a fortune teller. I had an instant affection for the place, and yet I held back. I replaced my clunky sneakers with my new strappy gold glitter tango shoes. My legs, after three hours of ballet earlier that day, were in rare form in black fishnets. I had even broken out my "authentic" black lace tango dress, a souvenir from Buenos Aires. But my heart was not in it. I felt a sadnesss, an absence, and so I sat on the edges and observed. One can sometimes learn as much through observation as through action. I needed to ease back into tango, to feel comfortable in my skin again. On the theory that the more I danced, the more I would learn, I had spent those earlier classes, those hurried milongas, dancing with whoever asked. This had resulted in uncomfortable experiences, and left me with a feeling of lack of control. Last night, sitting on the sidelines, I realized that, even though in tango as in many things in life men seemingly call the shots (e.g. the man leads, the woman follows, the man asks for the dance, the woman passively waits to be asked), the reality is more subtle.  Last night I devised a set of rules, which at the risk of giving away the game, I have decided to share:

1. Eye Contact: Don't make it unless you want to dance. You can usually sense a man who's casing you out. A casual look in the other direction can avoid an awkward three minutes of unpleasant hand crushing or being pushed around the dance floor by a man boosting his ego at the expense of his partner (such men usually choose inexperienced partners, to whom they try to impart their worldly knowledge, not always sound).  This requires familiarity with the usual tango suspects. Once you've established which ones to avoid, an absent glance in the other direction can do wonders for your state of mind. Which leads me to...
2. Selectivity: Contrary to popular opinion, it is not necessary to dance with every man who asks. At the beginning of my tango education, I had been told that I should go to milongas, to practice, it's the only way to learn (looking back, it was men telling me this. Was this self serving in order to insure a steady of supply of partners?) I have since learned that dancing with the wrong partners can, in some circumstances, interfere with one's learning. As in many things in life, a girl needs to be selective.  Knowing what kind of partners work for you, and avoiding the one's with whom three minutes can seem like an eternity, will serve you well.
3. The Power of No: No means no. If you don't want to dance with someone, you don't have to, and you don't need to furnish an explanation (though some men will ask). Likewise, in tango culture thank you means, "I've had enough, I'm done dancing with you," which, reading between the lines, also means, "I don't like dancing with you, let me go." Tango culture can seem polite, but one needs to know the rules.
4. Smile: Tango, as in much of dance and in life, is about enjoyment. Once you've found those partners with whom you can skim across the dance floor, and with whom those three minutes seem like a heart beat, you're on your way to learning. Amidst the hurly burly of life in New York, there exist moments that linger in the mind and bring a smile to one's face. The connection of tango is one of these joyful moments, and the first is especially memorable.

Ft. Tryon Medieval Festival

2010-10-04T19:38:00.000-07:00

Every year about this time black velvet, leather, and chain mail invade my neighborhood. That’s when thousands (30,000 by last count) descend on Ft. Tryon Park for the Medieval Festival. That’s also when local residents bemoan the invasion of our serene slice of Manhattan (the rest of the year we delude ourselves, saying nobody knows or surely they’d live here, when in fact it’s just too far away) and flee for the day. The crowd mills past booths hawking bustiers, swords, crystal balls, incense, and other paraphernalia verging on S&M and necessary to the gothic lifestyle. Food stands sell giant turkey drumsticks (no one told the organizers that the turkey is native to North America and would have been unknown to the Middle Ages), mead, barbeque pork, and, in a geographical twist of fate, gyros, baklava and thick creamy yoghurt with walnuts and honey (the same culprit responsible for the turkey also failed to mention to the Greeks that this is mostly a Celtic affair). Grandstands spring up on the Cloisters lawn across which unicorns and great sturdy steeds canter in jousts, churning up the grass and leaving a muddy mess the next day. This year, there was a quidditch match (how they got the brooms aloft remains a mystery to me, I had escaped to lower Manhattan and arrived only for the joust at the end of the day). Wizards, masked wielders of medieval torture, and busty women with loosely laced bodices roam the crowd. Troubadours play flutes, ouds, mandolins, and tambourines while women in middle eastern dress spin sinuously, their hips encircled with jingling belts. There is a certain cringe factor to the Medieval Festival, but I enjoy myself. It is one of the last outdoor events before colder weather arrives and, though I would swim in the bustiers on offer, I am a fan of nonconformity.

Naked Cowpeople, Inc.

2010-09-27T17:47:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, the early fall day sunny and bright, I winced past tourists thronging around the Naked Cowboy in Times Square. I hadn't seen him for eons (I avoid Times Square). He hadn't changed: same white cowboy hat and pointey boots, same thin blond hair hanging to his shoulders, same overly tanned skin, same low hanging white guitar leaving not much to the imagination, same tighty whities, same bulbous body parts. A new thought occurred to me: does the Naked Cowboy have a significant other? There's not enough love in this world and I advocate there being someone for everyone, including the Naked Cowboy. Last week, I thought I found the answer. Walking a similarly crowded route through Times Square, I almost mowed down the Naked Cowgirl (she's short, I'm not). She wore a white cowgirl hat on top of stringy blond hair, white pointed boots, and an itsy bitsy star spangled string bikini stretched over muscles that bulged in a feminine way. Like her male counterpart, she was remotely past thirty. Her buttocks, though firm from weight lifting, had sunken into vague ripples of cellulite. I was pondering the mysteries of being a Naked Cowcouple (do they roll in the hay?), when I saw it: on the face of her guitar a bumper sticker read "Naked" in professional looking letters. I wondered: is there more than one Naked Cowboy, more than one Naked Cowgirl? Maybe there's an entire fleet of out of work Broadway types (the economy has taken a nosedive) who fit the description and rotate through Times Square, taking the money of unsuspecting tourists. Maybe there's a Naked Cowpeople Inc., with tiny warehouses somewhere in Yonkers that stock all the tighty whities and microscopic star spangled string bikinis? Let's face it, nobody really looks at the Naked Cowpeople's faces (we're too busy gazing southward.) So I have resolved, next time I elbow my way through Times Square, to take a good, hard look at the Naked Cowpeople. Somebody has to search for truth in this world.

Devotion

2010-09-19T20:11:00.000-07:00

Tonight at Lincoln Center I listened to the Orchestra Filarmonica Bachiana, led by Joao Carlos Martins. It was an early concert (6PM), set at Brazilian prices ($25 orchestra seats), which was one reason why I went (I had $10 seats). Sr. Martins came on stage, and the audience rose to its feet. He had a thick mop of gray nearly white hair, wore an oversized black jacket with tails and sleeves that hung almost to his fingers, and baggy trousers that formed ripples as they met the tops of his shoes. This man had debuted at Carnegie Hall as a pianist at age 21. Before age 30, he had played with major orchestras worldwide. Then, while playing soccer in Central Park (he's Brazilian after all), he had ruptured his ulnar nerve (which ennervates much of the hand). It would have been a career-ending injury for most people. But he came back to play at Carnegie Hall eight years later. During that time, he also recorded the first half of Bach's complete keyboard works.  Seven years later he was diagnosed with repetitive movement syndrome, also a career-ending diagnosis for most people. Again, he made a comeback, recording the second half of the Bach series. Ten years later, he was mugged in Bulgaria, leaving him with a skull fracture, brain damage, and the inability to move his right arm. He underwent rehab, and staged yet another comeback, performing at Carnegie Hall one year later. Yet his right hand continued to atrophy, and a botched operation four years later made it virtually useless. In 2002, a tumor was discovered in his left hand. After that, he channeled his passion for music into conducting, founding the Orchestra Filarmonica Bachiana six years ago. The group started from bare bones, practicing in a hotel room in Sao Paolo. This troubled history may, in part, explain Sr. Martins' warm welcome as he walked awkwardly and slowly onstage tonight.

The concert began with Bach's Jesu Joy of Man's Dreaming (which transports me to another realm, no matter how often I hear it), followed by Ginastera's Piano Concerto No. 1 (with pianist Arthur Moreira Lima, a piece new to me, full of the jangled angst of modern life, and the syncopated rhythmns of Argentine dance).  The nasal sshshing and zzzhing of whispered Portuguese accompanied much of the piece, revealing a more social audience than your usual Lincoln Center crowd. The second half began with another Bach: Awake, the Voice Commands (soothing after the dissonance of Ginastera). That was followed by Villa-Lobos' Bachianas Brasileiras no. 7, and the orchestra played the piece with such heart and emotion that I don't remember breathing. At its conclusion I leapt to my feet with everyone else, calling for more. Sr. Martins gently hushed the audience. In heavily accented English he spoke haltingly in a manner that, though projected from stage, revealed a soft spoken nature. He said, when I was feeling dark and low, lying in my hospital bed, I turned on the TV. And playing on it was a movie called "Cinema Paradiso". And that movie kept me going.  And now I play for you some music by Ennio Morricone.

That man with floppy gray hair flipped up his tails, sat at the piano, and played excerpts from "The Mission" and "Cinema Paradiso". I hadn't listened to this music for a very long time, but it had never failed to carry me to a place of love, gentleness, and rapture. That is where I went tonight when I listened to those songs and remembered what it was like to feel full of passion.  Sr. Martins finished, and we all lept to our feet again, calling for still more. He played a second encore, playful Brazilian music, then exited the stage drawing first the crook of his right arm, then his left, over his eyes, wiping away tears. I wanted to rise out of my nosebleed seats, float above the audience, land on stage, throw my arms around this man, and say, thank you. Thank you! For being so devoted.

9/11

2010-09-13T17:38:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday marked the ninth anniversary of 9/11.   I lived in NYC on that day. I have never written, and barely talk, about it. After all, no one I personally knew passed away. More, it is enough to have lived through an event like that, one needn't dwell on it. But last Saturday I thought, there are children these days for whom 9/11 will only exist in books, and that is how history fades away. So here's my 9/11 story.

It was my first year of medical school at Columbia. I had gone to morning lecture: canceled. I returned to my apartment at W170th and Haven, a high rise for student housing. I rode the elevator to my apartment on the 20th floor. I was alone except for a middle aged man who said, a plane just crashed into the world trade center. Matter of factly, just like that. He didn't believe himself, nor I him. I returned to my bedrooom, a 10 x 15 foot converted space separated from the living room by a flimsy wall. A bay window that looked onto the Hudson and south to downtown dominated my bedroom.  I had placed my bed in the space created by the bay window and each morning woke up to the twin towers. Even from so far away, they dominated the skyline.  I loved to look at them twinkling at night before I went to sleep. On 9/11, I stood at that window looking south. One tower was still visible, the other obscured by thick, black smoke. My room-mate and I turned on CNN, needing to confirm what we were seeing. Within minutes, the second tower disappeared.

I forget what we did after that. The hours somehow passed. In the afternoon, I went to the Red Cross on the UWS to give blood, but was turned away. Too many people had already shown up.  Nobody was at work, except some shop keepers who brought TVs out to the sidewalk, where people gathered round and watched together.  The streets were full of people, wandering and not knowing what to do with themselves. Cell phone lines weren't working. The bridges were closed, trains were not running, and nobody could go in or out of the city. I was trapped but it didn't sink in until the next day. That night, I woke to a loud sound and thought we were being bombed. Then I thought it was thunder. No one else to whom I've talked has confirmed a thunder storm that night. I put it down to a nightmare and blame my father's influence, who was always preparing for another war when the rest of us naively said, it can't happen here.

My room mate tried to be a hero. She went down to the WTC, snuck beneath the barriers, finagled her way into a hard hat, and tried to save people. She did that for four days, leaving her dusty hard hat and clothes at the door of our apartment. She was strange after that. I closed the curtain in my south facing window. I couldn't sleep with the promise of the wreckage smoldering in front of me when I woke. It did so for more than a month. I wandered downtown, to the candlelit vigil in Union Square, past the black clad groups assembling outside of funeral homes. In mid-October, I wandered alone to the WTC site. It was barricaded and the place was desolate. The smoke still feebly escaped from the graveyard the site had become. I felt entirely alone. At that time, the world of medicine, that uncaring clinical world, confined me. That world felt cold, insensitive, sterile.

There are many events that have changed the world. 9/11 is not the biggest of them, but it changed the US, and it changed me. While the rest of the world played drama queen, and while some Americans used 9/11 as an excuse for biggotry, New Yorkers tried to get on with life. This year on 9/11, I looked southward through a very different window. I was at an event for young arists at the Baryshnikov Arts Center, and was surrounded by young poets, singers, musicians, and dancers. The lights dimmed, and two beams of blue light lit up the sky from where the twin towers once stood. The room grew silent. The danger now past, and in the company of artists, I no longer felt alone. And that silence, filled with art's understanding, underlined the difference between my world nine years ago and my world of today.

Little Buddha

2010-09-07T17:07:00.000-07:00

It is the tail end of summer. The City is throwing off summer's languor for a workaday world made bearable by the promise of autumn skies. A few days ago, I left a perfect cerulean sky and descended into the subway's half light. The train arrived and I walked into a car, quiet and serene. It was as if everyone were resting after summer's temper tantrum (here in NYC we have just concluded the hottest summer on record). I closed my eyes and rested. After a few stops I opened them to an infant staring straight at me with calm, steady eyes. He was chubby and sat quietly in his stroller like a little buddha under the tree of knowledge. He surveyed the car with eyes that held no surprise. His gaze said, good grief, not another go 'round. It seemed to me that the soul shepherded in that little body was older than many others riding on that train. Then he returned his line of vision to me and would not allow me to disconnect. Some eyes reveal instant connection, a kindred spirit. Others shield themselves behind a veil of misunderstanding that no amount of explaining can bridge. This little buddha's showed continuity between past and future, a story already written and one waiting to be composed.

Man in the Mirror

2010-08-30T19:03:00.000-07:00

I love NYC subway performers. Yesterday in the Sunday hustle in the tunnels beneath Union Square I came across a man dancing to Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror". I stopped, sat down on a bench, and forgot about the subway trains rushing past. The man was dressed all in black with silver sequined ankle bands, white sequined gloves (on both hands, he had improvised on Michael's signature style), and a white straw hat. Over a black hood which covered his entire head he wore a full length white carnival mask whose expressionless gaze imparted anonymity. Amidst the hurried crowds he moonwalked as if pulled by a string. His joints swiveled like a robot. His arms floated as if weightless. And for the grande finale, he somehow ended up inverted, his body propped against a wall (I can't explain how he did it, it was as if he was controlled by magic) and melted to the floor like wax. As he did so, his carnival mask slowly flipped to the crown of his head like a disembodied face. He took a minute to recover, switched the music to "Billy Jean", and took off his mask to reveal a showman's face. Out of the crowd he grabbed a little boy, at the most six years old. The boy's getup was the polar opposite of the man's: a white tuxedo with tails, a black straw hat from which curly hair verging on dreds sprouted and hung to his shoulders. The boy went into action, moondancing, spinning, grabbing his crotch, and for all the world looking like a miniature Michael. He and the man danced together, all the while protecting the money pot when the passing foot traffic grew too thick. As I stayed, others gathered, forgetting to be in a hurry while the crowd grew to more than fifty. And I wished to have a meter that could measure the amount of talent in New York City's subway system.

Where the Bees Are

2010-08-23T19:20:00.000-07:00

When I need to escape, I go to The Cloisters. I've been there so many times that these days I make a cursory pass by the unicorn tapestries, skip the rest of the collection, and head to the medieval herb garden in the Bonnefont Cloister. I forget about wrinkles, skin cancer, or sunspots, and sit in direct sunlight on the worn wooden bench that stands along the wall facing the Hudson. The bench is so long that its middle has been boughed downward by the elements and thousands of visitors before me. Potted plants line up in front of the bench. I know they are Mediterranean plants, meant to evoke Southern France, Spain, and Italy. But to me they are also Californian plants. The rosemary, oregano, olive, fig, orange, oleander, jasmine, lemon, and pomegranate are the same ones that grow in abundance in my mother's garden. Each fall, I look forward to a big box of pomegranates picked from the tree that has produced these fruits since my childhood. My mother carefully boxes them up, sends them cross country to me, and I spend chilly evenings extracting the seeds, each a ruby. Every winter, another box full of lemons, miniature suns tenfold juicier than store bought fruit, arrives. I have my own jasmine which I try unsuccessfully to coax into blossom in the darkness of my New York apartment. So, in the quiet of The Cloisters (even school children lower their voices here) I sit near these plants that remind me of home. Last weekend, having spent several hours in the herb garden and feeling like myself again, I exited through the Cuxa cloister. Near the fountain in its center bloomed lavender flowers alive with bees. I had thought all summer that the bees were fewer in number this year, that they had chosen somewhere else to make honey. I leaned closer to the flowers: at long last I had found the bees. Perhaps the recent cool weather had helped them wake up. Heading home through the Heather Garden, I walked past the passion flowers, which during the heat wave had wilted and hung forlorn on their vines. Now they had unfurled their petals. On each sat one or two bees staggering in the pollen and drunkenly rejoicing in their luck.

Extremes

2010-08-16T17:42:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the extremes in this city make me do a double take. The other evening in the Heather Garden the Pooch and I were lolligagging on the central path and enjoying the first cool evening since God knows when. I gazed at the roses. Pooch was doing what he always does: looking for a spot that he hasn't yet peed on. Along came a woman in noise canceling head phones. She ploughed passed me at warp speed, so close that the current of her misdirected anger made my head spin. I was still recovering when, at the end of the path, she yelled over her shoulder, welcome to the public garden loser, you just ruined my evening! I bent to scratch Pooch's head, which makes me feel better when faced with irrational behavior that's best forgotten. A few nights later, I exited the subway at 190th St. It was past 10PM. Ahead of me an old man struggled to pull a rolling cart full of groceries up the stairs. A woman rushed passed me. She bent low over the cart and pulled up a bouquet of crimson flowers. Having slipped to the bottom, the flowers had been sticking outside the cart and were unknowingly dragged halfway up the stairs by the man. The woman had rescued them while still in good enough shape to brighten his life. The woman took one end of the cart and helped the man to the top of the stairs. My faith in the city renewed, I walked home through a pleasant summer evening, all the while keeping an eye out for skunks (see previous post, "Critters").

The Missing Third

2010-08-09T19:04:00.000-07:00

This morning on the street I passed a woman I met several months ago. Back then, I had been doing sit-ups on Ft. Tryon lawn, The Cloisters looming to one side. Poochini impatiently wanted to chase pigeons and dig up worms. The woman walked toward us. She lead on leashes three dogs the size of German shepherds. All, including the woman, shared the grizzled coats of old age. Poochini is a social guy, and eagerly pulled at his leash to get to them. I gave up on exercise and said admiringly, old ones, huh? Yes, she boasted, this one's eighteen years old. She pointed to a brown one that looked at me through clouded eyes. You must take good care of them, I replied. I walk them three hours a day, an hour and a half in the morning, and an hour and a half in the evening, she said. That's what keeps them healthy. That, and good food, she added. Must be good for you, too, I commented, impressed that someone her age could keep up with three big dogs. Her dogs greeted Poochini in the normal dog manner, then walked off distractedly. A few minutes later, halfway across the lawn, the brown one stumbled and collapsed. It struggled to stand, but laid down, defeated. At that moment the old woman had been watching the other two, and did not see the brown dog fall. Concerned, I approached them. She said, what happened? He fell, he tried to get up but couldn't, I replied. Her eyes registered sad acceptance, yes, the other day he collapsed in the elevator, she said. She coaxed him to his feet. He took a few halting steps and threw up yellow bile. That was the last I had seen of them until this morning when we crossed paths again, she walking two dogs now instead of three. I wondered how soon after we'd met had the third passed away, and my heart sank. The love of a dog is perhaps one of the simplest I've known.

Critters

2010-08-09T18:20:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile since I posted an update about the Heather Garden, so here goes. Summer's growth has reached its zenith in the garden. The roses are in their second bloom, boasting sprays of pink champagne. The butterfly bushes are also blooming, but the butterflies are fewer than last summer. Maybe it's the heat wave that has pounded the city all summer and has made the passion flowers droop in exhaustion. Too hot for passion, say the butterflies as they languidly beat wings of butter yellow and orange flame. The little garden snakes, too, have been missing this summer. Last year, they squiggled across the path, forming commas and corkscrews in front of Poochini and me. This year, I saw only one, and that was in early spring. The urban wildlife has burgeoned this summer, and maybe they have eaten the smaller creatures. Skunks, in particular, have taken over the garden. The other night, around dusk, Poochini and I turned a corner to face Mr. Skunk five feet in front of us. He raised his tail, ready to take aim. I pulled back hard on Poochini's leash. We froze, as if Mr. Skunk had been a cobra loaded with lethal poison. The woodchuck population has also exploded. They scurry under bushes, their fat bellies round with grass, and remind me of overgrown New York City subway rats (which is saying something). Then there are the feral cats, fed by neighborhood do-gooders. One cat, in particular, sits every evening on the hill just outside the dog park fence. From there, he regally surveys the antics of the dogs. I wonder, does he wish to join their play, or is he satisfied with his solitary vantage point?

Positive Energy

2010-08-01T11:39:00.000-07:00

Thursday I was on the A train (again), heading to a very important appointment. I was sitting in my seat trying to control my nervous energy, when the doors connecting the two trains burst open. In walked two men with African drums. They set up shop in the aisle right next to me. One of them broadcasted, if you feel happy to be alive raise one finger. I shyly raised mine. The same man said, we're gonna play some songs for you. Give you some positive energy. Dontcha pretend not to see us. Dontcha hide behind your papers. 'Cause what we got here is positive en-er-gy. And who wouldn't want somma that? They played a song full of syncopated African rhythmns, and I couldn't help it, I started smiling. Then they played Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called to Say I Love You", and the ten year old boy across from me broke out singing. It's true, they were bursting with positive energy. It was damn contagious and carried me through my appointment. Sometimes I love this town.

Magic

2010-08-01T11:27:00.000-07:00

The other day while riding on the A train (I do a lot of this), the doors opened at W125th St. to a gaggle of preschoolers on some sort of field trip. Ah.... summer camp. The uproar poured into the train, heretofore peaceful. I looked up from my book and was surrounded by a forest of pygmies. A teacher stood beside me, supporting herself with one hand on the pole, the other holding the hand of a little girl. A little boy sat smiling beside me. The girl said angrily to the boy, "Stop saying that. Liaw, liaw," softening the r's in her little girl speak. The teacher gently intervened, "That's not nice. Don't call him that." The girl defended herself, "But I know he's not magic. He's just lying. He's not really magic." The teacher continued, "Stop it. Now you're being a bully, and that's not nice." The girl pouted. The teacher advised, "If you don't like what he says, just ignore him." I thought, those are words to live by. I wondered if the girl would take it to heart, or if she would learn the hard way. The boy switched to another seat and smiled at the two of them, seemingly unfazed by the drama. Perhaps he knew in his heart that he really was magic.

Bloody Footprints

2010-07-25T07:42:00.000-07:00

Walking to work Wednesday morning I followed a pair of bloody footprints for three blocks. They started in the street, made a wide u-turn where it looked like the person had gotten out of a car and skirted another before running onto the sidewalk. A small pool of blood had dried where the person had stood before continuing toward Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. The footprints were small and far apart, as if the person had been running, and surrounded by splatters of blood. There was so much blood that it looked like the person's feet had been dipped in a bucket of paint. The footprints continued clear and distinct for three blocks, disappeared in front of the Chinese restaurant (where they had already been wiped clean), and started again where the person had crossed the street. The footprints continued in front of The Armory, where they ran back into the street and along the sidewalk. They ended in another bloody pool across the street from one of Presby's research buildings. Then they disappeared. What had happened to the person? Had he or she been picked up by a car and brought one block farther to the ER? I doubted that the person had collapsed at that spot-- the pool of blood didn't look large enough. I traced the footprints back and forth, not understanding my morbid fascination. Others did the same. A woman wearing mint green scrubs turned and said to me, must have been a bad night. I agreed, something terrible must have happened for the person to have been dropped off alone and so far from the hospital. I hoped the person had made it and received the proper care. The footprints registered urgency and panic, emotions I imagined to be similar to living in a war zone.

Metropolitan Rooftop Garden

2010-07-18T17:28:00.000-07:00

I have been visiting the Metropolitan Rooftop Garden often this summer. Not only does it have one of the best views of the midtown skyline, but it allows me to pretend to be a tourist. I like to imagine that I am seeing these wonders for the first time. It helps me look at them from a fresh angle. The excitement of the real tourists helps, and the Met museum was full of them last night. People had converged on the museum for the same reason as I: to take advantage of its super mega powerhouse air conditioning. In the American court, two Chinese girls chased their brother past the Tiffany stained glass. In the balcony bar, a middle aged woman sat carefully hiding her boredom from her date, both of them groping for conversation. In the medieval armor section, a young English woman giggled at King Henry the VIII's ample cod piece. And in the rooftop garden (I couldn't resist a visit, despite the heat and humidity), a French couple argued while Central Park and midtown bloomed behind them. All the world's a stage, and the Met provided plenty of actors last night.

The Evil Twin Subway Conductor

2010-07-18T15:20:00.000-07:00

Several days ago, I jumped on the "A" line bound for Columbus Circle. The heat and humidity had been unbearable for days. In the street, people were unsmiling, drained of energy and walking slowly. The heat wave had taken a toll on everyone, including (apparently) the subway conductor. At each stop, she snarled the name of the station across the intercom. Her voice, nasal and full of pressure from the force of her anger, blasted into the car. People rolled their eyes and covered their ears. At W145th St., someone held the door for a companion. The conductor's voice entered the car and slapped the face of everyone inside. The door-holder sat down sheepishly. I got off at the next stop, happy to wait for the next train in the amplified heat of the subway tunnel. I had not heard Ms. Smiley for a long time (see previous blog posts), but was pretty sure that I had just encountered her evil twin. I wonder if they are one and the same, but if not I much prefer Ms. Smiley's artificial sunshine to the caustic Evil Twin.

Shakespeare in the Park

2010-07-18T13:19:00.000-07:00

This summer's fare at Shakespeare in the Park includes the Merchant of Venice, with Al Pacino in the role of Shylock. I usually obtain standby tickets for Shakespeare, which allows me to avoid the early line (which can start to form as early as 10:00PM the night before). People in the standby line usually arrive around 5:00PM and tickets are distributed until 8:00 PM. But given Al's popularity, standby was a bust this year. So I set my alarm for 5:30 AM, rose with a nervous flutter in my stomach (even at this hour, tickets are not guaranteed), and arrived in Central Park at 6:19 ( I checked my watch. I wanted to remember this moment. I vowed it would never happen again). Hundreds of people had arrived before me. Poochini and I took our place in line near The Rock of Hope (those in front of The Rock have a 50-50 chance of getting a ticket, those behind have a 50-50 chance of *not* getting a ticket). We waited all morning, through intermittent rain showers and blistering heat. We chatted with our neighbors. The silent (competitive?) girl next to me softened with time, done in by the elements. By 11:00, she was bringing Poochini water. Tickets were handed out at 1:00, and we had mixed luck. We received vouchers and were told that we had a 99.9% chance of getting tickets if we returned at 6:00. Freshly showered and sans Pooch, I duly returned at that time. I waited until 8:00, when I received one little ticket, far off to stage right and four rows from the back. I triumphantly grabbed the ticket, found my seat, and plopped down, exhausted. The woman next to me beamed and said in an Irish broag, "Can you believe I got my ticket through the internet lottery? It's the second time I've tried, and I got an email this afternoon that I could just drop by and pick up two tickets. I didn't need two, so I turned one in. Glad you could use it." Though happy to have a ticket, I had difficulty summoning a thank you. I blame it on heat stroke, but the honest reason is because she had gotten her ticket the easy way, while sitting in air conditioning. Nonetheless, waiting in the god-awful Shakespeare line is a New York institution. Al stole the show, and like many things in New York, was well worth the inconvenience.

Helicopter Feet

2010-07-18T12:23:00.000-07:00

On Central Park's Great Lawn a father and his two year old boy were playing. The father grabbed the boy by both ankles and swung him in circles, fast like a helicopter blade. Then he slowed down and let the boy come to rest gently on the grass. The boy got to his feet, took two drunken steps, and collapsed in a riot of giggles. He stood again, collapsed again, and kept trying until the dizziness had passed. By this point, the father was lying on the grass, arms behind his head, enjoying the show. The boy grabbed his father's two big feet in his pudgy hands and tried to spin him in circles. The boy managed to lift the father's legs, but the man's heavy body remained safely rooted to the ground. The father wiggled his arms and head as if being spun in a circle and the boy collapsed again in giggles. Then the father scooped the boy in his arms, smothered him in kisses, and swung him onto his shoulders. The two walked off, happy on this hot and humid Sunday afternoon.

Ballet Fans x6

2010-07-12T18:33:00.000-07:00

At a recent matinee performance of the NYC Ballet I sat next to four little girls with bows in their hair and dressed in ruffled dresses. We sat high up in the fourth ring, two rows from the very back. The girls sat on the edges of their seats and dangled their paten leather shoes above the floor. It was Darcy Kistler's final performance. Darcy had been a soloist for the NYC Ballet for almost thirty years. She was the last "Balanchine" ballerina, having studied with the great master during his days there. She had grown up in Riverside, California, thirty minutes away from Rialto where I grew up. She and I had both began dancing in the same studio: Vera Lynn's dance studio in San Bernardino. We had both climbed the steep stair case leading to the studio, which for me was always a magical space. We had both stood at the barre in the cavernous studio, still the prototype for all subsequent studios for me. Vera Lynn could be a stern task master, and emphasized technique. Darcy rocketed to stardom and my muscles have retained the technique Vera Lynn imposed on them. These days, though it takes effort, I still have a natural ballet turn-out. After returning to ballet training two years ago, my front leg is inching towards my nose when I do a forward grande battement. I can still almost do a standing split. So, given our connection, I had to see Darcy's last performance. The four little girls next to me seemed equally excited. The performance started with a Balanchine piece. The girls sat with folded arms, tolerating the Balanchine. But next came an exerpt from Midsummer Night's Dream and they went into rapture. They squealed with delight when Bottom wiggled his, well, bottom at the audience. They giggled with glee when Titania fell lasciviously into Bottom's arms, who looked at the audience, mystified by his luck that such a heavenly creature would fall for him. They leaned forward, entranced by the entire piece. When it was over they leapt to their feet in a standing ovation. "Bravo! Brava!" they squealed over and over, clapping with all their might. Impressed that they knew to use the feminine form brava at such a tender age, I turned to the Russian woman on my other side and said, "They like that one, don't they?" She smiled good-naturedly. Truth be told, all the women in that row, young and old, had been entranced by the romance between Bottom and Titania. And Darcy had given a brava farewell performance, worthy of Vera Lynn's approval.

Ballet Fan x1

2010-07-02T11:20:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday I bought standing room tickets to American Ballet Theatre's Swan Lake. The tickets were far at the back of Dress Circle, where the overhead balcony obscures the stage and only the bottom quarter of it can be seen. I didn't care. The crystal chandeliers, the gilding and the red velvet, of Lincoln Center stir up the excitement of childhood, when going to to the theatre felt like entering a world of glamour and beauty. When the lights dimmed and it seemed like no one could see, I kicked off my shoes. I leaned low against the velvet covered bar that serves as an arm rest for those in standing room. My only company was a tall elderly man. As I contorted myself to see the stage, the man slowly sank to his knees. He was so tall that his elbows easily reached the arm rest. He supported his chin with his hands, absorbed in the performance. He was alone, had come out of love for the ballet. No wife had dragged him to sit begrudgingly by her side, where he would nod off by scene two. I wondered, where are the other men still able to be entranced by art?

The Look

2010-06-05T18:49:00.000-07:00

In the last week the weather has turned hot and muggy. The flowers in the Heather Garden rejoice in it. They have scrambled over each other, each vying for attention amidst the profusion of beauty. Last evening, while walking along the central path, I passed a father photographing his small daughter in front of a burst of roses. The girl posed with hip thrust to one side, right hand behind her head, confident of being the center of attention. Such drama in a six year old made me smile, and my attention was drawn solely to her. After I had passed, I turned on impulse for a second look. Beside the younger daughter an older girl stood with arms crossed. Hers was a thin and gangly beauty. The hurt in her eyes remained unveiled even by the prescription glasses that she wore. I felt as if I had committed the same crime that I had experienced so many times myself. In this world-- even in the Heather Garden-- the spotlight is occupied not by the most worthy but by those who feel entitled to it. To avoid a lifetime of hurt, one must have the courage now and then to steal the spotlight away from those for whom narcissism comes more naturally.

Mother Cabrini

2010-05-26T18:32:00.000-07:00

A saint lives half a block away from me in a Catholic church that holds a shrine to St. Francis Cabrini, the patron saint of immigrants. She is America's first saint, and she hersel f immigrated from Italy at the turn of the century. She earned her sainthood by establishing hospitals and performing miracles all around the world. In the Italian tradition of preserving important dead people, who lie embalmed in glass cases in churches scattered throughout the Motherland, St. Francis lies surrounded by artificial flowers in a glass case behind the church's altar. Apparently the head in the case is a replica. Her real head was sent long ago to Rome as a relic. The church is surrounded by a high, gray stone wall. On the wall, beside the entrance to the walkway leading up to the church, is a plaque announcing the shrine. Floating on the plaque, St. Francis' disembodied head smiles at you. The smile is gentle, the eyes weary. The picture is black and white, ghostly.

The Admiral

2010-05-24T18:50:00.000-07:00

The Admiral has recently appeared in my neighborhood. He wears navy blue spats and black boots laced to just below his knees. Two rows of shiny brass buttons gallop up and down his short, tightly fitted military jacket. A navy blue visored cap, made comical by three inches extra height, sits angled above his brow. He walks slowly and deliberately, swinging a walking stick by his side. With his head pointed regally ahead, he walks as if he were the chief of police keeping the neighborhood safe from ruffians. Or people who might spoil his freedom to remain The Admiral.

Overheard Dinner Conversation

2010-05-09T20:21:00.000-07:00

The other night I went to dinner at Bleu Evolution. The evening was warm, the sky clear blue. The restaurant's back garden had just opened for the season. The grape vines had just begun to unfurl new leaves on the overhead trellis. Halfway through my meal, three men sat down at the table next to me. They were a German, a Mexican, and an American. Within minutes, the American began a right-wing political tirade. He said that American culture is superior to Mexican culture, that illegal immigrants are disrespecting US laws and taking our jobs, that all Mexican immigrants should have a green card before being allowed in the country. I wondered, did the American know nothing about immigration quotas, how hard it is to get a visa let alone a green card, how most people need enough money for lawyers in order to get the paper work together, that many Mexicans who enter the country illegaly work exploitative jobs for less than minimum wage, jobs that most Americans wouldn't deign to work. Did the man not know that just a few blocks away in this neighborhood live Dominican families ten to fifteen to a room because that's all they can afford. The man knew nothing of immigrant life, yet he was saying Americans are superior. The German remained mute. The Mexican tried to talk some sense into the man, who hurtled personal insults at the Mexican. Then American had the gall to wink at me. He was fat and ugly, with two double chins. I shook my head and tried to ignore him. But my dinner had been ruined. I broke into their conversation and told the man that he needed to stop blaming others and take a good hard look at himself. Like most abusive narcissists faced with the truth about themselves, he next attacked me, calling me emotional. I asked for the check and left. On the way out, I asked one of the waiters, a small, shy man from Ecuador who is always friendly to me, how he could stand such talk. He said with a knowing smile which proved him to be the bigger man, we don't listen to it. Good advice, with racist biggots as well as with other unsavory people.

Curbside Book Store

2010-05-01T12:11:00.000-07:00

At W181st street the road curves down a steep hill toward the Hudson. Midway down the hill and across from Cabrini Wines, a Dominican man sells books every day except Sundays and when it rains. His books always flank the sidewalk in orderly columns, tantalizing me with stories of far off places. Curbside books stores dot Manhattan, but this one's my favorite. It's different from the others. For one, the books are $1 each. Hard to find a better bargain. For another, the man sells quality: Shakespeare, Ibsen, Charlotte Bronte, Gore Vidal, Joseph Conrad. Most of the other sidewalk booksellers have sold out to mass market NY Times best sellers, the same weepy story packaged under eye catching covers. But the man peddling Shakespeare on W181st St is my hero of the day. I can't say what accounts for the difference in inventory-- maybe the population up here feels less pressure to keep up with the Joneses? Today, the Pooch and I had finished our run (we are geting back into shape-- he laid down and refused to go any farther. He had put in a good effort so I gave in). We trudged up 181st. I had a few dollars in my pocket destined for the bookseller. While Pooch panted for dear life, I bought two books by Graham Greene, "Songlines" by Bruce Chatwin, and "The Year of Living Dangerously" by Christopher Koch. Now we will go into the Heather Garden, find a shady tree, and read until sunset. I can't think of a better way to spend a Saturday.

Pink Snow

2010-04-28T18:14:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, while on his evening walk, The Poocherooni reminded me why we get along so well: we're just alike. He dawdles. I dawdle. We remind each other to look, really look, at the world. The dogwoods have been losing their blossoms this week. The petals have been falling like pink snow. They blanket the sidewalk at one end of the Heather Garden. Last night, The Pooch stuck his nose to the ground as if in a trance, his path sinuous as he traced S's in the petals with his nose. I had no choice but to admire the last of this spring's dogwood blossoms. This morning, The Poocherooni had to sniff recently upturned earth underneath a tree. As he did so, a bird trilled like a flute above us. In the tree perched a cardinal, calling with all his strength to a potential mate, his red plummage made more dramatic by the contrasting emerald leaves. In this world there are sad, tactless people full of venom. They will tell you that you're not competitive, that you're not good enough, that they don't want you (even though they don't bother to take the time to know anything about you). This happened to me yesterday. After a bout of self pitying, I went into the Heather Garden. The sight of water droplets on grass made brilliant green by rain shot the funk to hell. I have conclused that the battle between the dark forces in the universe is not one of good vs. evil, but one of venomed people (Pessimists: The Venomed Ones) who try to squash the zest for life in the rest of us (Optimists: The Zesty Ones). As long as I have a place to walk like the Heather Garden, and for as long as I have the company of a soul like The Pooch, the Venomed Ones will lose. Here's proof. This morning in the subway, I looked down. Someone had littered. A subway card lay abandoned on the ground. The back of the card faced up and the word beaming toward me read: Optimism.

Evening Walk

2010-04-19T19:06:00.000-07:00

Tonight I went for an early evening walk with The Pooch in the Heather Garden. It was nearing the end of dusk. The sun still cut a slice of gold at the horizon. The sky was cloudless. Its upper reaches had darkened to ceramic blue. We sat on the Linden Terrace, Pooch on my lap cuddling his head against my chest. He has been sick for months. Most recently his lungs had filled up with fluid from an overdose of steroids. Then all he wanted to do was to be next to me, even though I wanted nothing more than to see him running around on his own, forgetting about me. But tonight, on a lower dose of medication, he was feeling better. We were alone on the Linden Terrace except for the Old Russian Couple, sitting closely together on a bench behind us. We watched the horizon nuzzle into darkness and then headed home through the garden. Though the flowers had lost the brilliance of day, their scents had magnified. I stood on a stone and buried my nose in the lilacs, breathing deeply until my senses were overwhelmed. This is bliss.

Homeless Man on the Stairs

2010-04-18T09:19:00.000-07:00

Returning at 2AM last night from celebrating a friend's birthday in the West Village and walking bleary-eyed down the stairs with my dog to give him a late night pee, I was surprised by a homeless man camped out on the stairs inside my buildling. He was thin and old. He wore a soiled and tattered jacket and clutched a single plastic bag filled with his belongings. An uncombed, white beard and mustache obscured the bottom half of his face. What are you doing here, I asked. He replied in garbled English, his eyes clouded with dementia, not alcohol or drugs. I tried Spanish, but that got us no further. He said, I know someone who lives here. I am waiting for her, she will let me in. I said, do you need help? He did not understand and refused my offer. A glimmer of anger emerged at the suggestion of needing help. He said, I know someone here. See, I have keys. And he showed me two shiny keys attached to his waste band. I repeated, do you need help? More anger. Pride. And finally, shame. He said, I'll be back. I'll come back shaved. You'll see. I'll come back shaved. And he descended the stairway, off into the night. In my apartment I closed the windows and double bolted the door. This was senseless on my part. So old and frail, this man was perhaps more afraid of my dog and I, than I of him. Where did that man go last night? I often wonder about solitary elderly people: why are they alone? Why does no one care for them? The condition is especially dire for men. More than women, whose physical strength may inspire less fear of violence, few help men in trouble. Adrift alone in this world, they often refuse help, responding with anger and pride. Still, I wonder... did this man survive the night? What could I have done differently?

Old Couple

2010-04-14T19:08:00.000-07:00

Down the hall from me lives an old Russian couple. They always travel as a pair. I have never seen them apart. They walk close together down the street, speaking softly in Russian, and smiling ever so slightly with just the corners of their mouths. The man walks with a limp, often with his hands clutched behind his back. The woman walks at the same pace. They walk closely side by side and tilt their heads the better to hear each other, revealing that they are the best of friends. When the woman points to a spring flower, the man admires it along with her. I have never seen their faces crossed with anger, at each other or at anyone else. They are quiet people. I think they must be well matched, and here's my reason: they have the same gleam in their eyes. It is a soft light one often sees from the eyes of gentle people who are satisfied within themselves. It is a light devoid of the need to prove oneself at another's expense. Instead it says: love and friendship is about sharing, not dominating.

Spring Inventory

2010-04-14T18:49:00.000-07:00

Spring has been spreading its magic over New York City for the past three weeks. Today, on the way to the dog park, I breathed in the heady scent of lilacs, stronger than the hyacinths (which bloomed last week). The arrival of the lilacs always brings a mixture of pleasure and sadness. Lilacs have the loveliest of scents, but as late bloomers they herald the end of spring. So, here at long last, is my spring inventory. The daffodils that appeared first have for the most part withered away, except for a few hangers-on in shady spots. Next came the hyacinths, turning the night-time air to honey. Then one of the trees in the heather garden turned into white lace. This was followed by other trees bursting into cotton candy. The ground cover of the garden has turned into a jungle of green, aflame here and there with lavender and yellow flowers. The trees overhead have begun to spread a canopy of electric green. It is a young lime-green, the leaves still small and uncertain about their ability to provide shade. And, oh, the tulips! Standing stock straight in a rainbow of beauty: red, orange, pink, yellow, peach, deepest, darkest purple. And, of course, the lilacs, whose scent I wish I could capture in a bottle, to release at home during the dark nights of winter.

Body Bag

2010-04-14T18:35:00.000-07:00

Sunday I drove down the Westside Highway to the UWS. It was about 1PM, too early for the traffic jams created by people returning to the City from weekends away, but traffic was backed up, overflowing down the on-ramp. I thought it would clear up after the freeway merger near the George Washington Bridge. But that didn't happen. I switched into the slow lane, where I could easily exit if the traffic became still worse. From my vantage point in the right lane I had a good view of the river. At the speed I was going, I decided not to fret and to enjoy the view over the river and the spring flowers spreading along its banks. The traffic continued stop and go until just past 96th St., when I noticed five or six cars parked along the runner's path, where cars normally are restriced Two were cop cars, the others brown sedans. A little further down the path a group of men stood in a group. At their feet lay a mint green bag, about six feet long and obviously not empty: the telltale swelling at one end tapering down to a smaller bump at the other end betrayed what lay inside. Someone had died, or been found dead, along the river, and very recently. The men stood almostly leisurely above the body bag. No sirens blared. No lights flashed. There was no hurry now. The men could take their time. Some images will stay in my mind for a very long time. This is one of them.

Mr. Speedy Strikes Again

2010-04-06T13:12:00.000-07:00

I was riding the late night A train back to Wash Hei' last Saturday when Mr. Speedy struck again. As the train pulled into 125th St., his distinctive voice sang over the subway system, "125th St., Home of the World famous Apollo The-a-tre." The train sped down the tunnel, and within the blink of an eye it lurched into the next stop, "145th St. Straight to Hell!" blurted Mr. Speedy. The doors snapped open, disgorged a few unlucky denizens, and the train was off again, speeding like a bullet out of, well, Hell. "168th St. Da Hospital" announced Mr. Speedy again. The doors blinked open, then closed with precision. The car was nearly empty at this point, but when we reached my stop, Mr. Speedy still had enough energy to announce, "190th St. Cloistahs." At that, I limped out of the car. Earlier that day I had passed out from hunger, or exhaustion, or whatever, in Union Square. I had woken to a crowd of lookie-loos lurking overhead. Confused, I had mistakenly thought that a man trying to pull me to my feet was instead dragging me to who-knows-where. On the subway, while nursing a skinned knee and bruised shoulder, Mr. Speedy had kept me company when I needed it. His familiar voice echoed in my head as I wincingly climbed the stairs to the street, and to home.

Grandmother

2010-03-15T18:40:00.000-07:00

Upstairs from me lives an Indian family: a father, a mother, their son, and the grandmother. For the past two years I have been watching the little boy grow from infancy to toddlerhood. I often see the boy and his grandmother in the foyer, the grandmother calmly keeping him company while the boy explores the hallways. They greet everyone who enters with gentle eyes and shy smiles. The little boy's face lights up when he sees The Pooch. When he was smaller, and would squirm to touch The Pooch, the grandmother, not trusting an unknown dog, would disallow it. Now that the boy is older, the grandmother has grown more lenient and he squeals with delight to feel The Pooch's soft fur. Once, in the beginning, the grandmother said to me. "It's not good for a little boy to sit inside by himself in the apartment all day." So, in order to have the company of others, they hang out in the foyer. I used to imagine that, being from India, they must be used to constantly having people around. But on further thought, I now think that it makes sense in any culture. Being alone in one's apartment can't be good for one's soul, no matter how old, how young, or what country one calls home.

Spring Tease

2010-03-10T17:37:00.000-08:00

Yesterday and the day before brought an early taste of spring to NYC, roughly two weeks after one of the biggest snowstorms in recent memory brought the city to a halt. I walked to work under a Caribbean blue sky that lifted my mood with the promise of returning life. For the last several months, I had been trudging through winter's muted grays, my energy level matching the leaden skies. But tonight The Pooch and I walked through a heather garden recovering from winter's devastation. Purple crocuses, the first to bring spring's cheer, had sprung up overnight under one of the gnarled trees. White bluebells dotted both sides of the path like stars. The Pooch and I sat on the Linden Terrace and watched the sky aflame with sunset. I was reminded of gentler days, when people walk more slowly and smile more easily, when life's trials flow away more gracefully into memories. Now the weather threatens to turn cold again. The weatherman has forecast three days of rain. But tonight's lighter springtime mood will carry me through. Nature is trustworthy. No matter how cold the winter, her rebirth brings an end to all the seriousness, reminding us to rejoice in being alive.

Why I Write

2010-02-25T13:28:00.000-08:00

At age seven, I began my first novel. I would like to say that I was a childhood prodigy, but that wasn’t the case. I sat at the typewriter (back then computers were only for video games), and composed one sentence. The desire was there, but the know-how needed work. I also needed some support, some acknowledgment of my burgeoning genius. But I was supposed to be respectable, to become a doctor, a lawyer, a business person. I was the last of five children and sometimes hidden amidst the hustle and bustle in our crowded household. So I hunkered down and studied. It paid off. I was admitted to Harvard, where I studied anthropology, then Oxford, where I also studied anthropology.

That’s when I started my second novel. With the help of a computer, I managed to write 20 pages. Occasionally I wrote short stories. I started a journal, which I kept for years and which has morphed into this blog. Then I succumbed to whatever pressure you might want to call it and went to medical school. Amazingly, I graduated despite attempts by the faculty to throw me out. My attention, as it always had been, lay elsewhere. I was reading voraciously subjects not remotely related to medicine: history, memoir, and fiction. I wrapped my hands around Eggers and imagined him a kindred soul. I plowed through Dostoyevsky. I showed up to rounds with blood shot eyes from reading late into the night.

The faculty had suspicions about me. I didn’t fit in. I attended writing workshops at night when I should have been studying anatomy. I managed to convince the faculty to release me for one month so that I could attend the Prague Creative Writing Workshop. I got ambitious and entered a creative writing competition for medical students. I won. Finally some reassurance that I wasn’t alone. Then residency hit, a downward spiral. I managed to get through two years, but I still couldn’t change my nature. It was now or never. I quit. I am going to become a writer, I said. I can no longer deny my inner muse, was my explanation. I was on my own. My family didn’t understand, my friends from medical school withdrew in fear that my quitting might taint them. I found other friends, artsy fartsy ones. I started to feel more comfortable with myself. I got a few things published. It was on the internet, but I didn’t care. It felt like my name was up in lights. I worked a low paying job with no respect. I was putting in my time, paying my dues. But now I’m fed up. I can do better than this, I think. It’s time to start another novel. It's time to get down to work.

Rainy Day and H&H

2010-02-24T19:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday the rain continued uninterrupted from morning to night. I went to the Upper West Side for no real reason other than it was on the way to a reading at the Mercantile Library. I exited at W82nd St., and tried to think the trees into being picturesque. The neighborhood looked black and white under the drizzle. My imagination failed me. The weather was so gloomy that most people rushed by in a cloud of grumpiness. To cheer myself up, I bought an Everything bagel at H &H. Freshly made, it was so hot that I could barely eat it. Walking around was useless in all the damp, so I headed down into the subway. Even in the relative warmth of the subway, the steam from the bagel rose in lazy spirals. As I waited for the train to arrive, I practiced honing my character discernment skills. Narcissist, I thought of the one talking such a fast mean streak that all her friend could do was nod silently. Moth, I thought of the friend, doomed to be burned by the narcissist. Already the moth's chin sank into her chest, her shoulders slumped, and her anxious smile revealed anger over having her needs ignored by her friend's self absorption. Farther down the platform a thin man spread himself across two seats, oblivious to the crowd around him. He fiddled importantly with his blackberry. Male narcissist, I thought (there seem to be a disproportionate number on the UWS). Leaning on one of the subway pillars, a woman stood aloofly surveying the scene. Her eyes were gentle, yet she did not smile. Her face bore a not unkind hardness, a wise hesitancy to trust. Former moth, I thought, hardened but not broken by learning how to fend off the narcissist's slights. I felt a kinship to that woman. She looked like the type of person who would enjoy a piping hot H&H Everything bagel on a miserable day.

McDonald's and Sweaters

2010-02-12T10:44:00.000-08:00

When I want a break from office politics I have lunch at the McDonald's on W171st & Broadway. I like to people watch there, and on the way I can do some shopping. All kinds of things are sold off tables on the streets of Washington Heights (Lancome moisturizer, lipstick, gloves, books, shoes, you name it). Today I stopped by the $2 sweater guy. He sometimes shows up on the corner of W170th and Broadway selling fresh from the factory (still in the cellophane!) sweaters for two dollars. Since you can't open the packages, it can be a hit or miss affair. But you can't beat the price, the guy is always friendly, and once I hit the jackpot with a green cashmere blend cardigan. That was when a woman in my office berated me, not because I'd taken a lunch break but because she assumed the sweaters were stolen. My take is this: if the guy is selling sweaters for $2 on the street (especially if he's standing in partially melted snow drifts like he was today) he probably needs the money. There's stronger stuff that he could be selling on the street, and I'd rather give my business to him than to companies who over charge for sweaters made in the sweatshops of the Developing World. So, with my $2 sweaters in hand, I walked into a music-less McDonald's. Usually there's bachata playing at the walk-up window (in Manhattan the McDonald's are better for your health-- you don't drive up, you walk up), and soul playing inside. Today conversations compensated for the music. I sat in a high traffic area, watching and listening (in this McDonald's you're more likely to hear Spanish than English). A little boy scurried back and forth to the serve-yourself soda fountain. His eyes lit up with a devious gleam over breaking the rules (you're only supposed to fill up once, but everyone looks the other way here). Gradually I became aware of the conversation behind me. A man boasted to a woman how he had been paid $4 an hour to do apartment repairs. "Off the books," he said, "But sometimes the owners would give me big tips to make up for it. Once I got $1500 at Christmas. The boss got nada." But the boss must have found out, because he started sending the man to different buildings where the tips dried up. He was back to $4 an hour. Now, his voice darkened, he had nothing, not even $4 an hour. That's when the sound system blasted into action with, "She gives me love, love, love, love, crazy love!" That drew my attention to the red heart-shaped balloons decorating the cash registers and the Valentine's streamers hanging from the ceiling. Suddenly the place felt like a party. I half expected Cookie Monster to appear with a basket of free Valentine's Day chocolates. But there ain't no free lunch in life, and that didn't happen. After I finished my Big Mac, I walked out the door and past the walk-up window. It was playing bachata again and everything was back to normal.

Ms. Chatty

2010-02-08T18:41:00.001-08:00

On the way to work this morning I was shocked awake by Ms. Chatty. Occasionally this calamity happens on Monday mornings. Ms. Chatty's voice shrieks over the subway intercom, "Goooood morning beautiful, beautiful people!" The car gives a collective groan. People slump forward, squinch their eyes tighter against Ms. Chatty's artificial sunshine. A few jam their fingers in their ears. Ms. Chatty, sealed in her conductor's box, seems unaware of the angst she's up against. She continues brightly, "I hope everyone's doing well on this wonderful, wonderful morning [it's so cold the thermometer broke, I reply in my thoughts]. Hold onto your belongings. This is a full train, so please, beautiful people, keep your belongings to yourself so others can have the seat next to you. Give your seat to the elderly, children, pregnant ladies, and the generally infirm. And, as always, IF YOU SEE SOMETHING SAY SOMETHING." Her directives aren't changed by the sugar in her voice. They're still orders, and no one likes to be ordered around on Monday mornings in winter on the way to work. She tries to save herself with a grand finale, "Next stop: 168th St. Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. Have a lovely, lovely day beautiful, beautiful people. It's a wonderful, wonderful world and it's people like you who make this city great!" The doors open and the lucky ones escape to work. The doors have barely closed on the captive audience inside when Ms. Chatty starts up again. She is relentless. No one can get a wink of sleep, let alone eaves drop on conversations. I wonder what she's like when she goes home at night. After a day of sugary subway talk, does she implode in a ball of anger? Can anyone who spends their days underground really be that happy? If so, I would like to have whatever she's on. In the meantime, I prefer Mr. Speedy. He gives it to you straight, and leaves you to your thoughts on Monday mornings.

Mr. Speedy

2010-01-31T19:29:00.000-08:00

Today my subway was driven by my favorite conductor: Mr. Speedy. He's the one who, late on a Saturday night when the A was running local, announced at W72nd St. that the subway was becoming Harlem-bound, express to W125th St. The UWS yuppies groaned and exited. The rest of us exchanged quick, triumphant looks about living in the North Pole. Today, as we neared W125th St., Mr. Speedy announced "Home of the world famous Apollo the-a-tre!" I love Mr. Speedy because he doesn't mess around. Today I was in a hurry to relax (I was going spaaahing; see above). Mr. Speedy gets you where you need to go. He closes the doors fast-- who cares about amputating the hand of that rude person holding the door open because she can't figure out whether or not this is her train. Mr. Speedy is in charge of a trainload of people with places to go, people to see. He doesn't let them down. Between stations, he doesn't put-put along. The train works like a well-oiled machine (well, it is a machine, but it isn't always well-oiled.) When Mr. Speedy drives, the subway stops blur past. Hold onto whatever you can-- you're on a bullet speeding down the barrel of a gun toward Columbus Circle. After my spaahing, I rode back uptown, and wouldn't you know it? I got Mr. Speedy round-trip! It was my lucky day. I was so relaxed, and Mr. Speedy was so, well, speedy, that I didn't have time to grow impatient before reaching W190th St.

Coughing and Cabin Fever

2010-01-30T18:56:00.000-08:00

The weather has turned arctic again. The Pooch's cough has worsened and we have been cooped up all day. The weather was starting to turn several days ago. We were at the dog park and The Pooch looked so much better-- he was trying to tackle a Russian Wolf Hound and playing tug of war with a stick. He had started to climb six flights, to spend the entire night at the foot of the bed without a cough (now accustomed to sleepless nights, I would wake up periodically, disbelieving that his cough had improved). Overjoyed to see his renewed energy, we stayed late. His cough worsened the next day. I have been through this before. This is when I search for an explanation, when I hope for a solution. I have been feeding him raw meat, hoping it might strengthen his immune system. Back when the weather turned, I had run out of meat and gave him canned dog foot. So now I blame it on the canned food, thinking that it's an allergy. Now we are back to raw meat, steamy bathrooms and chest PT (physical therapy-- pounding on his chest to loosen the mucous). There is slight improvement in the cough. There is major improvement in the nose (nearly dry!) Now he sleeps in the living room-- these sleepless nights have become unbearable for me. I try to remain patient. An off kilter system requires a long time to recover. Meanwhile, my neighbors give me concerned looks as we huff and puff up the stairs.

Warm evening!

2010-01-25T18:45:00.000-08:00

Today I walked home for the first time in months. There was no subway service past W168th St. (the A line has a will of its own to which residents of Washington Heights must submit). The weather felt spring-like, so I didn't mind the inconvenience. Neither did I mind the cement colored skies threatening rain. The clouds could have opened into a flood and I still would have rejoiced at being outside and not hunched against the cold. The mild temperatures continued into the evening, when The Pooch (nose still drippy but improved) went walking in an empty Heather Garden. Why weren't others taking advantage of this night? We stood on the Linden Terrrace, the lights on the George Washington Bridge twinkling in the distance. The wind sang through the trees overhead, and for the first time in weeks stirred up hopes for the future: for the spring when new leaves would canopy the sunset wine tasting held annually on the Linden Terrace, for a softer, more graceful time. For the last few weeks, I had felt like a leper-- a runaway cold sore had spread across my face and sprouted satellites on my body. Maybe it was the stress of cold weather, or the stress of taking care of The Pooch, or some other stress. I had told myself that I was fine, but it had taken a certain toll. Tonight , feeling myself again with my face almost back to normal, the wind on the Linden Terrace felt almost gentle.

Mature Hercules

2010-01-20T18:51:00.000-08:00

In the Metropolitan Museum, opposite the Young Hercules, stands the Mature Hercules. His presence has no need to scream at you in the manner of the Young Hercules. After drinking your fill of the young form, you turn to the Mature Hercules and realize that the Young Hercules is a little over the top. The Mature Hercules stands with dignity, a lion's pelt covering his head and forming a cape down his back. His nose, flanked by furrowed cheeks, is crooked from battle. Rather than surveying the room with youthful vigor, the Mature Hercules' gaze points inward. He has already seen things and now examines himself. Still muscle bound (he is Hercules, after all), the muscles have elongated and become leaner. One hand rests on a club, the other on his hip. The light hits him at a softer angle, revealing a calm self assurance. In the shadows hide other layers whose perception requires patience.

Young Hercules

2010-01-17T19:00:00.000-08:00

Friday night at the Metropolitan Museum. It was a long weekend and empty. I prefer the Met at such times, especially the Greek and Roman galleries. There I can sit undisturbed and unselfconsciously gawp at the Young Hercules, my favorite statue in the Met. At such times, a hush falls over the courtyard and the fountain trickles a treble concerto, encouraging relaxation. In the evenings, the light plays tricks on the eyes. The shadows accentuate the bulk of the Young Hercules, creating the expectation of seeing his massive pectorals rise in respiration. I advance closer, to make sure that I'm not seeing things, that there isn't really a heart beating under that muscle bound chest. Despite the pock marked torso, the skin still stretches tight over muscles flexed with self assurance. The Young Hercules stands proud and strong despite an obvious defilement rendered by the Victorians (oh, to have seen the Young Hercules in his original form!) His gaze surveys the room, proclaiming the perfection of his body. Always when I enter this courtyard, my eyes dart directly to him. It makes me want to say, "Damn, he's beautiful." If he could, I think the Young Hercules would smile at the compliment.

Dog Park

2010-01-14T13:31:00.000-08:00

I've been absent from this blog for a long time. Here's why.
Today I went to the dog park with The Pooch. It had been several weeks since our last visit, but the sun was shining, the temperature had finally warmed to a balmy 40 degrees Fahrenheit, and today seemed like the day to go. I went with trepidation. The dog park is set on a hill, and last time we'd gone this hill had been dangerously slick with ice. The real reason, though, is that for over four months my dog has been sick with a cough and runny nose that no amount of cash thrown at wily, money-grubbing veterinarians can solve. His sickness seems to have been hardest to deal with during the last few weeks, and the recent cold snap hasn't helped. Our last visit to the dog park had been on a very cold evening, which seemed to have worsened his lungs. Afterwards The Pooch had coughed all night, and I didn't get a wink of sleep. I feared today's visit would cause a similar fiasco.
I also felt uneasy about the usual Dog Park Denizens. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy talking to most of them. But when some of them start telling me how to take care of my dog, it rubs me the wrong way. They have no idea what I've been through, the money I've spent, how I've cared for and worried over this animal. Today, the runny nose seemed better, but I still feared the judgment of the Dog Park Denizens.
Over the last several months, The Pooch and I (along with the support of a friend) have battled the constant runny nose and hacking cough. We have endured a seizure, weird muscle jerks, and occasional diarrhea and vomiting. We have butted heads with veterinarians eager to make the wrong diagnosis for a quick buck. For the last several weeks, lest the arctic temperatures make his lungs worse, I have been shut inside alone with The Pooch's hacking cough and runny nose. To keep his lungs in shape, we have been walking up and down the stairs in my apartment building. Six flights, three times a day. It has done wonders for my figure. I have been sitting in a steam-filled bathroom, pounding on his chest to loosen the secretions in his lungs. Twice a day. I have been giving him his antibiotics religiously on schedule. Twice a day. I have been refilling the (hot) steam humidifiers with water. Twice a day. I have tried my best to keep my apartment free of dust and dirt. I have given him a special good-for-the-immune-system diet. And vitamins. Twice a day. And still the mucous keeps running out of his nose, still he keeps me up at night with his cough. I am quite simply worn out and exhausted. Last week, I had reached my wits' end, which regretfully caused commotion in my personal life that I'm not sure will be mended.
And then, what happened today? I thought, if The Pooch is not going to get over this, he might as well be happy. So I gave him free reign. I let him eat dirt (the Dog Park Denizens say, don't do that, he can get giardia. I think, if he's doing it, he might need the minerals). I let him chew on sticks. I let him hump whoever and whatever he wished. Today, I might be imagining it, but he seemed more perky. He ran harder and faster than I've seen him run in a long time. Sometimes (again, was it imagination?) he leapt like a spring buck when he ran-- I would like to say gazelle, but that would be hyperbole. He tried to hump a dog three times his size, sitting straddled on the animal's back like he was saddled on a horse. Yes, his nose ran-- but not like last time. I wiped it off with my glove, deciding to blame it on allergies if anyone gave me trouble. Of course he coughed-- but not like last time (I think?) Of course he gagged-- but not like last time?
When he was running with the big dogs, I remembered (sometimes I forget), why I ended up with him. It's because, despite his runny nose, despite his crappy lungs, despite his small size, he doesn't give up. He runs after those big dogs and humps them as if he were in good health and just as big as them. The Pooch has got spirit, not to mention character.
Now The Pooch is lying tuckered out on the carpet. He seems to be breathing easily. For now. There is no runny nose and no cough. For now. But the worry that I live with is that, just when I think he's getting better, he worsens again. It has been breaking my heart as well as my budget.
Some people may think I'm crazy for going through all this for a dog. Why have I done it? Because it gives me joy to see this little soul happy. I have a connection with him, and would do the same for any soul with whom I have a connection, be it animal or human.

First Snow

2009-12-06T09:39:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we had our first snow of the season, a light dusting that wasn't supposed to stick. But this morning the snow was still hanging around in the Heather Garden. It covered the lamb's ears, outlining them with delicate icing that sparkled silver in the sun. Awhile ago I sighted the last two cardinals of the season. They flitted to and fro, crimson flames amidst the lifeless twigs the trees had become. Now the cardinals are gone, but the sparrows persist. They perch on the backs of benches with their bellies plump in cheerful defiance of winter. A few stalwart roses still try to keep their heads up, but most sag and reveal ragged edges fully aware that they are the last of the season. Soon winter will bring its raw beauty to the Heather Garden.

Late Fall

2009-11-07T10:15:00.000-08:00

The Heather Garden is adorned in fall colors-- mature green fading into winter's twiggy brown. The autumn pallette soothes the senses, far from the scream of spring's electric green. The flowers are suitably muted-- light pink roses hang on branches with gently yellowing leaves. And yet, here and there, a spray of color-- bright purple berries that remind me of the flaming red pericanthus berries with which my family used to decorate the Thansgiving table. The passion flowers still cling to the gray stone wall of the Linden Terrace, their wispy lavender petals a reminder of the lasting power of their namesake. Sitting on the terrace, I hear military drumming in the distance. The local Catholic high school band (all girl's, mostly Dominican) is performing Yankee Doodle Dandee. Next weekend Ft. Tryon Park will host the reenactment of the revolutionary Battle of Ft. Washington. Why do people want to recreate man's reason gone awry? But then, that is history.

Farting Dogs

2009-10-24T10:41:00.000-07:00

The other day I was riding on the A line heading toward 42nd St. As the train pulled away from Columbus Circle a thin man dressed in unwashed blue jeans and a black bomber jacket entered the car from the connecting door between subway cars. He held up batteries, four silvery ones a pack. In a monotone he belted, "Batteries for sale. Cheap. One dollar each. Batteries for sale. Buy your batteries here. Cheap. Batteries. For. Sale." Noses stayed pressed into papers, no one looked up. The man walked to the other end of the car. As it pulled into 42nd St., he yelled in a fact-crossed mimic of the subway conductor, "42nd St. Change for the B, D, F, shuttle to Grand Central. 42nd St. Last chance to change. Change. Here. For the B, D, F, shuttle to Grand Central." Then, as if bored with the usual routine, announced, "Change here folks. If you're not changing to the D or F you're in the doggone WRONG TRAIN. Change here for the F as in FARTING, D as in DOG trains." The door opened. Amid hidden chuckles he exited toward the farting dog trains. It takes a lot to get a New Yorker's attention.

Bethesda Fountain

2009-10-18T18:55:00.000-07:00

A little while ago, I took my dog for a walk in Central Park. The early fall sky hung low and gray, interrupted by a few rebellious rays of sunlight. Pooch and I descended the stairway leading from Poet's Walk into the shadows of the arcade below Besthesda Terrace. I gazed up, as I always do, to admire the restored ceiling. Bach filled the arcade: an a capella group hummed in wordless harmony at the other end. Pooch and I listened briefly, but were drawn out of the arcade by a spectacle of light near the fountain. The gray day had become unexpectedly brilliant in comparison to the darkness of the arcade. In front of us, a man held two large sticks tied together by rope. He dipped the apparatus into soapy water and in careful slow motion so as not to spoil his work, set to float a ten foot bubble. The sun scattered into a rainbow on the bubble, and the singers' chords of "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" accompanied his creation. Overhead, the angel of the Bethesda Fountain, her skirts swirling as if alighting from flight, stretched down her hand in solace to those below. She did not seem to mind the pigeons on her head, her shoulder, her hand. Why should she? This is one of my favorite spots in all of the city, and on that day, with Bach, the bubbles and the late afternoon sun, it felt like Heaven.

Pomegranates

2009-10-13T18:05:00.000-07:00

The pomegranates in the herb garden at the Cloisters know that Fall has arrived. The fruits hang like bright Christmas orbs on the trees dwarfed by roots confined by terracotta pots. They add brilliance, the promise of their ruby seeds hiding within. I want to break them open and devour them, my teeth gnashing the hard white seeds, the juice staining my mouth, my tongue, my chin in a river of crimson. Like when I was a child and my mother made me wear an old shirt covered by an apron. She made me go outside to eat the pomegranates from our backyard tree, lest I permanently stain the house. To me, Fall means pomegranates bigger than grapefruit sent from my mother's tree in California. To me, Fall means sitting outside on a clear blue evening, the edges of the air just beginning to bite. To me, Fall means eating pomegranates with abandon, worry-free of stains. To me, Fall brings the fruits of my mother's green thumb, which for my entire life has provided pomegranates with seeds sweeter and juicier than any store bought fruit could ever be.

Chess

2009-09-16T18:19:00.000-07:00

I have a new route to work, which takes me through a park popular with neighborhood kids and their supervisors. In the afternoons, Dominican men sit playing chess at cement tables with playing boards built into their tops. There are six tables, all made comfortable by the shade of a nearby tree. The men form a crowd that sometimes occupies all the tables, especially on sunny days. They socialize, smoke cigars, and while away the afternoon. Elsewhere, children ride bikes and play soccer in a patch of grass made bald by hours of play. One afternoon, I sat eating my lunch on a bench next to an elderly Dominican man. He was watching two young boys who sped past on bicycles. Grandchildren? One boy, the chubby one, rode carefully and slowly on a bike too small for him. The other boy, thin and full of nervous energy, whizzed past the chubby one, turning to taunt him as he did so. The elderly man called out repeatedly to the little speed demon, "Suave, suave!" He took no notice. I wondered, was this a character trait that would persist for life? Would the speed demon remain a risk taker? Would the chubby boy remain slow and deliberate? Or would life circumstances force them to switch roles?

Sidewalk Pizza

2009-09-13T20:24:00.001-07:00

Today I was on the Upper Westside and suddenly felt hungry. I bought a slice of pizza from a hole-in-the wall place. It was so small that I decided to take the slice outside. It was a nice evening. The temperature and the dryness in the air reminded me of the Mediterranean. Outside the door to the pizza joint someone had set one single solitary chair: a sidewalk cafe for one. I sat down, balancing the paper plate on my knees and suddenly felt like I was on vacation. It was the same feeling that I'd had when eating the best gelato in the world (sesame and honey) while sitting in front of the Roman Pantheon on a similarly gentle night. Tonight, the passersby screamed for my attention: the twenty-something who repeatedly pulled down her gym shorts over thighs that precipitously narrowed into her knees; the female smoker puffing feverishly on her cigarette; the male smoker limping by in orthopedic shoes; the bulldog in a powder blue t-shirt that read "hug me"; the young woman looking nervously at her male companion whose hair matched the elegant light gray of her silk blouse. Sometimes all it takes is a $3 slice of pizza, a rickety chair, and remembering what being unrushed feels like, to renew one's interest in humanity.

Second Bloom

2009-09-03T17:36:00.000-07:00

The roses in the Heather Garden are nearing the end of their second summer bloom (the first occurred in late May). They cascade like bubbles of pink champagne down the limbs of the bushes. I know this is a cliche, but I can't help myself. I have to stop and smell them. I have to bend low, putting my nose close to catch their delicate scent (unlike the artificiality of store bought roses, when they smell at all). Early yesterday morning, while walking my dog, I saw a flash of red almost buried in the bushes. It was a cardinal, on his return trip South. I had seen him in early spring, when he was heading North for summer. I stared and he stared back. I wanted to say, You can't hide from me. Your red announces you like the surging energy of unreciprocated love. He remained still and peaceful, unaware that the emerald leaves offered no camouflage to him.

Playground Rainbow

2009-08-23T17:46:00.001-07:00

On the Jacob K. Javitz playground, just behind the swingset, stands a mural. It is painted on a brick wall and depicts children of various ethnic and cultural backgrounds. They jump, run, and slide along a rainbow that dominates the center of the scene. On the left, underneath the rainbow, the mural reads "Respect each other." Further down the rainbow, the right side reads, "Respect yourself." If the messages are subliminal, I have no objection to their content. On the opposite side of the playground, children run with glee in the cooling spray of the fountains, which have been in constant use for weeks. A few days ago, I discovered a man holding his dog over the water. The dog tolerated the bath without squirming, his face thankful for the relief from the heat. Tomorrow, I will try the same trick on my own beloved Pooch.

Cicadas

2009-08-22T10:28:00.001-07:00

The trees in Fort Tryon have come alive with sound. The constant round-and-round rattle of cicadas fills the ears, like thousands of maracas shaken by phantom mariachis who have taken up residence in the trees. The cicadas fill the trees in the Linden Terrace, and accompany me while I silently watch the sky burn with sunset. The cicadas muffle the whispered Russian and crescendos of Spanish from others enjoying the view. They form a constant backdrop to the drama of nature, a reminder that summer's abundance has neared its zenith. At the entrance to the park, a dead cicada lay on the ground, its fairy wings stretched delicate and vulnerable beneath it. I gathered the insect in leaves and brought it home, careful not to damage its wings. My nephew appreciates such creatures, and I saved it for him. It felt like I was saving summer.

Dog Park

2009-08-03T17:54:00.001-07:00

Today at the dog park there were at least twenty dogs: big, bold, heavyset mutts; small nervous, yippy Yorkshire mixes; a skeletal, inbred miniature greyhound; and my own Poochini, who defies classification. The dogs chased each other in packs, joyous in their simple existence. It occurred to me that dogs are like men. Or men are like dogs. In any case, they are very similar. The lives of both revolve around running in packs, eating, and (especially) humping. Even if occasionally they hump in the wrong direction-- like one of the dogs today who tried to hump another's head.

Monarch

2009-08-03T17:38:00.000-07:00

Today while I walked in the Heather Garden I stopped dead in my tracks. On the butterfly bush (in full blossom) sat the first Monarch of the season. I have been on the look out for weeks for Monarchs. Amidst the white moths, the buttery yellow ones, and the black and blue butterflies that have recently increased in number, I have had hopes of spotting a Monarch. But they have remained elusive this summer. Today's Monarch paused on a leaf, its outstretched wings moving almost imperceptibly in the breeze. I breathed shallowly for fear of scaring it away. The early evening sun shone on its orange and black window panes like stained glass from a European cathedral. But no amount of effort on our part can contain the beauty of nature. It flitted away on the breeze like the effervescence of early love. I still enjoy the memory of its beauty.

Rose Man

2009-08-03T17:30:00.000-07:00

The Rose Man has disappeared from the corner of W178th and Ft. Washington. It happened during winter, when the icy winds blustered up, down, and around the streets of Washington Heights. Gone is the shopping cart that used to greet me with a rainbow of flowers on Friday afternoons. Gone are the long stemmed roses that he carefully chose with a flourish and a smile. Gone are his cheerful eyes that used to meet mine when he handed over the flowers. A different Rose Man has taken his place. He stands in front of the farmacia latina at W181st St. He also has a shopping cart. But in his cart roses hide amidst carnations. These roses are short-stemmed, pre-wrapped in cellophane with sprays of baby's breath and insignificant fern leaves. He hands over the roses with a smile, but quickly looks down to count the money. Business is business. I miss the old Rose Man.

Water Balloons

2009-07-28T13:03:00.000-07:00

This summer is all about water: water falling from the sky (all summer long); water droplets filling the air with humidity; water flowing from public spouts in the playground where children in bathing suits cool off on hot, hot days. But especially, water in balloons. It's all the rage this summer. Children laugh conspiratorially in groups on the corner of 190th and Ft. Washington. They fill up the balloons at the drinking fountain just inside the entrance to the Heather Garden. Then they gang up on the vulnerable ones. The balloons, red, blue and yellow orbs, change shape like ameobas in the children's hands. The children unleash a barrage that arcs up and over the sidewalk, ending in a splishsplash on the pavement. Occasionally, the balloons hone in on a target (a little brother or older sister), and the park fills with squeals of laughter.

Butterflies

2009-07-08T18:35:00.001-07:00

The butterflies have returned to the heather garden. They chase each other in pairs or flit about singley, lighting up the garden with a mosaic of colored glass. The lavender is abuzz with overgrown bumblebees. They hide amongst the purple flowers. You have to be careful when running your hand over them to catch the scent. The garden is nearing its peak with layer on layer of green. Purple and yellow flowers contrast intermittent bursts of red, and the roses have been blooming uninterrupted for weeks. The tiger lillies have pounced on the hill near the subway stop, turning it into a field of orange. Children stand with boisterous expectation at the Mr. Softee icecream truck just outside the subway stop, then continue into the park with glee, icecream quickly melting and dripping down their chins. I wish these days could last forever.

Keep Me Close

2009-07-04T10:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday on the way to work I walked past an apartment building whose service door was propped open. On the side of the door that normally faces the inside someone had written, "KEEP ME CLOSE", in rough white lettering against a black background. I stopped and looked through the narrow corridor leading inside the building. It was a sunny day. The brightness of the outside contrasting with the shadows of the corridor reminded me of the narrow medieval passageways of Southern Europe. I felt the same wonder as when I visited Italy and Spain, when I had been tempted to stop at every open door and peer into the treasures inside. Then I looked at the door again: KEEP ME CLOSE had a completely different meaning without the final "d". What would have been a statement of exclusion (keep me closed) had been transformed into a welcome: Keep me close, don't let me go.

The Cloisters

2009-06-28T19:28:00.000-07:00

Today the sun appeared nearly all day after weeks of rain and clouds. I went to The Cloisters and sat in the herb garden for hours. The quince trees now have little green jewels of fruits that will develop into yellow globes by fall. The pear tree has climbed its multi-pronged trellis and covers one of the walls with mature green leaves. The thistle has overgrown its bed and overhangs one of the walks with prickly determination. But what I most covet is a small potted pomegranate dotted with brilliant red flowers trying to become miniature fruits. The sun's warmth reminded of California. For once I forgot about skin damage and sat in direct sunlight watching tourists and locals absorb the calm. The Cloisters affect everyone the same: stress melts away. When I returned home, I congratulated myself for having developed sunburned shoulders for the first time this summer.