On Napping in Bryant Park and Parking in Brooklyn

Photo by myself, in Bryant Park.

A shoeless fellow napped while witting on a cafe chair, in Bryant Park. It must have been perfect napping weather.

This photo is from the stash. Bryant Park is the ideal place to nap, under the cover of tall trees. In the background is the carousel, which runs pretty much all year.

-- Yes, I'm back in New York. I arrived very, very late last night.

One of my first tasks was to wake up early this morning to move the car. Oy. Mark traded our Mini Cooper, Clive, in for a car that I can actually drive. That means I must share in the parking duties.

New York conducts street cleaning, which means a zamboni-like thing crawls along the streets with big brushes to move debris, which means that every few days, you must move your car.

In Manhattan, each side of the street gets cleaned twice a week. In Brooklyn, only once a week. So your car cannot be parked along certain sides of the street on certain days, else you get a ticket. Often, people leave their cars on the street and get tickets because it's cheaper than putting the car in the garage.

Before going to LA, I parked the car on a Tuesday side. That meant finding another spot before 8:30 am today. I stumbled out with very little sleep to find a parking space. Dangerous. Excruciating. But I somehow found a spot, and managed to park without damaging anything.

Only on certain holidays or during heavy snowfall, is this practice suspended. I'm sure there were more than a few Seinfeld episodes about parking? I remember either George or Jerry sitting in a car, ranting. That's exactly what it's like.

Related posts: Crossing Broadway, on Wheels, On Wheels, in the Financial District, and On Skateboard Graphics and Subways in Mid-Air.

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Vacating the City

Photo by myself at the beach in Long Island.

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Mark and I are off to nearby Shelter Island this weekend to attend a friend's anniversary party. Shelter Island is a small island off of Long Island, where many New Yorkers own summer houses. Mark and I will have to drive Clive, his Mini Cooper, onto a car ferry to get to it.

The theme is Great Gatsby garden party. I hope to get some great photos of people all dressed up in preppy outfits and some beautiful summer houses.

This weekend is rumored to get very hot, in the 90's. The nice weather in New York tends to come and go very quickly. In the summer, the city is known for being hot and humid.

People dread the hot days, especially the subway stations, which become intolerable at times. As an antidote, I'm posting this photo, which evokes cool sea breezes.

I hope everyone is having a relaxing weekend!

Day trips are easily accessible destinations just outside the five boroughs of New York City.

Related posts: Life's a Beach and Montauk, The End .

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Welcome to Bensonhurst

Photo by myself in a Russian supermarket in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.

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This morning Mark and I drove Clive, a Mini Cooper, out to Bensonhurst to mend his front windshield.

A couple weeks ago, we'd driven down the BQE (Brooklyn Queens Expressway) when a big piece of gravel dinged us, cracking the glass. Clive had to have his windshield replaced.

If you've never driven on the BQE, please don't start. It is riddled with potholes and uneven terrain. There are concrete dividers marking the median, which shifts constantly since they're 'repairing' the road. Mark will frequently drive and curse at the roads and drivers because it's downright dangerous.

Bensonhurst is 20 minutes away from where I live in Park Slope, Brooklyn. It's best known for a period in 1989 when a racially motivated murder provoked riots and protests. I think to most New Yorkers, the name connotes strife and danger. Mark and I found it to be quite benign, with large avenues and freestanding houses. Everything had an old timey look to it and it was hard to believe we were in New York.

According to Wikipedia, a motley bunch of well known people grew up in Bensonhurst, including Scott Baio, Carl Sagan, Harvey Fierstein, Elliot Gould, Larry King and Marisa Tomei.




The neighborhood has large populations of Russians, Italians and Hasidim. Mark and I ventured into a huge supermarket with many Russian items. The sheer amount of sausages in one aisle and Russian beer in another was amazing. There was a separate caviar counter. There was a aisle full of chocolates and candies, wrapped in colorful and cryptic paper.

We could have walked out with armfuls of sausages, but Mark and I are trying to cut down on our red meat. We opted instead for a whopping bag of mixed candies, gathered from the open bins. Yum!

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Mission Suspended

Photo by myself in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. There are a number of metal and industrial yards in this neighborhood.

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Happy President's Day, everyone. It feels great to have a day off.

Yesterday, Mark and I were overly ambitious with our trip to Long Island.

The original plan was to drive up to the 'North Fork' of the island and possibly take the ferry to the 'South Fork'. The island tapers off to the east into a couple jagged fingers. Montauk Point, also known as 'The End' is on located on the South Fork.

I was sold on the concept. Mark said there are a number of sod farms along the North that are visually striking - acres of flat land are covered in sod, with a farmhouse in the background. I was looking forward to taking photos of stunning summer homes and the water on the boat ride.

Alas, just as we got some distance from the city, the sky became completely overcast. The roads were lined with brown grass, brown bushes and brown trees. There was the occasional evergreen, but the overall feeling was 'ick'. So we turned around and drove home.

Mark says that Clive, his Mini Cooper, is the perfect 'touring car', meaning he motors well along scenic, twisty turny roads. Mark is also convinced that since Clive was assembled in England, that he does especially well on twisty turny roads in the rain. Hm.

All I know is that the ride was so comfy, I fell asleep on the way home.


For more on Clive, click here and here.

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The Sublime and the Ridiculous, Or Why I See Few Celebrities in New York

Photo by myself on Broadway and 12th Street, of one of my favorite places.

You can buy books by the yard and browse for hours at the Strand.

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Yesterday for a brief moment, we met up with Stu, one of Mark's buddies. We drove around the block with me, scrunched in the back seat of Clive, Mark's Mini Cooper.

'There's David Blaine'. Stu pointed out a guy in a black and gray sweatsuit, strolling across 14th Street by himself like anyone else.

We crossed the light, and when I turned I saw Blaine's silhouette.

I'm not sure what the deal is, but I rarely have celebrity sightings. I once saw Tony Randall or his look alike years ago in Times Square. And then I thought I saw and practically chased after Ed Norton on the Upper West Side.

Then I've definitely seen Dave Chapelle and Ethan Hawke and the surreal glow emitted by Uma Thurman. (Uma's glow preceded her and was other worldly and startling). I once stood behind the petite Jane Pauley while on line at Citerella. Besides the above and the Isaac Mizrahi sighting a couple weeks ago, that's my celebrity sighting list. It seems like I've always just missed someone.

Last summer, I met Mark for lunch. 'I just saw Keanu Reeves,' he said.

'WHAT?!?!?!'

'Yeah, he's a block down, over there.' Good grief.

I know where Liv Tyler lives and where George Clooney is rumored to live. I know where Susan Sarandon may or may not be living. But I never see these people. If I were really psycho, I would camp out near any of these places and see if what I've heard is true.

Actually, I think the real reason I don't see these celebs is that I'm busy looking at everything else. The traffic, the colors, the people, the pets, the beautiful details of the buildings, and the sheer amount of stuff everywhere is just too distracting.

My first few years living in the city, I was just astounded by the simple act of walking down the street. I told myself that I could walk out the door and encounter a sidewalk littered with trash, but it would look beautiful to me.

Of course, the feeling of wonder fluctuates. Some days I walk out of my apartment and when I see the trash, I see TRASH, and there's nothing romantic about it. But most of the time, I delight in what I'm lucky enough to catch sight of.

It doesn't have to be famous.

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On Dopplegangers and Memory

The other day, I heard a loud honking outside. I went out and there were Mark and his car, Clive. Like a mother penguin recognizing her penguin babe's squawk in a sea of penguins, I'd recognized Clive's plaintive toot.

The fact that people can have such distinctly differing features, even though our range of features are limited, (eyes, nose, mouth, hair, skin color) baffles me. Only on rare occasion will I spot Mark's doppleganger. You'd think in large cities we'd run into each other's dopplegangers all the time.

Oliver Sacks wrote an excellent article in The New Yorker about a man with a severe case of amnesia. I'm surprised to find it online because the article was so intriguing and well-written.

Sacks' subject was 'Memento' personified. Every few minutes, his memory would reset, and he'd have no memory of what had just happened. You could come into the room, be introduced, and a moment later, he'd ask you who you were. He'd look at you as if he just woke up from a dream. (Interestingly, the amnesia patient was also named Clive. No relation).

Human Clive's diary entries were the most incredible things. Here's an excerpt from Sacks' article:

'His journal entries consisted, essentially, of the statements “I am awake” or “I am conscious,” entered again and again every few minutes. He would write: “2:10 P.M: This time properly awake. . . . 2:14 P.M: this time finally awake. . . . 2:35 P.M: this time completely awake,” along with negations of these statements: “At 9:40 P.M. I awoke for the first time, despite my previous claims.” This in turn was crossed out, followed by “I was fully conscious at 10:35 P.M., and awake for the first time in many, many weeks.” This in turn was cancelled out by the next entry.'


Even though Clive forgot pretty much everything - the present moments, and gradually, his long term memory, he retained a deep emotional memory. He remained married to his wife of twenty years, although they eventually lived apart. She'd walk into the room and he'd light up. When she was away, he felt blue.

In was inexplicable why Clive would light up around his wife, even though he'd forget things like repeated trips they took to Europe, their years together and whatever she'd tell him five minutes before. Sacks determined there was a deeper emotional memory that transcended facts, figures, even faces.

I thought about all this after racing out of the subway tonight and seeing Mini Cooper Clive parked across the street. I crossed at the light, opened the door and without a thought, plopped into the passenger's seat.

Clive could have easily been his doppleganger, another green Mini Cooper with certain rims and a certain antenna and certain side view mirrors. There aren't that many distinguishing features to choose from. I could easily have opened the door and plopped into the seat beside a completely different person than Mark. And then what?

It would've been an awkward moment. Unless Mark's doppleganger were driving Clive's doppleganger.


Photo by myself in Union Square.

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Christmas Greetings from New York

I'm a little sad that it's Christmas. I've gotten attached to the jingles and I'll miss hearing them.

I'm off the LA to visit my parents today. We don't have much planned as usual, which isn't a bad thing. I'm sure I'll do some shopping and picture taking and walking on the beach. It will be a nice, long-delayed trip. Mark is going to Vermont with his car Clive and a couple buddies.

I walked around the West Village yesterday and it was empty. Then this morning, Mark had an errand in the city and drove in and back within 20 minutes. Zero traffic. He and Clive were alone on Second Avenue.

The city is spooky when there's no one in it. For all my kvetching about the crowds, the subway and the bad drivers, I don't like it so much when no one's here.

Will Smith felt the same way in 'I am Legend', at the end of the world. In one scene, he is near Grand Central. He is surrounded by tall buildings, their empty windows darkly empty. There is the distinct sense that he is not alone, and it is spooky.

He's not alone. New York is a character in the movie, as it is in so many films. However, this only works when within the flow of a narrative, when a reality is constructed, and you're making sense of it as an audience member.

In real life, New York isn't so much a character, it has character. The real characters are the shop owners, the hipster douchebags, the homeless, the wealthy, the tourists, the students, the artists, the professionals, the working class. The city only has as much life as the people it shelters.

Without the people, the place is just a bunch of buildings.


Here's a tribute to the season by The Pogues:




Photo by myself in the West Village.

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Car Goes Boom Boom

Clive died today.

I was playing hooky from work, so Mark and I drove out to Lawn Guyland to lunch with his mum. It was cold out but I was dressed for an indoor experience - tee shirt, jeans jacket, thin pants and sneakers. It was just supposed to be lunch and a walk around a mawl. That's it.

What happened was this - we had a filling lunch of corned beef sandwiches, fries, slaw and pickles. And then Clive was found dead in the parking lot, refusing to wake up.

Mark waited for the tow truck, while his mum and I walked the mile down the icy sidewalk to her place. The wind was blowing. Traffic whizzed by. We held hands to steady ourselves. We laughed at how much closer the restaurant seemed by car and how much worse it could have been (if it were raining, if we'd been in the middle of nowhere, if we were in New Jersey).

The flat soles of my sneakers skidded along. She'd fallen and broken her hip exactly one year before. We finally got to her place, then drove back for Mark and then to the Mini Cooper place nearby.

Clive was there, held helplessly aloft on the back of a truck, held steady with two cables. He looked smaller than usual, and a little apologetic. Later, Mark and I navigated his mum's car through traffic, back to Brooklyn.



One day next summer, I'll have to take a photo around dusk, showing the view of New York from the LIE with whole skyline lit up. There's the classic spire of the Empire State Building (tonight its lights were white), the tiered top of Chrysler Building, the jaunty slope of the Citicorp tower. It is a wall of lights and billboards that make New York look like a vast, indomitable monster.

I could see how impossibly big the city could look to someone who doesn't have a foothold already there. It's scary. And it looked bigger tonight without our dear Clive.


Photo by myself of Clive in Lawn Guyland.

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Giving Thanks

Part One
We had Thanksgiving in Long GUYland. For fun, we took a long, scenic drive down twisty turny roads. Mark's poor mom was crammed in the backseat of Clive, despite my pleading with her to trade places.

We are both Virgos, the sign of whiny self-sacrifice.

'No, really, I'd rather sit back there', I said.

'That's okay, you're taking pictures. It's my turn.' This conversation took place no less than four times.

To those who haven't had the joy of sitting in the back seat of a Mini Cooper, it is not terrible. It is a snug, reassuring fit that says 'you're not going anywhere'. The only trouble is getting out. The front seat slides forward a smidge, just enough space to dangle one leg out. How to then extract the rest of the body is sheer acrobatics.

The three of us had a simple dinner - stuffed cabbage, mashed potatoes and a purchased Napoleon cake that looked tastier than it was. It was only the three of us and without a turkey, it didn't feel like Thanksgiving. But there was more nostalgia than usual.

It was the 44th anniversary of Kennedy's assasination. Mark's mom had been outside the New York Public Library on 42nd Street, when she'd heard the news. We drank red wine. I saw wedding photos from 1965. There were real bouffant hairdos and gossip about those pictured - how their lives turned out, which ones might have been gay.

Mark and I drove home stuffed, without any traffic. In all, it was a nice night.

Part Two
This morning, NY1 reported there were less than 500 murders in New York this year, the lowest in 40 years (woohoo). Pat Kiernan said that only 35 of those killed didn't know their killers. Hm. Somehow that does not make me feel safer.

While we're at the statistics, The New York Sun reported the average Manhattan weekly salary is the highest in the country, at $2,800, which is $1,000 more than second place, Fairfield County, Connecticuit. That's per week, folks, and it's the billionaires and Wall Street-ers that skew the average. $2,800 per week works out to just under $150,000 per year.

Hullo, this is an average!! Too bad that it wasn't clear if the population included non-working Manahattanites, like students, elderly folks squirreled in rent-controlled apartments, babies, and stay-at-homers.

But still. $2,800 per week means $560 per day, which is a lot. Not enough for one night in a 300 sf room at The Mercer ($630 a night), but enough for a lesser grade, $300 per night hotel and some fancy meals. Maybe just enough for a spacious apartment, a gym membership, nice meals out, a closet full of Jimmy Choos, cab rides home, a kid in a private school, a nanny. I'd have to do the math.

I guess I fall somewhere in-between - I stand an equal, distant chance between being murdered, as I do living the high life. Despite what people think, the architect's life is not a cushy one.

I am thankful that I don't have to worry about paying the rent, or my electric bill. I can feed a homeless cat as well as the one at home. I might not have a tremendous wardrobe, but I can live in the city of my dreams. At least for now.

Photos by myself, around Long Island.

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Good News

Part One
It turns out my request at work for two more people for my team had been misunderstood. And a deadline was unexpectedly extended by a couple weeks. Woohoo!! When does that ever happen? I'm relieved. I can't do the late nights and weekends anymore. Nope.

The other night I went to the gym for the first time in many months. I went with a coworker to a gym a block from the office, on a free pass. She took classes (kickboxing and circuit training), while I dashed to the cardio room.

It was great - I used the elliptical machine for 45 minutes, then I lifted weights. I am sadly, pathetically, out of shape. It was tough to do my weight routine and see how tiny my arm muscles have become. I was doing red-faced repetitions with 12-pound weights, while big sweaty guys were heaving 65-pound weights all around me. I ended the evening sitting in the sauna, breathing in the hot air and just sweating. It was wonderful.

Friday found me tired and achy, but I'm keen on getting back into the routine. Later today, I'll be visiting the gym in my neighborhood. I'm hoping the exercise will help me with the work stress and tone me up. We shall see. I'm not counting chickens quite yet.

Part Two
Saturday, to unwind, Mark and I ventured to an Indian restuarant in Park Slope, part of our Expanding our Brooklyn Restaurant List Quest. En route, we saw beautiful Brooklyn brownstones, like the one above, that make this city so picturesque. There were leaves everywhere, some carved pumpkins on doorsteps and the occasional stoop sale.

We also noticed that there were bajillions of Mini Coopers. Well, maybe not bajillions, but eight or ten, which is twice as many as there were at the Mini Cooper Rally the other week.




There were a couple red ones, a silver one, a black one, a white one. On the side street where we parked, Clive was one of three Mini Coopers, each wedged into a wee, Mini Cooper-sized spot. They are such trusty urban cars.

It was nice to leave Clive on the street, while we had our delicious Indian meal, knowing he'd be happy with his buddies.





Photos by myself in Park Slope, Brooklyn.

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Clive

I have to admit that Clive, Mark's car, makes our New York experience highly abnormal. Unless you do pretty well, you can't own a car easily in Manhattan. Parking garages are expensive, and spaces on the street are hard to find. It's much easier to keep a car in Brooklyn, but moving your car twice a week to avoid street cleaning is a &^#$* pain.

Clive's name refers to his British roots. Mini Coopers are engineered by BMW and assembled in Britain. A Mini Cooper S, Clive has a 1.6 liter, 4-cylinder supercharged, 214 horsepower engine. Whatever that means. He's got a six-speed manual transmission, sunroof and all sorts of other doodads.

Clive travels like a little roadster (meaning, not a cushy luxury ride). He zips merrily along country roads but suffers a bit on the bumpy BQE, where some potholes just about swallow him up.



Instead of staying around during the marathon today, we journeyed to a Mini Rally of sorts in upstate New York. I say 'of sorts' because there were five Mini Coopers total. So...a Mini Mini Cooper Rally.

The idea was to tour around the scenic roads a couple hours north of the city to admire the foliage. I didn't realize til too late that this meant getting up at 7am on a Sunday and coping with a troubled tummy. It was a little rough at first, but in the end, I was glad to have gone.

We met the other drivers, many for the first time. Mini owners are 'enthusiasts' (a complete lie. They are nuts). These people love to congregate online and in real life to talk Minis. They love their cars.




Today began with the initial comparing of cars (2002 models versus 2004, versus 2006), tailpipes, rims (black, silver, the number of spokes), and gearshift knobs. Then there was a photo shoot. Someone brought a nice HD video camera. Finally, we launched onto the hilly roads in single formation, careening through the hairpin turns at top speed and stopping a couple times to admire the view.

The leaves were in full color and while we parked on the side of a mountain, we could see paragliders circling above, alongside the red-tailed hawks. It was a peaceful moment.

By the time we got home, it was only 2 pm. There were still some runners out, barricaded streets and policemen shepherding traffic. We got found a nice spot on the street without too much trouble.




For more on Mini Coopers, check out their very cool site here.
Top photo by Mark of Clive last fall in Long Island.
Other photos by myself today in upstate New York.

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On Driving

Driving has become the new default activity for Mark and I, ever since his purchase of Clive, a deep blue Mini Cooper S, just before Thanksgiving last year. Before the car, when we didn’t have plans for the weekend, we’d make the journey on foot from Greenpoint, Brooklyn, to its hipper sister, Williamsburg. We’d go to my favorite antiques store, where I wouldn’t buy anything, and then to his favorite record store, where he would. We’d grab a few plump bagels, plastic containers of egg and chicken salad, and make the journey back, where we’d eat our picnic lunch hunched over the coffee table. The routine gave us a sense of purpose – you go, you buy lunch, you come back, you eat lunch. One had to have lunch, after all.

This is what I’ve learned in the short time that ‘we’ have had the car: Driving is a great way to pass time and feel productive, but it is not too far from another of our pastimes, sitting on the couch in front of the large screen tv. In both scenarios, one sits in comfort beside a companion, with easy access to food and water. One sees new places. One is entertained.

Ironically, after driving for a while, or actually, after being driven, I feel much the same as after sitting on the couch in front of the tv: I want to get up and walk around. I want air. I want to experience the world rather than watch it go by.

But then, once I pass a certain threshold, I am officially Beyond Hope. I no longer want to get up and walk around. I want to surrender to the black faux leather or the soft, nubby green fabric. I want to sleep. I usually do. I want to never get up again.

What most people don’t realize is that driving, as an experience, depends very much on which seat you occupy. To the passenger, the trip is not nearly as entertaining as it could be. You’re not so concerned about the guy in front of you or the guy in back of you, how bad the roads are, how bad the other drivers are, or how we’re doing on gas. Thoughts, instead, revolve around one’s bladder and the next rest stop or, as designated navigator, simply not getting lost.

It’s only been the first few months, and I’m sure this new world of the road will unfold and expand in unexpected ways. As driver and passenger, Mark and I will discover new things, each from our different vantage points. Perhaps I’ll learn stick shift and the roles will be uncomfortably reversed. Perhaps I’ll arrive at a new mindset, making the passenger seat more engaged. Until I figure it all out, I’ll just buckle myself in, and try to enjoy the ride.

Photo by Rob Lightbody.

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