October 28, 2007

• New York Moments

  Farmers Market at Union Square
  Wednesday, October 10, 1pm
  On my way home from a business meeting, I stumble onto the Farmers Market at Union Square; it’s leafy, green, and growing between traffic and sky scrapers. I wander aimlessly from stall to stall. There’s purple sprouting cauliflower, thick slices of pumpkin, rows of adorable baby bok choy. I munch a sample cube of pumpernickel from a baker’s stand; I buy a round of sourdough. Organic beef vendors barbecue thick cuts of steak; the most primitive part of my brain instructs me to salivate. I am happy here, I’m at peace.

  Subway (1-train)
  Thursday, October 11, 10 am
  See that woman outside, waiting on the platform? The one in her 40’s wearing a gray, conservative skirt suit and holding the biggest bunch of sunflowers you’ve ever seen. What is an executive-type like her doing out mid-day, holding a giant bunch of flowers no less? She is happy, though. She’s used to hiding it, but today her smile cannot be contained. She’s in love. Someone’s been calling her “Sunshine.”

  A few stops up the line, by Columbia University, a couple dressed in tight black turtlenecks, black pants, and combat boots stomps on the train and proceeds to make out. They cannot keep their hands off each other. They’re pawing and frenching and sighing the afternoon away; they stroke each other’s faces and look deeply into each other’s eyes. It’s surprising to see such unbridled tenderness and heat from people dressed like Dieter from that SNL skit, Sprockets. “Touch my monkey. Now we dance!” Remember that skit? That was a good one…

  St. Nicholas Avenue & 154th
  Monday, October 15
  I’m off to lunch with the studio head I’ve been freelancing for. I navigate the cluttered sidewalks of my neighborhood, passing fold out tables selling heaps of t-shirts and carts laden with cut mangoes, stuffed tortillas, and deep fried churros. A sidewalk grocer’s pyramid of onions cascades down in front of me; a mom laden with kids and bags and an uncooperative stroller has knocked it over. I skip over the mess as the mom and grocer argue in Spanish. Her youngest starts to cry.

  And then I pass this man in a purple plaid three-piece suit with shiny gold buttons. He’s old – in his 80’s – and his face is hardwired to offer the world a gooey, incapacitated smile. The purple plaid suited man is dancing to Cuban horn music that’s blasting from a nearby bodega. He swivels and sways like a dash board Hawaiian doll, his right arm raised at a 90 degree angle, his left placed delicately on his belly.

  The best part is, he was still there, doing the exact same thing, when I came home that evening. It was a glitch in the Matrix, a stumble into a David Lynch daydream.

  57th Street, between 8th and 9th
  Tuesday, October 16, 10.25 am
  I’m late. I’ve called the studio head I freelance for and she’s cool with it but I’m not. I hate being late. Once, in my first real interview for my first college internship, when asked for three qualities that describe myself, to my embarrassment, I blurted out: “punctual.” But this tardiness was out of my controll. My train had a broken door. Everybody had to get off and wait for another train, which arrived a whopping 25 minutes late.

  The meeting was at my boss’ mom’s apartment on the Upper East Side, a neighborhood that I’d not yet explored. Why are we meeting at her mom’s house? Don’t ask questions; just say, “Sure Thing!” Have a Can Do Attitude. Be a Yes Person. Find this frackin’ place and move on.

  Emerging from the bowels of the subway, I got a little turned around. I needed to walk to another subway to get across town, but I neglected to check my map, busy remembering the movie Cruel Intentions, when Sarah Michelle Gellar seethes, “I’m the Marsha fucking Bradey of the Upper East Side and sometimes even I want to kill myself.” I am excited to be going to the Upper East so that I can pretend that I’m in the movie.

  Before I notice that I’m going the wrong way, I pass something that makes being late worth while: a spa whose services include naps. That’s right: 40 minutes of shut eye is gonna cost you $24 in the city that never sleeps. I belong in a culture with siestas; I live in one where people will pay for a bit of rest. As nice as this spa sounds, I think I’ll stick to snoozing in the park.

  Park Avenue & 72nd
  Thursday, October 25, 5.15 pm
  I’m walking to the A-train from the Whitney Museum of American Art, taking a long, rambling route in order to see more of the city. And see more of the city I did. As I’m crossing 72nd street, I spy a petite Frenchmen walking a brood of about 15 bouncy-haired little dogs on a designer leash that resembled a cat o’ nine tails. Each dog had a fluffy ponytail atop its head, fastened with a fuzzy pink bow. Best of all, the petite Frenchman commanded the brood to trot along as if they were one, large dog: “Together, together,” he barked, “You – get back in line!” The sea of fluff obeyed.

  “You won’t believe what I’m looking at,” I told my friend Derek through my cell phone, “it is hilarious.”

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