New York City Tip #2: Don’t Get Lost in Acquaintances

The music was incredibly loud; you could feel the bass thumping in your stomach, churning all those gin and tonics into a limey soup. 

A hundred or so people were smashed into a downstairs bar in the Lower East Side on some steamy Saturday night, drinks in hand. Arms in the air.
Sweaty, salty, dancing.

The girl next to me had smeared her eye makeup and looked like a blitzed vampire. Wait… Was that who’d I’d come to the bar with? Eh, maybe. Everyone was wearing the same costume. Black jeans, black boots, an array of leather and lipstick.

“Make you put yo hands up, put yo, put yo hands up.”

The drinks were overpriced, but some guy I didn’t know was buying. Another one, he asks. Sure, why not? You can’t do this scene without at least three cocktails, I tell him with a grin. But he’s not listening because he’s just trying to sleep with my friend. And I don’t really care because I’m out of cash.

“Hell yeah, make you put yo hands up.
Make you put yo hands up, put yo put yo hands up.”

The group I was with had danced hard for over an hour, laughing and jumping around the center of a low-lit dungeon. But the initial fun was dissipating as 3AM approached. So I decided to voyeuristically watch the Drink Buyer make moves on the gal I suddenly realized was not my friend, but actually someone I despised.

Now this acquaintance’s job required her to be stunning, and she certainly turned heads. But after a few nights out together, I realized she was self-centered—or, perhaps just dull because conversation perpetually lagged. And in this drunken, insecure state she suddenly repulsed me. Leaning, leaning, tripping, hiccupping. Her eyes were bloodshot as she asked me to fix her hair.

Come with me to the bathroom, she said grasping the air for my hand.

As she pulled me, a relative stranger, through dark corridors in search of a toilet to puke in, I oddly thought of my father. He’d once made the off-hand comment while we were watching an old black and white film that he felt bad for truly beautiful people who age poorly. I can’t recall who he was speaking about, but his words suddenly rang true. I imagined this fragile creature incapable of coping with the future—and maybe also the present—living with only the hope of being validated.

I told my drunken counterpart it was time to go home as she stumbled out of a graffiti-covered stall. She protested, citing her connection with the Drink Buyer. I lied and told her he’d left the bar—they’d already exchanged numbers, so she could figure it out tomorrow over coffee, Advil, or whatever the hell self-proclaimed “fashionistas” eat for brunch.

But he liked my dress! She was whining as I walked her upstairs, trying not to smell her acidic breath. Of course he liked your dress; everyone loved your dress. You looked fabulous tonight. Now we’re getting you a car.

She admitted she was tired, and that maybe it was time to go home as I tried to both hold her up and flag down a yellow cab. Once the driver confirmed my acquaintance’s address, her head bobbed toward blissful blackout.

I shut the car door and never saw her again.
But that was fine, for both parities.

Some people make you better, some people make you worse, and some people just distract from the glorious things you are about to discover.

For me? I want to walk with people who tell good stories.
Split meals with individuals who make me think.
Dance with friends who appreciate the same songs.
Laugh until my sides hurt!

So I’ve learned to swiftly cut my losses—and move on.

New York City Tip #1: Become a Regular Somewhere

The best time to experience the gentle side of Lower Manhattan is most certainly on a Monday afternoon.

While you walk east or west along the quiet streets of the Villages, you will notice a leisurely communal pace. On 7th Street, the hat shop owner is chatting with the barber on her front stoop. The usual European suspects hang outside of an Italian restaurant, smoking, laughing.  An old Ukrainian store, that’s only open till 4 p.m., is at its busiest hour: The matriarch of the business can barely stand up, but she knows each customer by name and greets them in her native tongue. They all buy mason jars of honey from upstate.

This is New York.

But observe these rituals closely because they are a privilege to witness. Students are at school, commuters have made it to their destinations, and the nine-to-five toil has commenced. Our streets are calm; take it in.

Weekdays out of the office often remind me of the year I spent in retail. Saturdays were slammed with patrons coming from or headed to brunch—everything revolves around brunch—and two consecutive days off was an out-of-the-question request. So I began to cherish my random afternoons, spent at a bagel place off the 30th Ave subway stop in Queens.

“How’s your mo-ther,” a man with an Italian accent asked me. I was paying for an everything bagel the size of my face, drenched in bacon n’ chive cream cheese. It was my third week living in New York, and every time I walked into this busy breakfast restaurant, Anthony asked me the same thing.

Why? Because my mother has a way with people.

During my second week living in New York, Toney and Bob decided to drive up from Virginia. Before their arrival, my room consisted of six garbage bags full of unfolded clothes and a sleeping bag that I'd slept on top of because it was so damn hot. But not anymore! The parents were here with my bed, an AC unit, and tons of questions.

“Is it safe?” Mom wanted to know.
“How far away is your school?”
“Do you like your neighborhood?”

What they were really asking was...
 “ARE YOU POSITIVE YOU WANT TO DO THIS?”

To reassure my excited/terrified parents, I took them to a “hand-rolled, water-boiled” bagel shop my roommate had suggested. Alas, we walked in and were immediately accosted by an unfamiliar world.

“Toasted, scooped, with lox!”
“Just a nosh. Mini bagel today, thanks.”
“Whole-grain everything with Nova!”
Whip, whoosh, crinkle.

The three of us silently took in the situation with wide, worrisome eyes. Workers behind the counter were barking out orders, moving golden disks of bread through a well-established assembly line of toasters and cream cheese.  

I decided to try my best.
“Uh, I’ll do an everything bagel, with sun dried tomato.
Er… uh, toasted?”
Whip, whoosh, crinkle. 

Embarrassingly enough, I realized my parents and I had all placed the exact same order in equally mystified tones.
Whip, whoosh, crinkle.

“Ah hello, miss. To stay or to go?” the manager asked my mother. He seemed to take his time with us, perhaps because we were three unfamiliar, slightly anxious faces.

I’m not entirely sure what happened next, but I do know my mother tends to talk incessantly when she’s nervous. Maybe it was because I was moving to New York, or perhaps she was stressed from the long, migraine-inducing car trip. Whatever the reason, this is what I heard from across the room:

“Ma BABY is moving to New Yaaark, Anthony!” The man starts laughing, and Mom motions for me to come back to the counter. “We’re from Virginia! But Astoria seems nice. Britney, come back over here!”

I roll my eyes, like an angsty 14-year-old. My mother could make friends with a parked car.

“She’s ma OLDEST,” Mom says leaning across the counter, Southern accent and all. The line has died down so there’s no one directly behind her. Meanwhile, an internal panic has caused my legs to awkwardly move toward the conversation, but paralyzed my face in a fretful expression. (I’m sure I looked something like this pug being pushed down a slide.)

“Now, you watch ova her,” Mom said, pointing a finger at Anthony.

And by golly, that Bagel Man watched over me until he was hired at a different franchise. He would ask about my mother, about school, and friends. One time, he even scolded me for wearing high heels. “What would you mo-ther say!? It attracts atten-tion.”

But some days Anthony was the only person I would talk to before 5 p.m. Like many who have uprooted to this city, I knew not a soul upon my quixotic arrival. And when you live in a sea of aspiring, ambitious go-getters, you must learn to enjoy those peaceful Monday afternoons—sometimes by yourself, with just the company of the city and its characters.

I’ll admit it. My mother was on to something.

Smile at neighbors
Know your Super.
Be “a regular” somewhere.
And revel in the quirks of our home.

It will make you feel human, especially when you’re alone. 

“Many among the regulars of a third place are like Emerson’s “commended stranger” who represents humanity anew, who offers a new mirror in which to view ourselves, and who thus breathes life into our conversation. ”
— Ray Oldenburg

10 Things I Wish I'd Know Before Moving to New York City

When I moved to New York City in the summer of 2010, there were a great many things I didn’t know about the world, like the expression “served up” or the benefits of renter’s insurance. I was fresh from college and a novice to anything remotely “adult,” ranging from high society social faux pas to basic financial awareness.

It was lucky—I suppose—that when my feet first touched this city’s bustling pavement, I landed in the safe arms of Astoria, Queens. This neighborhood held no pretention, full of old Mediterranean immigrants, middle-aged Latino families, and pockets of fresh-faced actors. Astoria was one of those places with a working blue-collar community that seemed satisfied belonging to the ever-shrinking middle class. It was custom to see the wives of firefighters shopping at the butcher’s, young nurses exiting the train, and plumbing trucks parked along the sidewalk.

My neighbor was an old Greek man who had lived in the same home since first arriving in New York. He would always ask about my roommate, Anna, or offer up grapes from his garden. Down the street from him was a loony clown with a terrifying, colorful van full of props and dead-eyed dolls. He had a yippy dog that followed him everywhere, and cameras posted outside of his apartment. (He was easily the most unsettling part of my four-year stay in Astoria.)

My landlords were an Italian couple, she a New York native and he an Italian immigrant who barely spoke English. Her northern accent was unbelievable to my delicate southern ears—she sounded like the caricature of a mobster’s wife—but Laura was kind and protective of our little home. Two of their grown children lived in my three-story walkup, a quiet building located about 15 minutes from the N train’s 30th Avenue stop.

You learn quickly when you are far from the comforts of normalcy. I would also argue that living in any large city considerably speeds up the process of finding your bearings.  You sink or you swim. You “make it”—or you don’t.

All of this to say, throughout the next several months I plan to write about the 10 things I wish I’d know before moving to the tiny universe that is New York City. 

I found this (ridiculous) video when I was cleaning out my computer, and it inspired this series. There are so many things I wish someone would have told me—but then again, maybe that would have ruined the story. 

The (Hidden) Paths of Santorini

Tip #1: The Greek Islands do not believe in signs.

I stared at the map again; then flipped to page 219 in my guidebook. “A magical way to reach the village [of Oia, Greece] is along a cliff edge walkway that rambles north from Firá… You’ll pass sage green slopes splattered with wild flowers, rich red- and coffee-colored earth and views of blue, blue sea.”

I looked up and down the dirt road, and plucked a sweaty piece of hair from my forehead. You can politely assume that I too looked “magical.”

“Alice, let’s ask this guy where the footpath is.” My travel buddy and I explained to the teenage boy what we were looking for, only to be told he’d never heard of it. We then walked toward the coast, confused, and began to follow a stone street through a quaint marketplace. Finally, we found two women who knew of this ever-elusive footpath. 

“You’re on it!” one of them said with a grin. “But it’s very far till Oia, and too hot.”

This was not the first time we’d been told that Mediterranean weather would destroy us. Every morning, Alice and I munched on Greek yogurt with sweetbread at our B&B in Perissa Beach. And every morning, the House Mamma would ask us our plans, then exclaim, “Where are your hats!?” It was my assumption she’d seen many pale-skinned guests turn into depressed lobsters.

“Thank you, we’ll be fine. We have water!” Alice and I said to our helpers. They wanted to know how much water, how much sunscreen, and how much time we had. This interrogation was only slightly concerning—but we passed their quiz and began our journey.

Tip 2: Always listen to Greek mothers.

“Going to DIE,” I said dramatically to Alice a few hours later. 

The views of Santorini and had been more than breathtaking. But after walking through a pristine resort town, full of infinity pools with sunbathers sipping cold cocktails, and then skirting the edge of a cliff, we’d arrived at a steep hill full of hot pumice rocks that burned through my shoes. 

Hot rocks on the long road to Oia. Don't wear sandals. 

I looked like a fool, hopping up the slopes of the coast like an ungraceful mountain goat, with a heavy camera attached to my neck. There were only two sips left in my water bottle, and yet we had hours till our final destination. To make matters more absurd, we'd lost the "magical" path again.

(Note: It was at this exact moment that I thought about those Israelites who wandered the desert for 40 years—how utterly terrible.)

“Tomorrow. Beach. Vacation,” I said through dry lips. I knew Alice would agree. The heat was truly incredible, killing off our conversation until we found a patch of shade under a lone tree.

Seven miles and four some hours post start time, we dragged our feet into a taverna on the cliffs of Oia. I ordered a beer while Alice sampled their honey-encrusted baklava. We didn’t talk much as our bodies unwound. 

Then that beautiful globe in the sky began to sink into a blanket of reds, pinks, and purples. The sun moved faster in Santorini—it appeared to be diving into the horizon. We watched from the roof of the taverna, completely transfixed. How could that be the same sun I admired back in New York City?

Tip 3: Cliffside hikes in Santorini are always worth it. But bring at least 2 bottles of water—and read Tip 2 again. 

[Editor's Note: This blog post is centered around a 2014 trip to Athens, Santorini, Mykonos, and Istanbul. I finally decided to blog about it a year later. Below are some photos and tips, in case you ever decide to visit!]

While in Santorini, Alice and I stayed at the Santa Barbara Hotel, about a block away from the black sand coast of Perissa Beach. Breakfast was included for about $35/night. 

One of the resorts in Fira we walked past. How we longed to jump into that pool... 

On the hike from Fira to Oia, you'll pass several pockets of resort towns, go over a few rock-filled hills, and occasionally lose the "path." Tip: Just follow the coast and keep going north.

Cliffs on the outskirts of Fira. 

The case for sunscreen. 

Santorini was formed by a volcano (not pictured), hence all the pumice rocks and multicolored beaches around the island. 

When you Google Santorini, the town of Oia is what comes up first. Note: The sunsets are world-famous, so pick your viewing spot out early. People start arriving about an hour before the sun sinks.

Alice's baklava, which I definitely sampled. 

#WorthIt

Those Jazzy Days of Summer

The Fashion Girls of 7th Avenue are always easy to spot. They’re skinny little things, with striking angles in strange places. Diet Coke in hand, they wisp down the street. But their faces are a little too sallow, and by the end of the day their chic messy buns often just look… messy. 

I don’t envy them, I thought while consuming Taco Bell from the passenger seat of a rented Tahoe. The Fashion Girl in my line of vision was perched on the sidewalk, struggling with an umbrella that refused to open. We drove on and I silently wished her all the best.

A mash-up of Phantogram and Vallis Alps played as we stuffed our faces with “tacos” and “burritos.” Three guys in the backseat laughed at something seemingly hilarious, while a sudden storm exploded in the night sky. The SUV barreled away from the city, the Poconos our distant destination. 

In my mind, there’s a jazzy song from the 1920s playing all summer long in New York. The cadence of crowds on-the-go fits the high notes of exploding trumpets; our feet always moving to a four-beat rhythm. But once away from the city's addictive pull, everything slows down... 

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The next morning I awoke to the smell of bacon rising from the kitchen of our borrowed lake house. My fan hummed as I changed into a bathing suit and shorts—why bother with clothes when it’s that warm? After brushing my teeth, I threw my makeup bag and sundresses into a suitcase, where they would sit for the rest of the weekend.

Ah, freedom. Lashes undone and my hair in a true messy bun, I chowed down on food in the Pennsylvania heat. (And I silently wondered if that Fashion Girl with the pesky umbrella liked being skinny as much as I liked bacon. #BreakfastThoughts) 

For the next three days, I didn’t change out of my swim clothes—that’s the beauty of vacation. Yes, there was a shower at some point. But not even an hour went by post-shampoo before I was back in the lake.

We lounged in giant inner tubes by day, collecting golden freckles or weird sunburns. At night we’d cook sizzling burgers and mash limes for homemade margaritas. If you’d peeked into our cottage, you’d have seen coral tee shirts, scuffed up flip-flops, and several gin drinks lying about. Oh… and also a piñata from Walmart.

It’s in these moments that I sense the comfort of summer.

That familiar feeling, charged with nostalgia and the unexpected, haunts me all year. In my admittedly bias opinion, summer is the most tangible of the seasons. It’s salty, sweaty, and the East Coast humidity seeps into your every pore. 

But something about warm weather makes us more agreeable to anything of the slightest interest. “Yes” to one more drink; “yes” to seeing the sunrise; “yes” to it all.

Coming back from vacation is always slightly depressing—but at least in July when you return to New York, she welcomes you with a warm, dewy hug. Then that jazzy song in my mind starts playing once again, and the city dances, dances, dances…

The Fashion Girls of 7th Ave. tango with the Finance Boys of Park. Manhattanites drum up their nerve, jiving to hotspots in Brooklyn. Wealthy Upper East Siders salsa off to the Hamptons…
And everyone left just keeps dancing.
As fast as they can.

The city dances, dances, dances—with a cocktail in its hand. 

As I Walk, We Spin

There’s a man at the 2nd Ave subway station who plays the blues on an old saxophone.

His notes are haunting as they bounce off white and blue tiles, echoing down empty train tunnels. Some of the high tones escape to the street above, but most of them remain trapped in their dark, dripping dungeon. He’s played the same music in the same spot for at least two years—but probably longer. 

“Medium coffee?”
“Yes, thanks,” I reply.

My barista of choice is working today. He knows exactly what I want, and leaves just the right amount of room for milk. We chat about the construction from the East Village explosion while I do my coffee choreography—splash, swirl, insert straw, sip. He says he’ll see me tomorrow; I tell him to enjoy the suddenly agreeable weather. 

New York smells earthy and fresh today, like a proper April. We don’t get a spring here like we did in Virginia—only two weeks of tulips, and then a steamy summer. But fluke days during this volatile season are, of course, welcome. 

I pass a homeless man outside of CVS, content to be silent in the sun. He usually hangs around the corner of 5th Street, waiting for spare change. His wheelchair is loaded with collected goodies, like the dingy version of Santa’s sleigh.

Then I see the dog walker with her parade of polite and well-groomed pets; there’s a Frenchie, some mutts, and usually one unidentifiable fluffy breed. It’s quite possible this woman’s salary is higher than mine.

As I walk, the city spins and spins. You can see people smiling at their phones, or crying to friends over watered-down mimosas. Beside me is a kid on a scooter, who will one day become a man with a motorcycle. In front of me is an older woman with tattoos and a cut up jean jacket, who could probably tell us salacious stories of an East Village past.  

The season is changing, and everything else morphs with it.
Time bleeds on, with or without our blessing.

But when life isn’t consistent, or perhaps when your mind is anxiously awaiting whatever is next, take comfort in the city’s cadence—the humming, whirring rhythm of productivity and bizarre normalcy. There’s an energy in the city that creeps out of our winter-worn bodies each “spring.” It hypnotizes us to crave new encounters, new ideas, new people—anything novel! That maddening desire for the new, new, new culminates with an explosion by late summer, only to leave us tired for the next season of snow. 

But we’re not there yet.
We’re only on the cusp of it all. 

The characters may change, yet the story remains the same.
And "so we beat on…” 

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. ”
— from "The Great Gatsby"

The East Village Explosion

I’ve never walked down the middle of my street before. But today cars are haphazardly parked on the closed off road, while police officers and Con Ed workers pace around restricted areas.

An explosion at the western corner of my block, near 7th Street and 2nd Ave, rocked the East Village neighborhood of Manhattan on March 26. One building collapsed that afternoon, while another two fell before dawn the next day. Pockets of fire smoldered until morning, and most of the surrounding streets are open only to residents.

On the afternoon of the blast, I was working at my office several avenues away. Even there, we could smell the smoke-tinged air. “Where do you think that’s coming from?” a co-worker asked. We walked to the window and were greeted with ominous black clouds coming from the direction of my home. I Googled “East Village fire,” but nothing relevant popped up—then I quickly checked Twitter, only to see my apartment’s cross streets trending.  

But of course, as with all news stories that break on the internet, the facts were garbled. So I turned on my heel, told the boss I’d be back, and ran toward my (suddenly worrisome) address.

Two things very quickly happened: First, as I rounded the corner of 9th Street and 2nd Ave, I realized that my apartment was in the clear. But at that moment, I also began to understand the severity of the fire, and the effect it would have on the whole neighborhood. Within hours, dozens of small business and homes would be inaccessible for days—or weeks. 

I watched the fire consume my favorite fry place, and then make its way to an old bodega. The sad and confused faces of the crowd stubbornly looked on as the flames burned brick after brick, while cops yelled “move back!” and fireman sprinted.  

“Hi, I live here,” I said much later that night. I was standing on 1st Ave, exhausted and concerned. Yellow tape blocked the entrance to my street.
“Can I see some ID?” The cop looked at me incredulously. “Only residents can access 7th Street.”
“Uh… My ID is from Virginia.”
 “You don’t have a New York ID?”

I looked at him, confirming the previously stated. Then I rummaged around my purse, slightly panicked, and found a letter from my grandmother, addressed to yours truly.
“That works,” he said apologetically.

When I got home, I shut the bathroom window, plugged in a fan, and let ashy air circulate out of the tiny room. As I got ready for bed, helicopters began to hover with a constant whir-whir-whiring that would last the whole night. I wasn’t going to sleep a wink—but then again, at least I had my bed. 

***

New York is a resilient city; you have to be prepared for both the expected and unforeseen highs and lows of life if you’re living on an island with 8 million other eclectic human beings, all of whom are fighting for jobs, for lovers, or even for space.

But occasionally, you get to witness New Yorkers fighting for other New Yorkers. Free coffees were passed out, hotel rooms were set up for the homeless, and clothing drives began the next day. If this city knows how to do anything, it’s how to make something happen overnight.

So as I walk down the middle of my street, and thank God my little corner of this world is still intact, I am grateful to see some small bit of beauty amidst the chaos of this cold spring. 

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Here's what one (admittedly kooky) plumber had to say about the East Village explosion. For privacy purposes we shall call him "Alfonso" from XYZ Plumbing Company. 

Want to donate to the New Yorkers who lost their homes? Click here for information.