The Time We Thought We'd Die on Vacation

After that first year of living in New York City, you begin to realize the importance of quietly escaping our buzzing epicenter of a town every few months—the absence will keep you sane.

I have a group of friends scattered throughout NYC who vacation together 2-3 times a year. We call these little trips "The Classic," which can be shortened for social media purposes to #Classic, but should typically remain a proper noun.  

The Classic entails a lengthy (and at times, aggressive) email chain. Schedules are discussed, budgets are outlined, projects are assigned, and many gifs are used to express bursts of digital emotion. After renting a car—or occasionally doing it youth group style with a 15 passenger van—and finding a house on Airbnb, we embark on our grand adventure. 

But last month’s Classic to a Catskills farmhouse was truly something special.

“So, a woman is staying here, too…while we’re here. And she’s, uh, well… she’s interesting,” a friend said with sincere confusion upon my car’s arrival. As if on cue, a plump lady with frizzy white hair sticking out of a knit cap entered the room and shuffled by.

Oh.
Oh my.
That was Pat.
And Pat owned this property.

The downstairs of the farmhouse was strangely chopped up, with random beds and bathrooms haphazardly sprinkled throughout.  The only source of warmth was a wood stove in the living room, and since it was 12 degrees outside, this “rustic” feature wasn’t exactly a selling point. The upstairs consisted of a long, creepy hallway with mirrors and rooms.

And all of these rooms had doors.
And all of these doors locked from the outside.

Weekend Rule #1: Never leave the group for more than 10 minutes at a time.

“Did someone say they needed garlic salt?” We were now in the kitchen prepping the traditional Classic chili. Omniscient Pat popped out of nowhere, wide-eyed and questioning. I noticeably jumped, eyeing the knives that hung on the wall beside her. 

Weekend Rule #2: ALWAYS announce yourself when coming into a room.    

After a whiskey or two, the group relaxed and decided to head outside for a late-night bonfire. But we found something quite particular toward the side of the house: A pentagram, or five-point star popular with Satanists and cults, had been tiled into an old concrete patio. A fire pit sat in the middle of the eerie symbol.

Weekend Rule #3: If you think you are about to be sacrificed, please alert a member of the group.

As I walked into the kitchen for a chili refill, a friend and I noticed several magnets advertising a website about forgiveness on the refrigerator. We eyed each other and began nervously laughing—of course the cult leader was a fan of being pardoned.

But the internet led us to some fascinating discoveries. First, our host was in fact a “healer,” known for her ability to speak to other dimensions. And apparently, our weekend farmhouse also doubled as a “retreat center” for people seeking forgiveness, with the help of Archangel Michael and the Circle of something somethings…

“How’s the fire going?” I stumbled backwards, as Pat shuffled into the kitchen. I closed her blog on my phone, and produced a weak grin. “Fine!” I squeaked.

She looked at me.
I looked at her.

“There’s an axe in the corner of the den, if you need it.”

Um…
Eh… 
Someone was definitely going to die tonight.

(This is the point in a scary movie when you start screaming at the television, “No! Don’t go in there. TURN AROUND!”)

But Pat shuffled away, and didn’t reappear for the rest of the evening. 

The sun rose the next morning.
Our house slowly stirred to life.
The coffee began to brew...
And no bodies were found.

Pat popped into the kitchen that second day. I found her much less terrifying in the early-afternoon light, munching on a blueberry pancake. In fact, she said our group was like the “family she’d never had.”
<Insert questionably sinister grin?>

So, I suppose it all worked out just fine...
The moral of the story:
New York City is much safer than Upstate New York.

For Christopher

"Soon as he touched you, he was dead.”

We were watching the pilot episode of "The Wire," an HBO show (that I should have already seen) set in the projects of Baltimore circa 2002.

The series has an interesting drug-hustling, detective-hunting kind of plot, with more corruption than a Dan Brown novel. I'd watched quite a few episodes for a class project—but for some unknown reason, I’d never jumped back into it post-college.

"You going on point, picking us business in the pit.”
"Why you giving me the low-rises when I had a tower since summer!”

The towers they're referring to are the tall, city projects with a plethora of drug traffic in the stairwells and elevators—a crack dealer’s dream. The disgruntle character (dubbed D’Angelo) had just been demoted to “the pit,” or the smaller buildings near the courtyard—less business, more visibility.

The scene ended as he jumped in a car and headed down the street.
Another scene began…

"Miss Britney, you know you sound like Hannah Montana?!" one of the girls ran over to me.  She wore glasses and had braids separated into pigtails. Her pink puffy coat was too big in the sleeves.

“You’re only saying that ‘cuz I’m from the South,” I said with a grin.

“Nooo,” she said with exaggeration. “Say somethin’ else like Hannah Montana!” I appeased her as we crunched through the snow blanketing Hyatt Court, hand in hand. The projects were quiet tonight. Even the Crips, who usually huddle in the corners waiting for God-knows-what, had moved indoors.

It was the end of March, but spring doesn’t always mean new life and growth. Sometimes things stay frozen, and it’s out of our control.
Newark, New Jersey taught me that lesson.

Baltimore looked run down as the camera focused back in on “the pit.” A drug deal had just gone terribly wrong, and there was blood to pay. My stomach dropped as an angry crew descended on an addict who’d tried to score some crack with fake 10-dollar bills. Kicking, punching, and yelps of pain ensued…

There was a squeal of laughter.
It was Christopher.
He was one of my favorites.

I know you’re not supposed to have favorites when teaching children.
But I did—and he probably knew it.

The first year I’d worked in Newark, we were on a college spring break trip. I’d hated it. The cold was unbearable, the children were utterly insane, and we’d slept in a dirty church with no heat. Weren’t 18-year-old freshman supposed to go to Mexico?

But there were a few great kids who, I’m now realizing, will forever haunt me. Christopher was shy when I met him, but you could tell he was something different. With 2 younger sisters, the 12-year-old was slightly softer than the razor-sharp, soon-to-be Crip kids of Hyatt Court.

 "You show that kind of weakness, you lose everything that comes after.” My wandering brain switched back to the television. One of the drug ringleaders on “The Wire” was reprimanding D’Angelo, disgusted by his mercy. He was too soft.

Soft like Christopher, the gangly kid who’d made me a cross out of popsicle sticks that said “I love you” in 2007.
The kid who still hadn’t totally lost his squeaky voice in 2008.
The kid I had to remind to give me a hug in 2009.
The kid who wasn’t so soft in 2010.
The kid I’d lost track of in 2012…

(I was beginning to remember why I hadn’t finished this show.)

“One or two in the back of the head. No witnesses. No suspects. You got a .380 casing on the ground there.” The pilot episode was wrapping up with a murder and a moral dilemma.

Then the credits began to roll. I felt awkward as I asked my boyfriend what he’d thought of the show. The entertainment. He’d liked it, fine. I’d like it, fine. We’d probably watch it again soon?

After he stood to grab a drink, I was left with my own thoughts. So I sat on the couch hoping (praying) Christopher’s story hadn’t ended the same way.

It seemed my conscience was still infected with whatever holy poison Newark had injected into my heart. If I couldn’t watch “The Wire” without thinking of Chris, or walk down Avenue D without a small twist in my gut…

I assume that I’m not doing something I should be.
Because even though we don’t have power over what’s frozen, we who have been shown warmth can cut the cold’s bite. 

Newark, 2009

“The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it. ”

— Albert Einstein

After the Jump

To the owners of apartment 3F: Welcome to Astoria.

It’s a long walk from the subway, but I think you’ll like it here. I’d take the N train over the R, when possible. You’ll have internet access for longer, and the cafes on 30th Ave are adorable.

The outlet on the far side of the kitchen doesn’t work. Yeah, it never has. When I was writing my thesis in grad school, I would plug in my computer on the opposite side of the room and pray no one would open the door. That (usually) worked.

Oh, be sure to pull up on the handle of the toilet before pushing down. It’ll flush much easier.

Your new neighbors: They’re quite a collection of personalities. The one to the right is a clown. Yes, face paint, wife beaters, and all. He used to have a little, yippy dog that would make me want to self-mutilate my eardrums. Each Saturday, the mouse-like creature would bark and bark and bark until someone called 311 to complain. Don’t worry—the pup has since passed.

Down the road you’ll find ol’ Charlie and his elderly neighbor, whose name I never learned. They’re both dapper gentleman from Italy with a penchant for gardening, so don’t be surprised if one of them offers you some grapes.

Just so you know, the fan in the small room is a bit loud. But I think you’ll come to love the white noise—all that squeaking blocks out the car horns and the drunk millennials, stumbling back to the closets they currently call home. Some nights my mind couldn’t be shut off, full of worry and uncertainty about the next job, the next roommate, the next anything. That fan rocked me into a serene sleep, drowning out my overactive mind. I think I’ll miss it.

Oh! And the roof—you have access to the roof, as long as you are never caught on the roof. So actually you don’t have access to the roof, but the roof is, in fact, accessible.

Either way, promise me you’ll go up on the roof.

Promise me you’ll watch the sunrise over the city after an exhausting summer night that’s bled into morning. Promise me you’ll pop a beer on the ledge and take in the man-made horizon around you. Promise me you’ll celebrate the sky! Promise me….

One last thing: This tiny apartment in the middle of Queens was loved. It was my slice of New York City for four years, and it protected me from a world I barely understood. When I moved here I had stars in my eyes; the great NYC was mine for the taking! I would be a writer, or an editor… or maybe work for a magazine?

1,460 days later, I can tell you all the PB&J’s were worth it.
All the microwaved potatoes were just fine.
I can look back at my time in this apartment, and smile.

This is where I “grew up.” This is where I paid bills, and applied for loans. This is where I made my own doctor’s appointments, and learned how to drink whiskey—straight.

This is where I found internships that led to jobs. This is where I cried when boys hurt my feelings. This is where I watched “Little Women” each Christmas. This is where I burned cookies, and danced around in my underwear every time I got a paycheck.

See the rug over there? That’s where I fell apart, and put the pieces back together. See that chair in the kitchen? That’s where I wrote all of these blog posts for all of these years.

This apartment is where I learned to process life. When you move to New York (or any new city) at a somewhat naive 21, you’ve still got so much discovering to do.

So look.
You can forget to do the dishes.
You can complain about the commute.
You can worry about the cockroaches.
You can whine about the rent.

But you must love this apartment. I can’t stand to pass it off to someone who doesn’t.  

I remember nervously setting my bags down in that tan-colored room for the first time, fresh from Virginia. It was 200 degrees, my car had just gotten towed, and I was working at Bloomingdales—yet everything felt just right, and everyone I knew was working hard, playing hard, and ready to do, do, do.

I can’t wait to see what we do next... 

And as for me?
I move on to the next neighborhood and the next job.
I’ll no longer look at the city’s skyline from my roof in Queens. Instead, I will be a part of that skyline, looking back at the borough that helped shape my post-adolescent, pre-adult experience.

So good luck, my friend. Apartment 3F has harbored many actors, writers, and creatives, trying to both save a penny and touch their version of "success." May you conquer your dreams, or create new ones along the way.  

PS: You actually should worry about the cockroaches. They are absolute monsters and attack about every 7 to 8 months. Beware the ones with wings.

When to Jump

My hair was wildly whipping around my head and I was going fast—maybe 30 mph? I quickly removed one hand from the railing to zip up my jacket. It too was flailing in the wind, repeatedly hitting my collarbone. As I readjusted, I looked up.

Whoa.

To backtrack: I can always smell when the seasons are changing, and that night was first time I discerned a difference in the scent of New York. The coming of fall smells smoky and earthy, while the beginning of winter is crisp and fresh. Snow has it’s own distinctive aroma, as does any beach on a hot afternoon. But spring days and summer mornings on the East Coast both smell the same: sweet and floral.

Walking to the train, I noticed undertones of the next (highly anticipated) season in the air. I smiled to myself—after a lengthy winter Mother Nature was finally relenting.

There were a handful of other thoughts floating around my mind (work, boyfriend, vacation?), so I didn’t notice that when the train rolled into the station, everyone avoided the car I stepped into. On autopilot, I chose a seat and pulled out my book.

“BLAAAAAH!”
Whoops.
It appeared that I was the only person on the train with a mentally unstable man.

“BLAAAAH DE BLAH!”
(I’m not being inconsiderate; I’m simply recounting my story as it happened. And at this moment, I was becoming a little worried.)

Typically I would wait it out. At the next station, more people would flood the train and any fears of confrontation would fade. But because I was riding from Brooklyn to Manhattan, the next stop wouldn’t be for another five to seven minutes. When the man suddenly jumped up and moved closer to me, I made the split-second decision to hop trains.

If you’ve never ridden the subway, there are two things to note:
1) Every car has an exit door located at the front and/or rear that links to another car.
2) You can get heavily fined for using these doors, unless it’s an emergency. But people hop pretty frequently, and because this man was now aggressively screaming, I found my actions to be excusable in a court of law.  

The last thing worth mentioning?
I love jumping subway cars.

So I grabbed the door handle, twisted it quickly, and stepped onto the ledge. It’s always windy in the train tunnels, but I smelled something… it was sweet.
And floral.

The realization that I was above ground hit me as I zipped up my jacket. Our N train had breached the end of Brooklyn’s tunnel, and we were now zooming over the Manhattan Bridge. I looked up to see moving cars, flashing lights, and hints of the city’s skyline. The bridge’s beams were all around me, cradling our train like a man-made spider web.

I couldn’t bring myself to go into the next car until we hit Manhattan’s tunnel. There was something hugely freeing about being in-between.

Between cars.
Between boroughs.
Between seasons.

But the state of being in-between doesn’t last for long. You cannot perpetually be “in-between” something; you always choose one way or another. And in that, our moments of being in-between often bring change.

How I loved tasting sweet change in the air…

Side note: It's finally rooftop season (see above). Let the Saturdays where we never go indoors begin. 

---

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”

— Albert Camus

---

The Gray Days

The sky was gray.
The sidewalk was gray.
Even the surrounding buildings were painted in the same monotone shade. On my way to work, everything was gray.

I would like to say I’m affected by nothing—that I’m a force to be reckoned with, resilient and rarely phased. I’d like to say that the end of “Big Fish” doesn’t make me cry, and that I’ve never been homesick. I’d like to say that loneliness has yet to touch this extroverted soul, and that no, I’ve never openly sobbed on a New York City street.

Because I am brave.
And I am strong.
And I am invincible, yes?

But that would all be a lie.

It would also be a complete fib to say winter has no affect on me. Regrettably, something as flippant as the weather alters my mood—and the colorless commute was becoming intolerable. This February, it seemed that even the flawless, white snow was mutilated into gray sludge the second it hit the pavement. 

(Are you feeling the heaviness of winter yet? I could describe to you gray subway cars and gray food carts. Or I could explain how the gray clouds sometimes cover up the tops of gray building, blocking out any hope of light. But then, I think you get the point… and maybe it’s all a matter of perspective.)

I knew the seasonal blues had struck when I saw a fat beagle peeing in the snow. It was greedily squatting in the middle of the sidewalk, soiling everyone’s path to the train. I might almost love dogs more than humans, but all I could think was that this selfish pup was destroying something.

“Snowflake ruiner.”

The phrase crossed my mind, and I wanted desperately to say it aloud. Didn’t the owner see that 1) her pet was grossly overweight and 2) he was turning the pretty snow into ugly, gray mush? While stuck waiting for a light to change, I starred furiously at the dog. “Snowflake ruiner. Snowflake ruiner. Snow…flake…ruiner.” It seemed my brain had taken hold of this (albeit strange) idea that the obese beagle was murdering a bunch of perfectly lovely snowflakes by drowning them in his urine.

It made me very sad to think about, so I turned away from the genocide and walked down a different street.

Then I stumbled across something quite peculiar. There, in the middle of the sidewalk, was a huge heart formed from faultless snow. It appeared that no one, except its creator, had touched the small sculpture, leaving it completely untarnished. I couldn’t help but smile at the random “street art.”

That cold, snowy heart made me forget the hesitant warm weather. I imagined other people hurriedly walking by, bundled up in scarves, sweaters, hats—the whole winter bit—catching a glimpse of something subtly beautiful; something out of the ordinary.

And despite the gray…
They might smile.

(As long as that fat beagle didn't waddle down this street.)

---

“Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face.”

— Victor Hugo

---

What Old You Would Do

When I take the subway, I often walk down to the end of the platform to wait for the train.

It's a habit I inherited during my early days in the city, while toiling away at Bloomingdale's. We'd close up after a hectic night, and I wouldn't want to run into coworkers (or infamously annoying customers) on the train. What was there left to say after a long day? "I really loved folding sweaters with you this evening—the cashmere is so fabulous this season."

So I'd trot to the end of the platform in my black dress (black shoes, blacks tights) to enjoy a more peaceful subway experience. Bonus: It's rarely crowded after rush hour on the first or last car, meaning you'll always snag a seat. This is essential when you’re further downtown than 14th Street and Queens-bound.

Tonight was no different.

Clip-clop down the stairs.
Swipe through the turnstile.
Past the snack man.
Past the benches.
Past the people.
Stop.

I poked my head around a beam to get a better glimpse of the tracks. No trains were approaching, so I took a defeated step back toward the wall. I was suddenly very tired. Once the train arrived, my plan was to put in my headphones, zone out the world, and possibly take a quick nap.

But as I moved away from the edge of the platform, there was something in my peripheral vision. About three feet to the right of me lay a crumpled up man—mouth open, eyes shut.

I shut my eyes.
I did not want to see this man.
I did not want to know the end of his story.
What I wanted was to get on a warm train and slip into sleep.

So I turned away.

But... his face haunted me, and I found my own jaded indifference pretty sickening. Had this actually been my first year in New York—had I been rushing down the stairs, desperately trying to escape Bloomingdale’s—I would not have thought twice about the value of a man’s life.

I walked back to the edge, irritated with myself and confused by the situation.

The man was still there, with one foot dangerously hanging too close to the tracks. Where he lay was extremely precarious, as this hidden strip of the platform is not meant for standing. Five inches more to the left, and his foot would be smashed by an oncoming train.

His body was contorted into a position that looked grotesquely unnatural and he showed no signs of life… so I stepped closer.

Was he already dead? His chest went up, and then down.

Up, and then down.
Up, and then down.

For what felt like an hour, but was in actuality about 20 seconds, I debated a plan. My conclusion was this: I would be unable to move this man safely. He could be violent or severally injured. But someone should know that he was here, in the belly of New York, alone.

Up, and then down.
Up, and then down.

“Oh my God.”

I jumped, surprised and on edge (literally). A woman about my age stood directly behind me. She had brown hair, brown eyes, and, ironically, a Bloomingdale’s brown bag.

“I know. I think… I think I should tell someone,” I said, piecing together my thoughts while speaking.

“Yeah, yeah sounds good.”
“Let’s tell the guy in the booth?”
“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll come with you. I can try and hold the train if it comes,” she said.

Suddenly, with Brown Bag on my side, I felt confident. We were at least doing something. She and I rushed back down the platform, past the people, past benches, past the snack man, and through the turnstile.

“What’s he look like—what’s he wearing?” The man in the booth seemed rushed. I gave my description: jeans, dark jacket, tee-shirt.

“Oh God, the police were here looking for him. They must have gone the wrong direction.” Brown Bag and I waited while he made a call. Moments later, cops ran past us, toward our mystery man.

A few seconds later, the N train barreled into the station. “Do you need me?” I asked the MTA employee. He shook his head, so I hopped the turnstile while Brown Bag held the door of the train. We exchanged a “thanks” and a “have a goodnight,” then found our seats.  As we zoomed away from Prince Street, I could see the cops holding up the man (both feet still in tact).

I was breathing fast and no longer wanted to take a nap. My chest went up, and then down.

Up, and then down.
Up, and then down.

Sometimes our younger selves know best. 

This is a different station, but for reference, the man was sitting where the red sign is located (bottom left).