Urban Living: People, Places and Things

MY NEIGHBORHOOD. (Bushwick/Brooklyn)


View from the rooftop of my apartment.


Neighborhood art.

Neighborhood art and me.

Brit and I hanging out at the Morgan Ave subway stop (aka- my home base).

The artsy corner of the Morgan Ave. spot.

THE MANHATTAN SCENE.

Solid paper...read it.

One day, I will take a ride with this horse.

Lunch break-break dancers.
You can catch these guys around noon o'clock everyday near Central Park-South. They entice prospective audience members by yelling, "Hey, you! There's nothing to be afraid of...We're just black guys, dancing!" Hey...it worked for me.


Times Square.
Filled with skyscrapers, neon lights, billboards, overpriced pizza, and Nikon-strapped tourists.

A week after the attempted bombing in Times Square, the area was swarming with police.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.

Brit and I before our Saturday night adventure through mid-town.



Brit and I at the International Food Festival.
Each year, more than one million hungry souls head to 9th Avenue for the International Food festival. With everything from chorizo sausages, to suckling pig, to Thai iced tea- it’s important to go with a big appetite to make the most of the experience. Brit and I had no trouble partaking in the feasts, and indulged in some of the more ‘exotic’ varieties.



Friday night rooftop dance-off.

My housemmate, Mia, nibbling away at the local bodega.

Smaps and Chiekh experimenting with black and white on black and white in my apartment.

Good people/good tunes/good comedy shows to be found at this bar on the Lower East Side.

Me, Jim, and an unknown man hanging out at Jim's 'tree fort.'
(and the night Jim and I wore near-matching tops)

Liz, me, Maricio at an Irish pub on Cinco de Mayo.

Grumpy Liz on the subway.

NYC

I disrupt the subway’s empty stares with a smile, and interrupt its crowded silence with a hello.

Occasionally, people respond to my forwardness with confused glances. More often, though, I’m met with a warm face in return-a mild expression of gratitude-as most New Yorkers are eager to indulge in some complimentary courtesy.

It’s been about five weeks now that I’ve been in NYC, and I can’t ever recall a time when I felt so alive. Some days, I feel like I can’t afford to sleep, like the hours under the influence of REM are wasted moments, and that really, I should sacrifice rest altogether so as not to miss a beat.

Some days, I have to remind myself to breathe…to not just see the city’s energy pulsating around me, but feel it too.

Not an ordinary day passes. The conversations with strangers on subways never repeat themselves, and with each seemingly random discussion, I find myself to be that much closer to understanding the preciousness of life. With a concerted effort, I do what I can to not take these moments for granted, as everyday distractions are all too vast, and the opportunity to genuinely reach out to other people is constantly missed.

I am interested in hearing stories. Stories that to some may appear trivial or irrelevant are, to my ears, fascinating.

Before moving to the city, I was told that it would be hard to meet people. I was told that although I would be living in ‘the city that never sleeps,’ and quite literally be surrounded by new faces every day, that the likelihood of forming a relationship, friendship or otherwise, would be slim to none.

Thankfully, I never bought into this.

Since moving here, I’ve met some of the most interesting people. All walks of life roam the streets, and the trick to engaging with any of them is to, quite simply, speak up.

From the Dominican guy two blocks over whom I purchase fresh produce, to the homeless man who sits on a bench just south of Central Park- and the dozens of people I meet in between- I am fortunate to be surrounded by creative, intelligent, and unique types.

I am now an official participant of the force and power that is New York, and I'm loving every minute of it.

HIGH HEELS ARE FOR WANKERS

LE BEGINNING:

I walked out of the apartment this morning with a confident swagger. While a bit on the groggy side (not since the days of high school have I managed a 6 a.m., caffeine-free wakeup call), I was feeling pretty good.

I wore a slim-fit, black pencil skirt on bottom and a light pink silk blouse on top. Coupled with a pair of sleek new high heels, I was the symbolic representation of ‘corporate and sexy.’

After I basked in self-glow for an entire two minutes, I took to the streets. I hit the pavement and suddenly felt a bad mood come over me. I was immobilized and trapped. My morning ‘hustle and shuffle’ subway routine was immediately impaired, and with every step, I felt as though I wasn’t moving at all.

What was happening to me? I was going nowhere fast…

OFF WITH THEIR HEELS!

As it turns out, you can’t run in heels. Not only can you not run in heels, you can’t skip, dance, jump or walk to the subway stop either.

Within 24 hours of my high heel purchase, I experienced a brutal reality. The majority of relationships in life tend to represent every emotion and its opposite, and my relationship with these high heels was going to be no different.
Heels may present a seemingly flash and hot exterior, but don’t be fooled. At their core they are corrupt, malicious, and possibly diseased.

FROM HOT TO NOT:

My New York swagger was no longer, and the swiftness of my step was now stifled, leaving me with a terribly unsexy and impish limp. I could tell already- this was not going to be a good day.

(Thirty seconds later)

After I kicked myself (literally, with my steel heel until my ankles bled), I shook my hair loose, regained my composure and set afoot once more.

GIRRRRL, YOU OWN THIS!

“I’ll be damned if anyone recognizes that I’m a rookie in these shoes!” I said to myself.
And just like that, the sun poked its gaze through the clouds, and I felt that my bad mood had disappeared.

I picked up my pace, and suddenly heard someone scream.

“I WAS BORN IN HIGH HEELS!” proclaimed the voice, over and over again.

“I WAS BORN IN HIGH HEELS!!!”

And that’s when I realized, the sound was coming from…me. I was the lunatic screaming at the very top of my lungs.

As I stormed through the streets, neighbors, both young and old, started to cheer. The cheering was quiet at first, but grew increasingly loud with each step. The cheering turned into clapping-it began one clap at a time the way it does in the movies- and the enthusiastic praise echoed throughout the streets.

By the time I reached the subway station, the neighborhood was in an uproar. As I entered the subway terminal, I caught one final glimpse of my neighbors.

“You can do this, Katelyn!” the crowd yelled in unison, “It’s all you!”

I turned to them before entering the tunnel and nodded: Yes, New York, I can.

The Urban Migration

It’s already been about three weeks since the Feminine Adrenaline 2010 tour came to a close. Regretfully, I wasn’t able to write as much as I would have liked to during the last legs of our trip, as we were busy city-hopping along the East Coast. A sincere THANK YOU to all the friends and family we visited along the way. Thanks to all of you for hosting, dancing, cooking and exploring with us, the trip was an absolute blast! Brit summed it up in her blog by saying, “24 days, 4098 miles, 16 states and 3 parking tickets later, we have concluded what has been a road trip to remember!”

Below is a map of our route, including some of our stops:

Not bad, eh?

So after admitting to myself that not all of life can be one giant road trip, I’ve made it a point to get organized and brainstorm future plans.

REFLECTIONS:

I looked at the calendar the other day and realized I’ve been home from India for six months. SIX MONTHS!! I have no idea where the time has gone, but I do know that I’m ready for a change. Being at home in New Hampshire was exactly what I needed after a year and a half abroad (when I arrived back in the U.S., I was desperate for some grounding). I don’t know that any other place could have been more suitable for such a task, as the calm and slow nature of the place is conducive to anyone needing time and space for self-reflection.

With that being said, I’ve had my fill. I’ve soaked up the comforts of home, and am ready for some change. I want to go to a place that's fast. Someplace bustling… eclectic…and sexy.

THE SCOOP:

One month from today, I’ll be moving and grooving to a quicker beat. A tempo fast and choppy, interrupted only by the lulls of urban traffic and its dense congestion.

I’m trading in my driver’s license for an unlimited metro card- an indication of my enthusiasm and expected reliance on public transportation. I’m eliminating a bag of clutter a week (or such is my goal) so that my possessions and I can fit into my allotted sublet space. Downsizing so drastically isn’t easy for me- I have a hard time dissociating myself from the memories attached to all my “stuff”- but the challenge to de-clutter is a good one, and I’m hopeful that a lighter load will be liberating.

I’ll be subletting from a friend of a friend in Bushwick. From what I can gather through pictures, the room appears to be the size of a walk-in closet. For $350/month, one can’t expect many luxuries (after all, we’re talking New York City). Bushwick’s overwhelmingly Hispanic population serves as the inspiration for my recent interest in Spanish-revival-I’ve been watching the Spanish channel on a regular basis to ‘brush up’ on my thrice removed Spanish skills. I anticipate I’ll learn the neighborhood fairly quickly, as I’m a solid eight blocks away from the nearest subway line. (Which reminds me; will I get beaten up or befriended if I invest in some rollerblades?)

POR QUE, NYC?

To live. To work. To Play.

I have 3 ½ months to make the most out of my time in the Big Apple. I will have no job when I arrive, so unsurprisingly, finding work is my top priority. In an ideal world, I’d find something long-term. Something to serve as the perfect starting point for my life-long professional development. A fulfilling career that rewards me, both personally and professionally, in the most handsome of ways.

And if that doesn’t work out?

I will sell newspapers…lots of them.

Part-time job opportunities abound in New York. From waiting tables at a diner, to professional dog-walking, the employment options are endless. My hope is that with ample effort, I will be able to find something to support the cost of my sublet, and ‘then some.’

A CHANGE OF PACE:

Each time I visit the city, I find something new to discover. From Harlem’s ‘Little Senegal ‘to the back alleys of Chinatown, New York is buzzing with culture, entertainment, and FUN. I’ll never be able to see it all in 3 ½ months, but you can bet I’m going to try.

And of course, if the idea of sharing a twin bunk screams COZY and not CLAUSTROPHOBIC, I would most certainly welcome you as a visitor!

More pictures from the American Southwest.

No Man’s Land and Leopard Pants: The Kansas Chronicles

Ever since the beginning of our road trip, people have asked whether we are taking the Northern or Southern route through the U.S. Our answer has remained the same. “We’re going straight through the middle!” we’ll proclaim, excitedly. After admitting this, we’re consistently met with mortified faces. “Oh, God,” someone will say, “That means you’ll be hitting Kansas!” “Yeah,” we say “we know.”
Just about everyone Brit or I spoke to expressed concern over us driving through Kansas. We were told we were crazy, and that Kansas would be just ‘god awful’ and a tremendous waste of time. In the face of these accusations, we feigned confidence and assurance. “Oh don’t worry about us,” we said, “we’re going to rock Kansas like nobody’s business. We’ll dominate that state like it’s going out of style! We’ll have road-side dance parties galore, and we’ll be invited in homes for pot pie dinners, and…” the list went on and on.
Naiveté and denial never reeked so badly.

What really happened
We left Boulder, Colorado at 7:30 in the morning, with the hopes of allowing plenty of daylight for our nine hour trip to Kansas City, Missouri. For the most part, everything East of Denver is flat, brown, and visibly unappealing. Everything was covered in a thick gray, forging an indiscernible line between highway and sky. We had planned on cruising upwards of 80 miles an hour, but given the icy roads and otherwise terrible road conditions, we were forced to coast at half that speed.
At some point in the afternoon, the road conditions cleared up. As we picked up speed, our moods improved and we began to get pumped for our night in Kansas City. Lady Gaga blared from the car speakers, and we laughed in the faces of those who said Kansas would be a nightmare. We laughed and laughed, until…

The Helicopter
Suddenly, Brit overheard what she thought to be a helicopter flying over us. She turned down the radio, and sure enough, we heard a loud thumping coming from somewhere nearby. “Is there a plane flying over us?” she asked. “It sounds more like a helicopter,” I replied. For the next 1 ½ minutes, we searched high and low, looking through the sunroof and passenger window for the plane overhead. It wasn’t until we hit the brakes that we realized the noise was closer than expected. The noise was not coming from a ‘copter. The noise was coming from our own car.
We pulled over to examine the potential vehicular damage. I checked the bumper, and looked under the car for C.P.D’s (car part danglers). Zip, nada, nothing. I wiped my hands clean, and was about to declare that the car was in okay condition when I caught sight of the flaccid rubber. “Shiza, Brit,” I said, “we’ve got a flat!”
To our dismay, our rear tire was demolished. It looked like it had been stabbed with a finely-sharpened instrument (pitchfork, perhaps?) and emitted an overwhelming smell of burning rubber. With no evidence of civilization in sight, we had no idea where to go.
Brit and I usually manage to keep ourselves relatively composed, but for one reason or another, we chose to handle this situation with irrational, erratic behavior. We screamed and shouted expletives towards Kansas and its peoples, and lashed out at the vehicular Gods who condemned us to such demise. After five or so minutes of manic ranting, our tantrums subsided and we called AAA.
Giving directions to the people at AAA proved to be difficult, as our only visible landmarks were a tractor trailer and billboard for an adult superstore (Turns out, these generic landmarks are found near almost every single exit throughout Kansas). Finally, after a bit more research and exploration, we learned that we were in a small town called Hays.

Welcome to Hays, Kansas. Can I take your order?
A half hour later, the AAA representative arrived. He patiently waited around while Britt unloaded her trunk (formerly known as her apartment) to locate the donut. A dozen roadside piles later, the spare tire was located, and securely placed on the Civic’s rear. We were then told to follow the tow truck to a nearby Walmart in order to purchase a new tire. As darkness neared and the snow continued to fall, we couldn’t help but declare to one another that the day had, in fact, totally sucked. Our moods were getting worse by the minute.

The Walmart experience: Consumerism Cures
As it turns out, our visit to the Walmart auto garage was just what we needed to enhance our mood. The auto mechanics said it would take a half hour to put the new tire on, and that we should stay put inside the store to hear our name called over the intercom. As unexcited as I was about scouring the Walmart racks for a half hour, I tried to put my best face forward and stay positive, as everything related to Kansas, thus far, had been miserable. Brit and I walked out of the auto garage and straight into Walmart’s neon-lit aisles. Walmart is a metropolis, and stores that claim to ‘have it all’ (fishing poles, thongs, rifles and whole-grain cereal) tend to overwhelm me.
After glancing around for a minute, my eyes caught sight of something I hadn’t expected. I looked at Brittany, and realized immediately that she was looking at the same thing. We turned back around to stare at the brightest area in the store, a gigantic One dollar clearance sign dangling directly over a rack of glimmering, animal-print spandex. Leopard, cheetah and zebra prints hung together, side by side, practically begging to be ripped off their hangers by two desperate and fashion-clueless girls.
At that moment, I knew the flat tire was the best thing to happen all day.

Oh no you didn’t…
After trying on half a dozen pair of the aforementioned spandex—and some equally noteworthy hideous/awesome costume apparel—Britt and I were ready to make moves. We strutted back to the auto garage with our heads held high, feeling good about our confident, spandex-infused swagger. The auto mechanics gave us each a nod of approval as they checked out our new gear…Britt in leopard, me in cheetah. We smiled as they tallied up our individual bills (remember, each pair of pants was ONE DOLLAR), and while the tire was a bit of a pricey fix, the sheer bliss we experienced through our clearance find made the whole hassle and experience feel justified.

The Smaps Moral
Britt and I survived the tedious, bland hellhole that is Kansas because we chose to jazz up our drawers. By choosing to impress, rather than depress, we managed to end our 14 hour journey through Kansas on a positive note. Instead of slouching through Kansas’s finish line, we skipped through it.

Money may not buy happiness, but animal-print spandex can.

El Grand Canyon