"Sure. It's, like, summer...in theory!"
Last night friends and I were at dinner, commiserating at the lack of summer this June - endless bouts of rain with rarely a sunny day in between.
This was one of those "greatest hits" conversations that New Yorkers replay every year. Summer in New York City has never been demonstrated by the weather. The signs have always been more subversive. How can you measure a season by its temperature in a city that has the odd 90 degree day in January(!), between blizzards?
Manhattanites used to declare summer by the first sighting of a Mister Softee truck. A few years ago, though, the soft server ice creamery on wheels stopped hibernating, hanging out on the streets Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall.
I live in Brooklyn now at the corner of South Williamsburg, Clinton Hill, and Bed Stuy. Our apartment building sits just one block into the wrong side of the Whole Foods delivery radius. It's been almost four years since I made the migration from the East Village.
Summertime in Brooklyn starts with watermelons. A bunch of withered black men set up a folding table selling them on the corner of Nostrand and Myrtle. The watermelons have numbers written on them in black marker - 9, 10, or 11, denoting the price. They all look the same to me so what makes a melon a nine versus a ten remains a mystery to me still.
"Where do these come from?" I asked the first time I bought one.
"Georgia."
They're trucked up from Georgia and dropped at street corners of the ghettos of Brooklyn.
This year a new sign of summer revealed itself to me. As I rode my bike up Bedford Avenue to work on May 28th - a particularly cold and dark day - I made my way up through the Hassidic neighborhood that runs between Myrtle Avenue and the Williamsburg Bridge.
The Hassids are a peculiar and completely foreign culture. To live surrounded by them is to observe but never understand. They're a very introvert group, speaking their own language (Yiddish?), wearing a narrow range of garb, and milling around at all hours of the day and night in random zig zagging patterns, on-and-off sidewalks.
That gray Thursday was typical, bewigged mothers were leading their many children through intersections, pad-pad-padding along like ducklings. For all of their differentness and chaotic movements, however, nothing is rarely ever different in their behavior, so that when something changes - no matter how subtle - it's shocking.
As I peddled up Bedford Ave, I saw stations of folding tables with bunches of flowers and little potted plants. Small groups of Hassidic women stood by them as the vendors, which is also so odd that I nearly forgot to stop for the next traffic signal.
It was Shavuot. It's one of the many Jewish holidays that some Jews observe, and fewer pass without notice. Most goyim have never even heard of it. It marks the end of Spring and the beginning of Summer, in addition to its Biblical function.
That day, as I huffed and puffed my way up and over the Williamsburg Bridge I looked up for a moment to see a sign I'd managed to miss every other time I made this trip:
"Now leaving Brooklyn. Oy vey!
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Planet Spins, and the World Goes 'Round and Around and 'Round
I had missed the G train. Worse, people were streaming up the steps as I descended into the station. For those of you who never traveled to the boroughs surrounding Manhattan, the G only runs from Court Sq, Queens to Smith-and-9th Street, Brooklyn. Living near the G means you're always at least two trains away from Manhattan. It also only run every 8 to 20 minutes, depending on the caprice of the MTA.
That morning my bad luck was soon erased by the subsequent G train that arrived a mere five minutes later.
Then I also missed the 7 train from Court Sq to Grand Central. I watched the doors close at a short distance and then it slipped away, onto the next station. Two minutes later another arrived. The ride home repeated my bad luck/good luck on the L to the G.
I have to say that missing a train by seconds cannot be healed by the balm of another train showing up soon after. It's hard to appreciate what you have when you're still mourning what you've lost.
Today I arrived at the airport to find myself eighth on the list for upgrades, despite my gold frequent-flyer status. (Seriously? Who are these eight people flying to San Francisco with more credibility?) Later I stepped out of the Balducci's made-to-order line to find the ready-made bins missing my favorite sandwich for in-flight consumption. Once I got onto the plane I was made aware by the attendant that I had somehow booked a middle seat!?! I've flown 40,000 miles in last six months. Never, ever have I intentionally booked an middle seat. The flight to San Francisco lasts six to six-and-a-half hours. The horror! The horror!
Still, it was an exit row, so my legs had room even if my torso did not. Then a miracle happened. The window, exit row seat next to me remained empty, even after the plane door closed. So now I have plenty of room length- and width-wise.
So now I'm on the plane from JFK to SFO. After a double-vodka bloody mary and a Xanax my woes are receding. Soon I will eat my only choice from the Balducci's ready-made bin - a chicken curry wrap. The remake of "Race to Witch Mountain" is playing on my in seat entertainment system. The day proceeds and the flight continues.
Life is full of these little wins and losses. Why any of them should feel personal is just a solipsistic exercise. (Isn't "solipsistic" a lovely word?)
My husband and I bought a lamp recently. The Flos Glo Ball floor lamp. It was a floor sample from Design Within Reach, where Mark works. After all discounts we paid 30% of its original price. Yesterday we rented a Zipcar to bring it home. We separated the hand blown glass diffuser (globe) from the stem and base, and packed it into the car. On the first turn the heavy base rolled from one side of the hatch to the other and shattered the diffuser. We stopped the car. I collected the glass and dropped it into the trash can across the street from store. We found a replacement online. It will cost more to replace the glass part than we paid for the lamp.
"It will take me awhile to order it," Mark told me. He needs to mourn the loss before accepting that we need to replace the glass globe or else abandon the lamp altogether.
I'm sure I could drudge up some real problems; the kind that gives one perspective on such trifles. Today, however, I will enjoy the luxury of sweating and celebrating the small stuff.
That morning my bad luck was soon erased by the subsequent G train that arrived a mere five minutes later.
Then I also missed the 7 train from Court Sq to Grand Central. I watched the doors close at a short distance and then it slipped away, onto the next station. Two minutes later another arrived. The ride home repeated my bad luck/good luck on the L to the G.
I have to say that missing a train by seconds cannot be healed by the balm of another train showing up soon after. It's hard to appreciate what you have when you're still mourning what you've lost.
Today I arrived at the airport to find myself eighth on the list for upgrades, despite my gold frequent-flyer status. (Seriously? Who are these eight people flying to San Francisco with more credibility?) Later I stepped out of the Balducci's made-to-order line to find the ready-made bins missing my favorite sandwich for in-flight consumption. Once I got onto the plane I was made aware by the attendant that I had somehow booked a middle seat!?! I've flown 40,000 miles in last six months. Never, ever have I intentionally booked an middle seat. The flight to San Francisco lasts six to six-and-a-half hours. The horror! The horror!
Still, it was an exit row, so my legs had room even if my torso did not. Then a miracle happened. The window, exit row seat next to me remained empty, even after the plane door closed. So now I have plenty of room length- and width-wise.
So now I'm on the plane from JFK to SFO. After a double-vodka bloody mary and a Xanax my woes are receding. Soon I will eat my only choice from the Balducci's ready-made bin - a chicken curry wrap. The remake of "Race to Witch Mountain" is playing on my in seat entertainment system. The day proceeds and the flight continues.
Life is full of these little wins and losses. Why any of them should feel personal is just a solipsistic exercise. (Isn't "solipsistic" a lovely word?)
My husband and I bought a lamp recently. The Flos Glo Ball floor lamp. It was a floor sample from Design Within Reach, where Mark works. After all discounts we paid 30% of its original price. Yesterday we rented a Zipcar to bring it home. We separated the hand blown glass diffuser (globe) from the stem and base, and packed it into the car. On the first turn the heavy base rolled from one side of the hatch to the other and shattered the diffuser. We stopped the car. I collected the glass and dropped it into the trash can across the street from store. We found a replacement online. It will cost more to replace the glass part than we paid for the lamp.
"It will take me awhile to order it," Mark told me. He needs to mourn the loss before accepting that we need to replace the glass globe or else abandon the lamp altogether.
I'm sure I could drudge up some real problems; the kind that gives one perspective on such trifles. Today, however, I will enjoy the luxury of sweating and celebrating the small stuff.
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