You have got to be kidding. I was doing my last-minute purse check before heading out the door to work yesterday when I noticed that my bag seemed light. Too light. I reached inside and felt around. No wallet. I checked my gym bag. No wallet. I checked the floor around the purse area. No wallet. I checked my phone. Two missed calls, a text, and a voice mail from the BF all to inform me that I had left my wallet at his place. Apparently it had fallen out of my $19.95 H & M bag (you know the one–it has its own post here). SHUT UP I HATE THIS SHUT UP I HATE THIS WHY ME WHY ME WHY ME YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS. These were the thoughts running through my head. Imagine if an actual problem had occurred.
Because here’s the deal: it wasn’t a big deal. I worked at NYU yesterday, which is five blocks from my apartment. Which means I didn’t need my wallet to buy lunch because I come home for lunch on my NYU days. Which means that all I needed my wallet for that day was one thing. One vital, life-giving, thing.
COFFEE. (Or coffe, if the above picture is to be believed.)
Being a New Yorker, I don’t have loose change lying around. If I had, I would have already spent it. On coffee. So short of tracking down the Soup Man and asking him for 81 cents, I was facing a scary prospect: a morning without coffee.
Except…that’s not the whole story. The whole story is that I wasn’t really facing the prospect of a morning without coffee. This is because NYU provides free coffee to its faculty. But said coffee is on the basement level and requires an additional few minutes out of my way. As opposed to the coffee truck that IS on my way. And I was already running late. And the free coffee is not very good. And this was turning into A BIG DEAL.
So I hoofed it to the school and went to get my coffee. And ALL THEY HAD WAS DECAF. I was about to have a Serena-esque breakdown until I remembered there was another coffee machine on the third floor. So I went there. And I got my coffee. And it wasn’t that bad.
Take all of your so-called problems…better put them in quotations.
I don’t make a habit of quoting John Mayer, mainly because I think he’s a douchebag, but that line from the song “Say” bears repeating here. My overreaction to The Coffee Incident of 2009 was due to a complex interplay of factors that ran the gamut from my hatred of losing things and being late, to the fact that George and Sylvester–my regular coffee truck guys–had been missing from their usual spot on 28th and 1st since last week and I was starting to worry. I have long suspected that their coffee and bear claws were a front for some more sinister business, but I was willing to ask no questions as long as I got my morning beverage. Since their disappearance, I had been forced to visit a nearby truck run by some amateur who did NOT have my order waiting for me when I walked up to the window.
In short, it had been a rough week. So the coffee debacle didn’t help.
But it did show me some things. Mostly things I already knew but needed reminding about. Like, for example, what a brat I am about getting my way. How rigid I am when it comes to my routine. How one little deviation from my plan makes me feel like the whole day (week, year, whatever) has gone off the rails. How utterly laughable that is compared to what some people face.
Guess I should write my coffee plans in pencil. And maybe not depend on it so much (but it really is my lifeblood in the morning–what if I had to live without it? It would be like going without a glass of wine with dinner!). In the meantime, I will be thankful for those little dots of humanity on the sidewalks of this city, my morning oases. And guess what?! George and Sylvester are back! I walked up to the window this morning and we greeted each other like long lost friends. I didn’t ask any questions, and they didn’t have to ask me any either–they knew my order and we made the exchange. People who say New York is cold and lonely don’t know what they’re talking about. Home is everywhere here–the guys who get my coffee ready, the drycleaner downstairs who knows my name. They just better not go anywhere without telling me.
As I watched the television among a roomful of people that day, I had no idea that I was staring at the city that would, in less than four years, become my home. All I could see was chaos and destruction, lives forever changed, hearts broken. And yet my life’s path was headed straight toward that island. On September 11th of every year since 2005, the downsides of living in Manhattan all melt away as I am overwhelmed with the pride of being a New Yorker.
As far back as I can remember, this time of each year has meant one thing: the return to school. My dad made up a song about it that he sang to taunt my sister and me annually; it was not so much a tune as it was just the words SCHOOL TIME! and CHEESEWAGON! yelled over and over while we covered our ears and tried not to cry over the end of summer and our perceived freedom. My official schooling ended right before my twenty-eighth birthday, coinciding with my move to New York and into the “real” world. And yet here I am, thirty-two and beginning another school year. I just can’t get away from it.
Living in New York is so expensive that sometimes the only trip you can afford to take is a ride on the subway. So the BF and I stuck close to home and had ourselves a little staycation for the Labor Day weekend. The perfect weather demanded that we turn off Firefly and Friday Night Lights and walk somewhere other than Bed, Bath and Beyond. So we hit a couple of parks (Madison Square and Union Square, six blocks apart–we are efficient that way), checked out the Green Market, escaped without maiming anyone in the obnoxious crowd, and stopped at our favorite wine bar (Cavatappo) on the way home for refreshments. Wine, prosecco, prosciutto, and mozzarella. Then we spent some time on the roof deck. The one we were so excited about when he moved in and yet have ignored for the past couple of weeks because an eight-floor elevator ride is exhausting when the wine and remote are already right there in front of you. Our spirits were so high that we even discussed the merits of having to stay in New York for another year. Merits like roof decks and views and green markets and amazing restaurants. Merits that will be forgotten the second I leave my apartment tomorrow morning for work. (This is why I have planned a preemptive strike on negativity by loading my iPod with Jesus songs. Soon as I press play the ball is in your court, Lord.)
Here is a picture of what our Sunday, and nature in New York, look like. We ventured carefully west (the BF gets a little nervous in Chelsea) toward the High Line Park, a former freight railroad that now houses deck chairs, concession stands, and cilantro from the smell of it. One of the best things about the High Line is its proximity to Chelsea Market, home of several bakeries. After stuffing our faces with brownies at one such bakery, we headed to The Park, a local open-air bar/restaurant, for a drink. (Apparently we have gotten into the habit of rewarding ourselves with alcoholic beverages any time we walk to a city landmark.) Then it was time for a vomit-inducing cab ride to church and dinner at Rare with A.C., who made a valiant effort to help us finish off the fry sampler basket.
Labor Day. Coney Island. Wow. Just…WOW. Let me put it this way: Coney Island is a place you should visit by looking at other people’s pictures. It is…gross. And slightly creepy. And dirty. It’s a place with a constant soundtrack of funhouse music similar to what you’ve heard in several horror movies, right before someone gets killed. It’s a place where you pay a quarter to use the bathroom and leave wondering what you would have had to deal with for free. It’s a place populated by people like Donny Vomit and Serpentina and albino boa constrictors slithering on the grass. It’s a place where people bring folding tables from home and set them up on the beach for a cookout. It’s a place with the Cyclone, a roller coaster that is so rickety you want to write a bucket list and start apologizing to people you’ve wronged as soon as you step off it. But it’s also a place with corn dogs and cheese fries. So you power through the grime and carnies, knowing that at the end you will be rewarded with meat on a stick and an Only in New York Activity to check off your list. And an alcoholic beverage, if you’re that kind of person.
A grown-up sippy cup that they let you take to your seat during the show! (I still almost spilled my wine. Probably because I was wearing a white dress, and that danger curve is just too high.) Turns out the cure for too much dancing is alcohol. So the night wasn’t a total loss! Especially when we decided to walk home. So there we were, cruising along 46th street, enjoying the sixties temps and perfect breeze. There are times when this city sneaks up on you and takes your breath away. Like when you look up to see Grand Central lit up at night, for example. I thought about all the night-walking I did when I was single, and how the city was almost enough company and God certainly was, but I still wondered if I’d ever have someone else to share it all with. And then someone snuck up on me and took my breath away, and here we were, holding hands and critiquing Broadway shows.
Dear Lord. What is wrong with that bear’s EYE?! And I swear I saw his tiny friend pointing at me and laughing.
Biscuits and Bath Doggy Gym. Actually, I pause here on my way to AND from work. I watch the puppies play, sleep, and bark. This morning a Jack Russell had a pug cornered and was just barking his head off at him. The pug sat there staring at the other dog, and I imagined he would roll his eyes any minute and turn to me, saying, “Can you believe this guy? This is what too much coffee can do to a dog.”
Some refer to it, crudely, as a fire escape, but what you are seeing here is my veranda (to be spoken with a British accent). AKA prayer nook, AKA reading room, AKA sun deck. Yes, I know that with the bars it looks vaguely like a prison, especially when the sirens go by…but it’s my space. Mine. Temporarily and for a small fortune each month, of course. And we New Yorkers need our space from time to time. A place to get away from the noise and remember what quiet and solitude feel like. As I type that, a dump truck is barrelling down my street. So sometimes you get the quiet outside, and sometimes you have to find it in yourself. Off to the prayer nook.
The guy behind the camera looked bored. He played with his cell phone while his camera sat on a tripod, pointed at a spot across the street. The same spot upon which about a dozen other photographers and cameramen were focused. For about the hundredth time in my life here, I had stumbled across a film set. (As opposed to stalking a celebrity. See yesterday’s entry.)
