The Women Here Are Frightening.

Yesterday, I was in the subway, heading to Grand Central, when my eyes happened upon the feet of a lady who was sitting across from me. She had on these fancy, strappy, agonizing-looking stiletto sandals and on the insides of her feet, just below the big toes, she had these huge, solid, painful-looking fleshy lumps. Judging by the way they were nestled soundly between the unforgiving straps of her brutal footwear, I'm going to go as far as to guess that they are the creation of blocks upon blocks of painful walking while ignoring the burning, stinging sensation of her feet saying, "FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, THESE SHOES DON'T FIT RIGHT." But oh yeah. That's right. You have to suffer to be beautiful. You have to suffer to attain that lovely, horse-like click-click sidewalk trotting effect that elongates the legs and lifts the butt. Give me a break. This is New York City. Give me some shoes I can run in. That way, at least I can avoid the hideous mistreatment bunions... clearly a result of being TOO gorgeous.

I Think I'm Starting to Like it Here.

On the corner of my block, there's a pizzeria where I go to get my coffee. Yes, you read that sentence correctly. Although their pizza's pretty good, their coffee is really good. Probably largely because it has espresso added to it and the only coffee worth drinking is strong coffee. Also, my coffee is always made by the same person and so it always tastes consistently the same, which is a nice creature comfort in my new life where very little feels consistent. The guy - and the owner of said pizzeria - who makes my coffee's name is Joe. He's an Italian guy, probably in his late 30s, who knows me by my first name and asks me about the everyday humdrum of my life and offers me fatherly advice and words of encouragement. For example, when I was sick, he offered me hot tea, told me to stay out of the rain and told me I was probably under the weather because I was going through major life changes. When I told him I had to make it to an interview for a job, he checked in with me the next day to see how it went. I told him it went well and that I'd be selling popsicles at an indoor market place. And then, with this deeply quizzical and slightly irritated look, he said,

"What is this popsicle you speak of?"
To which I replied, "What is your accent?"
When I met this guy, I was unsure of his nationality and suspected that he was a lifelong New Yorker. At first glance, he just has that wonderfully stereotypical rushed, fast-talking, not smiling, no BS look to him, despite an accent that isn't entirely American. And so when he asked me what a popsicle was, I knew I had guessed wrong.
"Italian," he said, sounding irked to be off topic. "I came here 15 years ago. So what's a popsicle?"
"Oh," I said. "A popsicle is fruit, sugar, and water... frozen. On a stick."
"Oh," he replied, shrugging like it was no big deal. Which is wasn't. "So it's ice cream."
"No," I corrected. "Popsicles have no dairy. Ice cream has dairy."
That annoyed look again. And then, hurriedly,
"Well, whatever it is, it sounds good. You'll do fine working there."

Sometimes I feel like I live on a sitcom.

__________________________________________


On Saturday, I left the apartment at 11:30 a.m. to be sure that I'd make it to work by 1:00. As I sat in the subway, sweating profusely after a four-avenue walk in the blistering heat, I was amazed when an E train pulled up, instead of the anticipated R, V, or G. It was amazing because the E was what I needed to transfer to a few stops in on the R, and weekend rail construction was obviously pulling in my favor for once. Or so I thought. Three stops before mine, the conductor announced - in that too fast, too slurred, incomprehensible way that only subway conductors crackling through shoddy speakers can manage - that 34th Street/Herald Square would be the last stop for the irregular E train. Which led to much confusing, bumbling, "Um, excuse me"s and "Do you know if"s before I found out that the F would take me to 14th Street, which is where I needed to be.

Elated, I got up to street level to find out that I was at 14th and 6th instead of the anticipated 14th and 8th, which meant that I had to walk three more long avenues in the blistering heat. By the time I got to the market place at 12:30, I was damp. And I kid you not: I went into one of the private public bathrooms, stripped, patted myself down with paper towels, washed my face, and - yes - dried my shirt under the crazy-strong "Accelerator" (AKA: leaf blower) industrial hand dryer before putting it back on. With a new coat of lipstick and readjusted hair, I looked fresh for my job! ... Although if someone licked me (which wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility here), I'd probably have tasted like the ocean.

After taking a couple minutes to psych myself up by saying, "You can do this. You have a $140, 000 education. You can sell popsicles," I found the gusto to approach the stand. But all looked grim when I got behind the counter and realized that they didn't use a cash register. No cash register meant no machine to tell me how much change I owe the customers. And no form of a calculator meant trouble because I'm no mathematician. Thankfully, my boss ran to one of the other vendors and borrowed a calculator for me.

The scary thing about this experience was that I was trained via trial by fire for two hours before my boss had to leave to shave ice for an event, which meant that I, the novice, was to be left entirely alone to operate the business.

"We don't normally do this," she said. "Normally we'd train you for two days. But scheduling's weird this week. It's okay, though. We're usually not busy in the late afternoon on Saturdays. You should be fine. So... you got it?"
"I think so," I said anxiously. "I hope so. Yes."
"Okay. If anything goes horribly wrong, text me."
The subtext of this statement was that she wouldn't be able to do anything if something did go horribly wrong because she was going to be working elsewhere.
And there I was. Alone. At this popsicle stand. Selling ice pops. Me and my shoddy math skills.

And I. Got. Slammed.
The line didn't quit for about three hours.
And I handled it like a champion.

Selling popsicles was a breeze. The challenge was shaving ice, which was an athletic feat. On the counter sat a huge block of ice. Every time someone wanted a slushy treat, I had to take a small metal hand shaver and really lean into the top of that block of ice and use my shoulder muscles to scrape up a cup's worth of ice. That day, it felt like everyone wanted shaved ices.

There were often moments when people had to wait a couple minutes for service (shaved ices take a bit to do, especially when someone orders them for the whole family), but overall, I was awesome. I'll pat myself on the back for this one. I'm certain I did the math right, I was efficient, and I kept an open, friendly attitude even when, toward the end, I wanted to throttle anyone who ordered a shaved ice. Because after a while, it hurts to make them.

When my boss came back and heard that I had been slammed, she cut me a check for $70 and wrote in the memo space, "For being a hero!"

Go me.
I'm going in to work for them tomorrow.
Take that Johnson State College!
Look at me now!

Is it wrong for me to enjoy working customer service?

__________________________________________



I've been adapting to my neighborhood. Before I was just in it, wandering around, figuring out who's here, where things are, how to get around, etc. But now I've made my room my room, sort of (I got two awesome rugs today, but still need wall cover and a better light source), I've gone food shopping, I've done my laundry, I've taken the bus a million times. I like the feeling of walking down the street and knowing it's my street and that it's okay that I didn't take a sweater to the supermarket because my apartment is only three blocks away. I like the feeling of putting stuff in the fridge and waking up to church bells. I like knowing that the traffic lady at 42nd street is there to herd school children and that Tina at the laundromat is kind enough to force me to let her sort my laundry so that it dries more efficiently. I like going to get a coffee and having my name shouted out to me when I walk in. I like being invited to dinner with Jen, Santino and their friends, I like going out to pick up bread, wine, or cheese for said dinner, and I like seeing the bright light above 2828 at two in the morning and knowing I'm almost home.

I even like the weird late-night bus stop conversations I have with strangers. It's often said that people in New York City are rude and unfriendly, and that it makes me a bit of a target for weirdoes by being so open and inviting to people I don't know. But I like people. And more often than not, I like the interactions I have with them, as strange and random as they sometimes can be.

Yesterday I connected with a man who was sitting across from me on the subway train because we were both acutely aware of the man to my left who was very steadily falling asleep on me. We quietly laughed about it.

Life is good. I think I could stick it out here for a while.

Sabotage. Pure Sabotage.

My roommates have spices growing in clay pots by the living room window. They're labeled: Thyme, Rosemary, Sage, Parsley. Needless to say, they're a gardening project that went awry somewhere in the growing process. Maybe they didn't receive enough sunlight, water, or nutrients, but they never quite made it past infancy. They look like alfalfa sprouts. All of them. Resilient though. Wispy, tiny little things - leaning toward the window - but very much alive. And super potent. I just swept my fingers through the Rosemary pot and now all I can smell is a spice cabinet. Funny how something so small and weak can have so much kick.

If I may go so far out of my way as to make a lame metaphor, I kind of feel like those spices. Like my body is slowly withering toward death, but my brain is very feisty [laughs]. I've managed to shake off the majority of the symptoms that were rendering me immobile for two weeks, but now I have a phlegmy cough that makes me feel like I'm drowning. It tapers off to a seal bark and gets way worse at the end of the day or, hell, when I'm talking on the phone. If I cough too much, a migraine sets on that makes every cough feel like a railroad spike to the back of my head. Amelia suggested to me tonight that maybe I should get checked out. Finally, and reluctantly, I'm inclined to agree. Not because I think I might have some life-threatening illness, but because I've been eating so much acetaminophen that it makes my liver sad and these headaches are really starting to incapacitate me. I'm going to be making some phone calls tomorrow morning - early - to try to get squeezed in somewhere on a last-second appointment. If I'm lucky, I'll succeed.

I ventured out into the world today. Ever since I watched Kevin make himself a cheeseburger two nights ago, I've been hankering for one. And so I decided to go to the Court Square Diner, which is around the corner from Jen's apartment. I'd have considered inviting Jen, but diner food isn't really her fare of choice. And so I went with a book - "Running with Scissors" is what I'm working on right now - and had myself some... linner? It was around 4:30. Almost old-people dinner time. Maybe I can scrape by on calling it that. They hired a couple of new waiters there, which, oddly, ruffled my feathers. It's strange how you can get so used to a place that you don't want anything about it to change. Other than that, everything was pretty much the same. I got an 8 oz. cheeseburger with lettuce & tomato, fries, onion rings, coleslaw, a pickle, and a root beer for under ten bucks. I couldn't really complain about that.

After, I decided to go see the huge mall that Amelia has been telling me about, way out in Queens. It turns out she wasn't lying. This thing was a consumer monster. It was Four. Stories. Tall. And all I wanted were some shoes for my internship. But from what I heard, this thing had more shoes in it than I'd know what to do with.

So I'm not going to regale you with six paragraphs about my shoe-hunting trip at the mall. Not to mention, I've been coughing a lot for the past half hour and I feel a mean headache coming on. Great. But there were some highlights. So here's the abridged version:

The Macy's footwear section was a nightmare. Counter displays were ravaged and random high heels were scattered all over the floor, bottoms up. [SIDE NOTE: I swear to god: Spike heels would have been a very effective way to fill medieval moats. They'd also be a very effective way to kill large jungle animals in pits (I don't know, you always see that sort of thing in movies... just not with stilettos).] And as I stood in Macy's today, waiting at the counter (which was also scattered with random women's shoes) for the poor, sweet, way-overwhelmed customer service lady to bring me a pair in a size 10, surrounded by clearance racks packed senselessly with a disorganized array of crappy footwear, not to mention the barrage that covered the floor like a spiky game of Mine Sweep, my anal and organized brain was in its own personal hell.

I didn't buy anything there. I just wanted to get the hell out.
I also didn't buy anything at one of the brand-name shoe stores (I can't even remember which one) where  some guy with a lisp and braces accused me of being rich when I couldn't find a pair of shoes I wanted to buy, told me my beautiful eyes were begging for a purchase, asked me my name, shook my hand, winked at me, and told me he hoped to see me in there again sometime real soon. Do you think that was in the training video?

In the end, I got a pair of impossibly comfortable - and super-cute! - open-toed (yes, it's okay) shoes from Aerosoles. And they only rang me up $31, which isn't so bad for good shoes. I also got a cute dress from Charlotte Russe. I'm bad with dresses... sometimes I really can't resist.

By the time I left, I was thankful. My cough was worsening and my head was working up a racket. By the time I stepped in the door at 8:30, it hurt so bad I could barely walk. That's when I showered and decided that it's time to find out what's wrong with my body so I can knock it back into line. WebMD says my symptoms line up perfectly with Bronchitis, but even more perfectly with walking pneumonia. But then again, I'm pretty sure WebMD only exists to terrify people who are hooked on self-diagnosis. So hopefully I'll manage to get an appointment tomorrow and find out what the professionals have to say.

Because I have to sell ice pops all day on Saturday and I don't want to be spewing mucus all over them.

I am suspicious of your kindness.

I've been sick for a week. Not just a little sick, mind you. Not "I have the snuffles" sick. I mean the down-and-out kind where my body made an executive choice without me and decided to shut down. Right in the middle of the job hunt. And so instead of scurrying to find a steady source of income with the little time I have left before my internship starts, I've been pacing morosely around the house, trying to figure out whether it'd be more miserable to lay down and try to sleep or watch more daytime TV. One day, while I was feeling like I was maybe one step ahead of death, I decided to venture out into my neighborhood to gather ingredients for chicken soup.

Naturally, not feeling like a goddess that day, I slipped into some beat up clothes and a pair of sneakers and decided to forgo the makeup entirely. And so I went out. After getting all of my ingredients (which included a slew of get-better sick foods), I was sitting at the bus stop, way up 30th Avenue, waiting for the bus and sucking on a raspberry popsicle (which was practically a slushie at that point but I thought, "Hey. If they're not going to make it to the freezer, I better eat at least one. They're Breyers." Some guy who was also waiting for the bus kept looking at me eating it and smiling this peculiar smile. Great.) when some little old man next to me, who was probably in his early-mid 80s, extended his hand with an offering. Balancing on his palm was a little 25-cent machine bubble with a plastic jewel ring inside.

"Here," he said , raspily. "It's for little girls."
When I hesitated, he added, "It's not dirty! I didn't even open it!"
I then noticed that he was steadily taking nips off a little bottle of Smirnoff vodka. Deciding he was old and crazy, I laughed and took the ring.
"Thank you, sir," I said, smiling. "That makes my day. I'm as sick as a dog. Though I fancy a shot of something hard would help more. It'd probably kill everything on the way down."
He looked horrified and clutched his vodka against him.
"You don't really want a drink, do you?" he asked, aghast. "Little girls shouldn't drink!"
"I am 24 years old," I said, laughing.
He leaned in close and peered at me through eyes the color of faded denim. He looked like he was developing cataracts. "You look like you're 12," he replied, quietly.

Joy of joys. When I told this story to Jen and her friends later, they told me the moment was ripe for him to yell, "Well, give me back my ring, you bitch!" When the bus finally arrived, the little old man stayed at the station. Normally, being the kind of person I am, I'd think, "Oh, what a kindly little old man I met at the bus station!" But now I'm thinking, "What kind of little old man waits at the bus station and hands out trinkets to unsupervised little girls?"

I felt like bait on To Catch a Predator.
And that chicken soup has been sitting in a huge pot in the refridgerator for four days, waiting to be eaten. Thing is, I really wanted it until I made it. Now I need to freeze it or throw it away.

Yesterday was the first time since I've fallen ill where I genuinely felt with it enough to go out and get something done. I got a heinously late start, though. I was shamefully held up by America's Next Top Model, which they seem to only play in marathons, to drag in poor saps like me. Damn it, Tyra. Sam and I didn't have cable in our apartment. It was a good thing. Anyway, my adventuring brought me out to Union Square, where I decided to buy shoes for my upcoming internship, because I just didn't think my ratty shoes or disintegrating flipflops would cut it. So did I buy shoes? No. I engaged in a stupid - but delightful - round of retail therapy at Forever 21. However, they had basic camisole/tank tops for $2.50 each, which was pretty amazing. When I got to the front counter and the cashier asked me how I was, I said,

"Cute clothes are leading to bad shopping decisions. How are you?"
She looked tired.

I also finally bought a pair of rainboots. So now I don't have to freeze when it's pouring out by splashing around in flipflops. I guess that was a practical decision. Just not the one I intended to make yesterday. I ultimately held off on the work shoes in order to find out whether the company has any policies on open toed vs. close toed. Some companies do. So I'm thinking I'll hold onto that $40 until I know for sure.

At the point, it was about 10 p.m. and time for me to go home. I go down into the subway at Union Square where I decide to catch an N, W, or R back. The N and the W go to 30th Avenue, which is always full of lights and people, but is roughly a 10-block walk back to my street. The R train takes me to 46th street - which is my street - but I have to walk approximately three avenues (longer than regular blocks) to my apartment through a residential area where there's not many people out at night and not a lot of noise. Generally, I prefer to stick to where there's people at night, just to be on the safe side. But at this point last night, I was starting to hack up a lung, my head was starting to hurt, and I just wanted to be where it was quiet. So I wanted the R. However, anyone who knows the subways can attest to the fact that they run a lot less at night, and sometimes it's best just to take whatever comes first. And so I took the W... which seemed fine until I looked up at the map and realized we were 13 stops away from mine. But then I realized I was only two stops away from a station where I could switch to the V, which would take me to the same stop as the R I originally desired. This was a gamble, because after 10 p.m., subways tend to lapse into night construction, which often leads to confusing and elongated trips home with lots of transfers. But as I was coughing more frequently and starting to feel self-concious, I decided to get off the train.

So there I was, staring at the subway map on the platform, trying to decide whether I wanted to go find the V or sit where I was and wait for the N (the express version of the W), when suddenly a man with a thick accdent said,

"Excuse me, does the R stop here?"
 Frazzled, I told him I don't know. But then I looked at the subway map and saw that the R did stop there (oh glory be! I wouldn't even have to move, just wait where I was standing), and I said to him,
"Oh wait! It does come here. That's what the map says anyway."
He looked at me. He was an Indian guy, maybe in his mid-30s.
"Are you from New York?" he asked.
"No, no. Just moved here from Vermont," I replied.
"Vermont," he pondered. "That's in the middle of the country, right?"
"No," I said. "Right next to New York."
"Was the drive far?" he continued.
"About nine hours." I replied.
"Did you grow up there?" he asked.
"No. I moved here, went to school in Vermont, and grew up in Massa-"
Suddenly I wondered why he was asking so many questions. And then I looked at him and noticed the heavy-lidded way he was looking me up and down, and the smile that had formed at the corners of his lips.

Oh, for the love of god.

"I gotta run," I said as I sprinted up the stairs to locate the V. I was kicking myself though. Telling him off and waiting for the R would have been easier, but I don't really have it in me to be nasty without big provacation. I regretted the decision after, though. Once on the V, the conductor announced late-night rail construction, and so I had to switch after just one stop and walk a quarter mile to the 7. From there, I had to go four or five stops before switching back to the W - the train line I originally started on, which no doubt would have delivered me home faster than the detour route, had I just chosen to stick out the 13 stops.

By the time I got to 30th Avenue, I was tired. And hungry. I pitstopped into a Subway because it was right there and I couldn't stand the idea of getting home at quarter to midnight and cooking. As I waited for the bus - at the same stop where the old man offered me the little-girl trinket days before - I struck up conversation with a woman who seemed exasperated at how late it was running. She had a thick accent that I couldn't place and was wearing a business suit and glasses. She had kind eyes.

She told me that she was 31 years old and came to the states from Romania 11 years ago. She said she had a medical degree and a business degree, but that she was currently a manager to artists. I asked her what that meant and she said that it's her job to represent artists, help them network, and find them venues. Most recently she had been working with a concert pianist who she'll be traveling to China with on July 5. She asked me what my story was and I told her that I had just gradated from a college in Vermont with a degree in Journalism and moved to the city a couple weeks ago. She looked thoughtful for a minute and told me that a large part of her job is networking and that she's friendly with a few influential journalists in the city. She gave me her card and told me that I should email her my resume and cover letter. She said she'd send it out to people she knew and that hopefully, if they were looking for any help, it would help me get my foot in the door.

"I know what it's like to go somewhere and start fresh," she said. "It's not easy. My friends often ask me why I bother reaching out to people when I don't have to, but I like helping others. I think it's a good thing. And I think that everything in life happens for a reason. Here's my card. Send me your resume. I'll see if I can help you out."

So my brain has been entertaining two extreme possibilities.

1. This is an incredibly nice woman who I ran into at 11:30 p.m. at the bus station. If I send her my resume, maybe she'll help me get my foot in the door. Maybe it'll get me a journalism-relevant job.
2. I'm giving out my home address and personal phone number to a human trafficking ring.

No, the second one isn't really a viable worry. But still. I'm sure there are people who feed off of others' inexperienced naivete. I'm aware of the possibilities. I told Jen about it and she advised that I do some research and check this lady out. I did, and she seems pretty legit. So I'm not quite sure. I'm leaning toward sending it, but I'm still turning the idea over in my brain.

Why can't "nice" just be "nice" anymore?
And what the hell is up with that bus stop?

New York, New York

The best thing about living in Vermont was going on car rides. To Burlington, to Stowe, to the supermarket one town over. It didn't really matter. The scenery was breathtaking all year round and there was always something really beautiful to look at, even if the car was only in motion for five minutes. It was best in the summer though, at the end of the long, hot days, when the sun was setting like fire on the horizon and the corn fields were all drenched in that half hour of perfect golden light. There was nothing quite like letting my hair down and sticking my face out the window - like a dog catching the breeze - and just watching the farmland roll by.

Needless to say, there's none of that here. That same, gorgeous light exists, but it's more like a filmy haze, and it doesn't do much for steel, cement, and graffitied garage siding. Not to mention, being driven through the city can be stressful with the bright lights, cryptic and conflicting road signs, and the ceaselessly blaring car horns. I shudder to think of what it must be like to drive here. Jen (my sister) is a terrifying force to be reckoned with. She's driven me to my apartment from hers several times in these conditions, but she smiles effortlessly and chats through it, like we're sitting down for tea or strolling through the park. I don't know where she puts the rage. She says that city driving doesn't stress her out because driving doesn't stress her out. It's traffic that gets under her skin.

When I graduated from college in May, I was anticipating a change of pace. And boy, did I get one. Less than two weeks after walking across the stage, I was in The Big Apple, crashing on Jen and Santino (her boyfriend)'s couch in Long Island City. About a week after that - by way of a Craigslist miracle - I moved into a great apartment in a really safe neighborhood with two roommates who I've been getting along with swimmingly. Currently, I'm living off of my nest egg and the job hunt is proving to be challenging. I had the dignifying experience last week of dedicating an afternoon to creating a resume for retail and restaurant experience because competition for jobs is so high in NYC that most employers don't accept plain old applications anymore. My efforts have also been somewhat slowed up by the fact that I've been sick as a dog all week.

So if Vermont is so beautiful and New York City, well, isn't, then why did I move here? Well, for one, I wanted to be somewhere different, somewhere with fewer cows and more people. I certainly got that. Secondly, I have an internship to complete in Manhattan between mid-June and late August before I can officially cross off my last five credits and consider myself a college graduate. I only know a few people here, and that internship will hopefully go a long way in helping me to network. I may be looking for restaurant and retail jobs now, but someday I want to have a career. Also, I've been coming to NYC since I was 12 years old. I have a soft spot for it. Not to mention, I know the subway system well enough to get around without too much trouble, and it's supposedly one of the most complex public transportation systems there is.

Do I want to live here forever? I don't know. I doubt it.
But Jen says if I can hack it here, I can hack it anywhere.
So that's what this blog is about.
Life here and what it's like to live it.