What Is This 'New York' You Speak Of?

Lately, all I keep hearing about is how present-day New York is on the verge of becoming the New York of the 1970s--a time when the city was addled by high crime rates, near bankruptcy, and a malfunctioning subway system--but at least things were interesting. So I have to wonder if a return to 1970s-era New York is such a bad thing.

Aging celebrities always talk about how much "edgier" New York was back then, spawning the likes of Studio 54, the Ramones, CBGBs, et al. New York in the '70s is the New York my mom currently fears when I call her on my way home from work: "But it's dark! What are you doing out?!" which is when I look at all the suits with their lattes and the hipsters with their Macs in the Starbucks that are on adjacent corners and sigh.

Of course, I don't want to have to worry about getting mugged on the subway at two in the afternoon, but it would be nice if the New York I lived in is remembered for something other than excess and Sex and the City. There's so much more to New York than that, and I know it, but sometimes all the high gloss makes it hard to find.

Big news.

In high school I took a drama class where I had to memorize the most measly part of Sartre's "No Exit." (A play where the underlying argument is "Hell is other people.") I wasn't prepared, and this became abundantly clear to my drama teacher when I had to run off stage to grab my copy of the script in order to finish the scene. And so ended my career as an actress. 

I never felt comfortable on stage; in fact, I don't particularly enjoy being the center of attention. So when I walked into our apartment last Friday--after deciding to get my nails painted blue and being slightly miffed at Jay for wanting to continue napping instead of just meeting me at the neighborhood restaurant we had agreed on for dinner--and found all these candles and rose petals strewn about, I felt as if I was somewhere I wasn't supposed to be--as if I had accidentally walked on stage in the middle of a play. 

But there he was, on bended knee, asking me to marry him. I don't think I actually said yes; I shouted, "Of course!" 

Then came an onslaught of "oh my goodnesses," a Pollyanna phrase I evidently have a fondness for in moments of genuine surprise, as well as all the joy of realizing that the person you've been wanting to spend the rest of your life with really truly madly deeply wants to spend the rest of their life with you, too. And then the rest of the night--nay, weekend--more or less revolved around me. And I loved every minute of it. 

After the proposal, a car picked us up to take us to Lupa, the site of our first date close to three years ago now. (I was too amped up to eat, but knew I should if the celebratory champagne was going to keep flowing.) His parents surprised us by magically picking up the tab from Indiana, and then we walked up to Washington Square Park, a place he and I used to go to "hide out" from co-workers who didn't yet know that we were dating. From there we hopped in a cab to get to the Waldorf=Astoria (get it?), where we were placed in suite 21R (our apartment number is 1R; though Jay had no hand in this), which provided the most amazing view of the Chrysler Building to complement some chocolate-covered strawberries and my favorite bottle of $10 cava on ice. (My true tastes always shine through.)

Each event was a bigger surprise than the last, and the entire time I could not stop thinking how lucky I am to have someone so incredibly thoughtful in my life. I have always felt this way throughout our relationship, but that night it was amplified by the amazing lengths Jay went to make sure the night was filled with reminders of significant moments in our relationship. 

There was a time when I greatly identified with Sartre's idea that "Hell is other people." (See: Dater's Dish, The and, if I were to let you, numerous angst-ridden teenage and early adult journal entries.) But for the last three years, and especially this past weekend, I've known better than that. 

Clearly, Sartre was never lucky enough to date Jay Boehmer. 

So finally, after settling into pizza and watching the very bad Zack & Miri Make a Porno on Saturday, I thought the surprises were over. Little did I know Jay had planned a party on Sunday with all of my family and friends in attendance. Thinking I was simply spending an afternoon casually celebrating with some friends, I instead walked into shouts of "Surprise!" Again, I hid, and again I had that same feeling of "Oh my goodness he did it again." He's lucky I have a strong heart. 

And, oh yeah--the ring! In continuance with the entire proposal, it's perfect and is everything I hoped for: a sapphire surrounded by a circle of diamonds, with a set of circularly shaped diamonds on either side. I never thought I'd be one to be enamored by sparkly things, but I continually find myself staring at it. It already feels like an integral part of me; when it's not on, I definitely feel it. 

Oh, and? A skeptical person might be inclined to think otherwise, but I swear to goodness I had no idea what was happening when I choose my manicure color earlier in the evening. 

Some pictures here. 

Things I learned this weekend.

This Saturday, Sarah and I went to the American Museum of Natural History, a place I hadn't been to since the first grade. As we walked around, all I could think about was the wherewithal it must have taken my teacher, Miss Devine, to herd 20 or so 7-year-olds onto a bus headed for New York City, chauffeur them around a massive, four-floor museum and not lose a single one. The panic just the thought of it induced in me solidified the fact that I made the right decision in abandoning a career as a kindergarten teacher. 

The trip was educational, reminding me of those first-rate, first-grade nuggets of knowledge that your 8-year-old cousin spews out, causing you to think, "Wow, you're really smart," forgetting that there was a time when you used to be that kind of smart, too. Take, for example: 

• The scientifically accepted name of Brontosaurus is Apatosaurus, after the scientific community realized that the fossils of Brontosaurus were the same as the previously discovered species of Apatosaurus. 

• Butterflies have a life span of just 10 months. 

• A recipe for a kick-ass vegan Caesar salad dressing does exist, which I'm adding it to the list of Things I Learned This Weekend because I did, in fact, learn it this weekend, and I'm sure there's some smug vegan first-grader somewhere that is aware of this bit of information.

A few photos here. 

Face Off

Emily Gould (whom I don't personally know) is one of those people whose talent I'm jealous of in the most absolutely depressing of ways. This post is a great example of how and why she has this effect on me. She's worth reading if you're ever feeling introspective, but can't quite put into words why you're feeling introspective.

I point out that post because I can relate to it in a very superficial way. While I certainly do not think of myself as one of those people who radiate "look at me waves," as she says, I do, on a once-to-twice-per-day basis, get stared at. I'm convinced this is because I am the generic person: people always think I am someone else they know. Or Anne Hathaway circa The Princess Diaries. (Anne, if you're reading this, I'm sorry.)

"Tiffany?" A man came up and asked me on an airplane once. "Are you Bob Garrett's daughter?" a woman once asked me while in line for coffee. "I know you!" said a drunk boy at a pizza place. No; no you don't, I replied. "No, really, I know you! I'm not trying to hit on you," he angrily shot back. "I know," I said, "but trust me, you don't know me." (My cyber presence isn't even immune to this phenomenon.)

And this staring problem is only compounded in New York, where you come into contact with thousands of people on a daily basis, a few of whom search my face with a look that reads, "Where do I know that girl from?" (I did that to Luke Wilson once, who sheepishly smiled and waved at me. I ignored him, which only made my faux pas all the more groan-worthy once I realized who he was.)

The reason I know these people don't know me is because I never forget a face--to an embarrassing extent. I can't tell you how many people I've been introduced to, only to run into them later where they say, "I'm sorry... What's your name again?" All this does is remind me of how unmemorable I personally am, unless I'm getting mistaken for someone else.

So, yeah, anonymity--there's no such thing.

Another One Bites the Dust

I think I speak for both myself and Jay when I say how flattered we are that our trip to Spain inspired so many of you to one-up us. We love that you didn't let us bask in the glow of our extended vacation for too long, taking away our comeback high with more exotic life happenings like "moving to China" and "exploring the world," not to mention totally stealing our thunder by blogging about it all.

And so, a few weeks ago, Jay and I said goodbye to another set of dear New York friends, Jewitt and Sue. Or JewSue. (There's also GabLu. As for us? BoehMerritt. Though these nicknames never seemed to catch on with anyone beyond Jay and myself.)

JewSue are off on a truly epic adventure, which you can follow on The Voyage of Swill. (And, as always, there will be a link at left.) Their itinerary covers South America, Eastern Europe, India and finally, an official settling in Korea, for goodness knows how long, except that I already know it's too long since Jay can't stop talking about how he no longer has any friends in New York, which is largely why he decided to move in with me, I'm sure.

Sevilla Later

All over Seville you can spot the curious cipher, NO 8 DO. Sometimes it's conspicuous, on a police car for instance; but more often then not, it's less so, as on a bike rack. The above photo appeared on a park railing.

The symbol stems from the 11th century, when the Catholics launched a reconquista in an attempt to take southern Spain back from the Moors. When the war went on for too long, as they sometimes do, King Alfonso struck a truce with the Moors, which angered his son Sancho, who, in a typical bout of father/son one-upmanship, attempted a rebellion against his father, but the Sevillian people ignored Sancho's little tantrum and stayed loyal to Alfonso, which is when he uttered the now-iconic phrase, "me han dejado," or "you have not deserted me." The phrase morphed from its medieval iteration to no madeja do, "madeja" meaning wool in Spanish, which led to the compact emblem NO 8 DO, with the 8 serving as symbol for twisted wool.

I don't quite get it all either, it's so much like a game of telephone gone terribly awry. But I thought it would be a fitting story to tell, given that we "desert" Seville for Madrid tomorrow, and then on Saturday, to New York. I was going to weave it all together into a nice, succinct history lesson-cum-farewell, but we can all see how I've failed miserably at that attempt, so I instead will leave you with this:

Top 5: It's over.

There is NOTHING* left to write about. We've seen all Seville has to offer. And Spain? Over it!** We're ready to shake this little town for the city that never sleeps. (Actually, given how many times those damn kids on the Alameda woke me up with their 5-a.m. antics, Seville may have New York beat on that one.)

No matter! Who says you can't go home? Certainly not Jon Bon Jovi, and he's been around the world, so he knows what he's talking about. We've been there, done that; there's only one place left we want to go: home. Herewith, the Top 5 things we can't wait to get back to in 11 days, in order of most importance ...

Jay:
1. English Speakers, Particularly Friends And Family. The Spanish are among the friendliest and most patient people I’ve encountered, and though my skill at speaking the language has improved (it’s not hard to build on a baseline of nothing), I’m still craving good conversations and encounters with friends and family.

2. Burgers. While Spanish food is some of the best I’ve had, and the abundance of pork, fried cheeses and fresh seafood have left me little to desire, there is one thing I miss: the humble American cheeseburger.

3. A Proper Haircut. My lack of Spanish has led to the disaster on top of my head. Barbers are a garrulous bunch who require constant instruction—“A little off the top” or “Oh no. Please stop cutting.” I simply don’t have the command of this language to direct a barber. Instead, I have relied on the kindness of others: Jenn’s occasional removal of neck hairs; Casey’s American-voltage clippers that blew up midway through a trim; and a late-night, wine-fueled haircut, courtesy of Kristen.

4. Television. I hate to admit it. I miss American television. Though we have a stable of DVDs and have taken advantage of the new iTunes movie rental service, I’m looking forward to the feel of the remote in my hand and hundreds of channels of English-language crap at my command.

5. My Kitchen. Currently, we have two electric stove top burners, a microwave and a sad supply of cutlery, pots, pans and utensils. In New York, I’ll return to sharp knives, skillets whose surfaces don’t cling to everything they touch and an actual oven.

Jenn:
1. An Eyebrow Wax, Manicure and Pedicure. Yes, this actually trumps seeing friends and family. I'm just that vain, apparently.

2. Friends and Family. Simply put, I can't wait to see everyone! But not before I have some maintenance performed.

3. Having a Menu at MY Mercy. Lord, how I can't wait to get my hand on a menu where I actually know what I'm ordering. And if I don't like what I see, I can get all Sally Albright on any item.

4. A Looooong, Hot Shower. There is an endless supply of hot water to be had at my apartment in Astoria. Here; not so much.




5. Summer Reruns. Finally, I can actually watch Blair spar with Chuck and Jenny, instead of having to read about it. The quips just never translate as well.






Look for more Top 5's throughout the remainder of our time here--as I said, there just isn't much to write about anymore!***

*This isn't exactly true.

**For the record, Jay isn't "over" Spain; he just lacks a flair for the dramatic.

***See first note.

Your Traffic and Weather Update

It is half past noon in Seville on what is sure to be another sunny and 70-degree Wednesday*. Meanwhile, the Lincoln Tunnel is backed up, making it tougher and tougher for those Jersey commuters to get to their New York City offices. When those commuters exit the Lincoln Tunnel, they will find it is raining and a brisk 41 degrees Fahrenheit.

How do I know all this?

Jenn is listening to WCBS radio. It streams over the Internet in crackles and buzzes. It talks of traffic, weather and a little news. And it serves as some sort of entertainment to her. Maybe, it's a reminder of home—familiar American voices talking about life's daily little things.

Or maybe it's something more sinister. Perhaps she is relishing in the misfortune of those poor tri-state area residents she has abandoned—at their cold, rainy March days; at their long, congested commutes.

Either way, two things are clear to me right now: (1) I'm glad I'm in Seville and not New York; and (2) I would prefer American television to American radio any day.

*UPDATE: I just had to gloat about the typically beautiful weather here. We got our first bit of rain this afternoon after 20 perfectly sunny days. It is now 60 degrees Fahrenheit with scattered showers. Still, I made the commute from my bed to the couch without incident. 

Is it los tourista or el tourista?

In New York they take to the streets with their fanny packs, cameras and IHeartNY t-shirts. They walk slowly, stretched four-long on the sidewalk, meandering and impossible to pass. The tourist is a scourge to New Yorkers.

After six years of living in that city, I’ve joined the throngs of locals who have grown weary of them. Unfortunately, I’ve brought that mentality to Spain. I am, more than anything, afraid to be recognized here for what I am: el turista.

Since we got here, I have stood at least 10 feet away from Jenn as she snaps photos (as only a tourist would take a picture of nuns going about their daily existance--JM), and I’ve been reluctant to speak to locals in my version of broken Castallano—my own bastard child of Spanish, English and ignorance.

Today, it dawned on me. I walked the few winding blocks to the Mercado Calle Feria, which is one of the oldest food markets in Seville, in search of a few items to cook for dinner. They had everything I could want: fish caught this morning, fresh vegetables, legs upon legs of Jamón Iberico, bottles of Spanish wines, flowers, et cetera.

I wanted to take a photo, but quickly reconsidered: How would I feel, in New York, if some Spanish dude was snapping photos of my freezer aisle as I was grabbing some Hot Pockets? Odd, right?

I returned home with nothing. Surely, if I spoke, if I touched the vegetables the wrong way, if I used the wrong word to order tuna, they would find me out for what I am.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the tourists in New York as I’ve gone about my days here and I’ve also thought about how I, and many New Yorkers I know, have treated tourists. Though we’ve griped about them among friends and laughed from time to time at their silly questions, we’ve always been helpful. We have given directions. We have given recommendations. We have given, at the very least, a smile to those wayward travelers looking for Times Square. And so I’ve decided: Tourists are not so bad. At least they speak the local language, right? I can’t even do that here.

Hopefully, the Sevillanos will offer me the same patience as I try to navigate their city. And I won’t even mind if they laugh at me once I’m out of earshot.

New York: 0; Seville: 2

As different as they are, it's hard not to compare life in New York with life in Seville. Today, the weather was reminiscent of a crisp and cloud-free fall day in Manhattan. Except I was in Seville. See what I'm saying?

Anywho, Seville has this community bike program, Sevici, that for just a few euros gives users access to numerous pick up/drop off bike stations around the city. Jay and I jumped on these bikes today (that's him, at right) and proceeded to pedal around town, which it turns out is not as small as we first thought. The bulk of the path was lined with orange blossom trees, which smell remarkably like jasmine. I almost got hit by a few cars as I however stupidly closed my eyes to truly take the scent in.

I first became scent obsessed last summer, during my stay in Provence, and particularly with lavender. Now whenever I smell lavender, I'm immediately transported back to that trip, which brought about some life predictions that eerily rang true in more ways than one today. As I pedaled and sniffed, I couldn't help but think about how New York needs a smell--something nicer than trash and dirty-water dogs. Scent is such an integral part of memory and I hate that the only time I'm olfactory reminded of home is when I walk by a trash bin. So here, Seville beats New York.

Seville again earns points with Sevici. The program is meant to be an eco-friendly way for residents to get about town, while also helping to eliminating roadway noise. Similar programs exist in nearby Cordoba as well as in Lyon and Paris, France. Why New York has not jumped on this trend, I do not know. Imagine the relief it could provide while they take another eon to build that 2nd Avenue subway line?

Of course, Seville lacks New York's attitude and available international cuisine—though not it's plethora of Starbucks, sadly. So I guess it's a wash.

Screw Union Square's farmer's market

I've always complained about the poor-quality produce in Astoria, which is why I'm so excited about this:

"...[Dan Wood and Amale Andraos have] convinced P.S. 1 to let them fill the museum's courtyard with... um, crops. Wood and Andraos have won the institution's Young Architects Program competition, which means that by summer, they will have stood dozens of giant cardboard tubes on one end, filled them with dirt, and used them as planters for cabbages, lettuce, tomatoes and herbs."


The veggies will be harvested and distributed--perhaps to the local Key Foods? For the love of God, please?! The project also calls for:

"...two sound columns--one that plays farm sounds when you sit down, another in which you can look upward, see stars and hear crickets. There is a phone-charging column, a children's grotto of columns with swings, an herb-growing column with circulating fans dispersing scents like basil or lavender [Ed note: Yay!], and a juicer column where fresh juice will be made and sold."

There's even talk of growing barley and hops to brew the first P.S. 1 beer, as all of this will be constructed around a pool, in an outdoor space dedicated to summertime dancing and drinking. The space will debut just in time for my return from Spain, so guess where I'm having my welcome back party? (Sorry Jay, you get no say in this one.)

It's likely I'm the sole person who gets excited by the idea of an urban farm, but what else would you expect from a girl who only knew cows as neighbors until the age of six?

Photo: Work Architecture Company (The example photo they released kind of sucks, but the web site has much better depictions, which unfortunately cannot be downloaded.)

All is right with the world

The Giants just had to win the Super Bowl, because I couldn't stand the thought of Tom Brady pulling off the unbelievable trifecta of knocking up Bridget Moyhahan, leaving her to bang Gisele and leading an undefeated team to a world championship win.

Plus, last night's win managed to raise my father's excitement decibel from Eeyore to Charlie Brown.

Good work, team.

Signs of a Frequent Flyer

JEOPARDY! is not my game. Usually I'm a Wheel watcher, mostly because it requires less thoughtful effort. But this week, I happened upon JEOPARDY! and managed to kick ass in one category, "Landing at JFK." I got every question right, and while I was elated at first, my usual stupidity in every other category quickly set in, which made me feel less smart and more like a female version of Tom Hanks in "The Terminal." You are what you know, I guess, and so, in an effort to keep that feeling of smart superiority going, this quiz here is meant to determine whether or not you are enough of a quick-thinking frequent flyer to hang with me. No cheating!

For $200:
Located at Terminal 3, this company with a Greek letter as its name offers 1,500 daily flights.

Answer.

For $400:
This airline at Terminal 4 was formed by the Irish government in April 1936 and has been in the "Aer" ever since.

Answer.

For $600:
Now at Terminal 4, this company's first flight, from Amsterdam to London on May 17, 1920, was letter perfect.

Answer.

For $800:
This Terminal 4 company was founded in 1984 by Richard Branson; over million people flew it by the end of the decade.

Answer.

For $1,000:
On February 20, 2007, this Terminal 6 airline introduced its "Customer Bill of Rights."

Answer.

I'll take friends that score $1,200 or better, Alex.

It's so hard to say goodbye

I've just been dealt a devastating blow. The time has come for me to depart with one of my closest companions: The Jeep.



My mom just called with the news that someone is interested in buying it. I knew this time would come, but honestly, I didn't think it would happen so soon. No lie, I gasped when she told me.

After the Big Move, it didn't make much sense for me to keep the Jeep in New York. The city annoyingly has alternate side of the street parking weekly, if not daily (I don't know, I never checked), and given my travel schedule, I'd have to hire someone to move it or else match my monthly rent in parking fees. So off to my parents' house it went, along with the other things I've recklessly and not always willingly abandoned over the years.

In order to fully understand the magnitude of this, we need to walk down memory lane. This was my first big purchase--the first thing ever that I bought and paid for all on my own.

Every month for six years, I faithfully wrote checks for $168.51 to Onyx Acceptance Corp. to make that car mine. (Those checks are burned into my brain, because the amount was so big to me at the time. Oh, foolish youth.) It wasn't a fancy car--air conditioning was its only amenity--but it suited me fine.

Together we took mundane trips to the mall, work and the like, although strangely the Jeep didn't seem to enjoy our longer hauls as much as I did. There was the time I got a flat tire in the middle of Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania and mine and Ilyse's boyfriends at the time had to change the tire in the darkness of a Sears parking lot because the employee refused to change the tire unless I bought four news ones.

Then there was the time, about an hour from my destination of visiting Melissa in Providence, Rhode Island, that my car started smoking and eventually stopped working on I-95. Poor Dad had to drive three hours to come get me and tow the truck home. However, on our final and most recent three-hour jaunt for a weekend in Atlantic City, the Jeep gave me no problems. Its almost as if it knew. (That's us on our last trip, above.)

So the Jeep has been at my parents' since March, nosed between the shielded Mustang and my father's 22-foot truck. From what I hear, it hasn't seen all that much action in the last few months, so it's probably best the Jeep moves on to someone new. I'm glad that after 16 years (nine of them in my hands) its in relatively good enough condition that someone else wants to give it new life.

I know its completely ridiculous to sentimentalize something like this, but I can't help it. It's like having to give up a cherished pet because you're suddenly kicked out of your house with no where to go. (Oh, wait.) Also, ridding myself of my car officially cements my status as a New Yorker (that, and the dumpster diving I took part in a few weekends ago) and that's an unnerving feeling.

Now, my mother said I could take time to think about it, but I told her to do what she thinks is best. Some things are just better left unsaid.

Nostalgia central

Witness above my commute to work. It ain't pretty, I know, but riding home today I started to feel a little sad. Maybe it was the JBJ rockin' on my iPod or maybe it was the drunken Knicks fans, but with seven days left until I move what little I own across the Hudson and East rivers and officially into a one-double-oh zip code, I got to thinking about what I would and wouldn't miss about living in New Jersey. Behold, my list, in no particular order ...

Au revior! to:

1. My 5:30 a.m. wake-up call and subsequent hour and 15-minute commute to work.
2. That pathetic look I get when I say I'm from New Jersey from every Alabama/Connecticut/Idaho native who's lived in New York a total of six months.
3. Living my life by the whim of NJ Transit.
4. Having to share a bathroom. (Nothing to do with living in New York, but it's still a perk.)
5. Spending every waking minute commuting to New York, Hoboken, New Brunswick, Stanhope et al because no one ever wanted to hang out in Bloomfield except for the one time I made them on my birthday.
6. Being associated with AquaNet, acid wash jeans and fringe bangs.
7. A lack of vegetarian options in the frozen food isle of the supermarket.

I may sniffle at:

1. No longer having emergency bathroom access on trains.
2. Feeling like I'm abandoning the homeland.
3. Spending every morning with the NJ Transit staff. Such nice folks, always, every day.
4. My roommate. (Aw.)
5. Parallel parking. It may just be my one talent in life.
6. Leaving behing my waxer and hairstylist, Tonya at Bangz in Montclair and Sam at Vanity in Upper Montclair. Oddly, I'm constantly getting compliments on my eyebrows and everyone just lurves the new chin-length hair cut.
7. New Jersey pizza. I have yet to find a slice in New York that can rival one of my many faves from the Garden State, i.e. New York Pizza in Rutherford, Vinnie's in Bloomfield, Lockwood in Stanhope, Ray's in NB and surprisingly, the pizza joint in the Hoboken train station. (I'm talking true $2 slices here, not ones that are of course delectable because you just paid $10.75 for it.)

That's all there is, folks. Tune in in two weeks when I'm having panic attacks because the toilet won't flush.