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.

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.

Hi. My name is Jennifer. I may or may not be exhibiting signs of alcoholism.

Over the last few days I've been going through a self-inflicted detox of absolutely no alcohol. Frankly, I'm a little alarmed about the ferocity of which I've been able to toss 'em back lately--and barely catch a buzz. For Pete's sake I kept pace with Casey when he visited! And for those of you who don't know Casey he's no wisp of a man. So, I've decided to give up the sauce and get back to being the lightweight you all know and love.

Except now I'm exhibiting signs of withdrawal: I'm a bit shaky; anxious even. My lips are tingling and I get nauseous at the sight of dinner unaccompanied by a glass of wine.

This can't be good.

It figures.

This news comes after 10 weeks of living on a crappy conversion rate, with only three more to go:

After six years of stumbling against the euro, the dollar may be showing signs of getting back on its feet.

And another thing...

I've read so much about the amazingness that was Monday night's ep of "Gossip Girl" that I decided to brave the craptastic streaming video capabilities here to watch it. Alas, I arrive at the CW's video page only to be told: "We're sorry, but our viewer currently does not support users outside of the United States."

"But I'm American!" I wanted to scream.

All work and little pay makes Jenn an angry girl.

Ed. note: This is my last whiny media-related post, I swear. Well, at least for a while anyway.

It ain’t easy freelancing. Those of you who are successful at it, I salute you, because honestly, I do not know how anyone can earnestly earn a living at it anymore, given the inconceivably crappy pay days I’ve come across as of late.* To wit, a recent smattering of compensation rates I’ve been unfortunate enough to actually click through to: $15 for 300 word articles, $20 for 300-500 word articles, $25 for 500+ words. Granted these are small articles, but it only gets more pathetic as the word counts get higher. I want to tell these people, are you effing kidding me?! And I rarely use exclamation points, so when I do you know I mean business.

And you know whom I blame for this rapidly descending pay rate? Bloggers. (Oh, the irony.) Those scores of wannabe writers who link to their blog posts as writing samples and will take any rate at the sake of having been published somewhere other than their self-fashioned web site. And you know what I want to say to these people? This “hobby” that you’ve taken up as a way to obtain some fulfillment that lacks in your career as a human resources manager—which likely pays you $80,000+ annually—is detracting from the fulfillment I’m striving for, namely, being able to, oh—I dunno—buy an apple every now and then.

The fact that I went to school for four years laboriously learning how to construct a lede, the time I spent debating the use of series versus Oxford commas, means nothing. Basically, I spent thousands of dollars learning a craft that you’ve managed to destroy with the advent of Blogger/Wordpress/Typepad et al.

God help me if Tumblr really takes off.

OK. Rant. Over.

*Chris, Gina, Ysolt, this post is in no way directed at any of you. Your regular use of my skillz helps me pay the billz, yo.

Meet My New Hero

Perhaps this is only interesting to my fellow travel writers, but here goes...

"Skyrocketing fuel prices. Unmanageable airline budgets. A declining U.S. dollar. International instability and America's increasingly dismal reputation abroad. The new age of travel is about more than waiting in line so that a sixty-year-old TSA biddy can wave a security wand in front of your crotch. In coming years, the way we travel will change significantly. Where all this leaves travel writing is an open question, but one thing is certain: the overly sentimental, cautious, and commercial tenor of travel writing is satisfying to almost no one beyond the navel gazers who write it and the 'hospitality' advertisers who sponsor it." --Smile When You're Lying: Confessions of a Rogue Travel Writer by Chuck Thompson

While I'm loathe to be called a naval gazer, I know all to well the b.s. of which Thompson speaks--and I've only been in the travel industry for two years, compared to Chuck's 10. It's a sad day when you realize how disgustingly the rest of the industry looks down on the genre you once so badly wanted to be a part of, not only because you wanted to travel the world, but because you wanted to tell stories, for better or for worse, of the things you saw. Instead, you're assigned to write articles constructed of sentences that end with, as Thompson points out, "a phone number, web address or other transparent plug for whatever tourist board happened to be picking up the tab."

Because today's travel "journalism" articles are mostly fluff pieces written by aging freeloaders who will put the entire contents of dinner's bread basket in their bag once you're not looking, I will never feel at ease being called a "travel writer." I sometimes wonder if pursuing this path did nothing more than brand myself as a talentless hack.

Photo: New York Times

UPDATE: Doree Shafrir manages to pull together everything I've been whining about this past week much better than I ever could. Please read. 

The Honeymoon's Over, Kids

Evidentiary Support A: After two and a half weeks of beautiful weather, today is our second straight day of sogginess, quite literally raining on our parade, since rain = cancellation of the final and most revered of Holy Week processions.

Evidentiary Support B: Jay got visibly peeved at me today. (I emphasize "visibly" because it's very likely he's already been annoyed by me and I just didn't know. Or care to notice.)

Either way, I'd say 20 days ain't such a bad run.

I want to kill.

I’m a pretty non-violent person, even going out of my way to avoid stepping on ants on the sidewalk, but as of late, my attitude toward those of the bug variety has changed.

For the past week, just as I am in the throes of a deep sleep, this fly* has come buzzing around my head like the Red Barron, causing me to flail my arms like a three-year-old in the midst of a temper tantrum. The rest of the night has me listening for that damn bugger to come at me again, because I know he will as he always does, no matter how many times my big limbs have attempted to cease his existence. Then every morning, without fail, the room is completely bugless, as if it were all a figment of my imagination.

Short of going to the store and trying to describe “fly paper” to the clerk in Spanish, does anyone have suggestions on how to be rid of this problem? Sleep-interrupted reasoning once led me to leave the bathroom light on, remembering the wise words of Janet Jackson, that moths, or flies, or all bugs, no? are drawn to fire/light. It didn’t work.


*As funny and clever as the idea might be, the fly is NOT a metaphor for Jay.

Be Our Guest: What you need to know before coming to visit

First, before I forget: bring a pillow. We have plenty of extra blankets and towels, but lack an abundance of pillows.

Second, details on navigating the Avé. Oh, the Avé. Luckily we made all the mistakes so you don't have to. To wit:


Though it is possible to purchase the tickets online prior to arrival, we decided to forfeit that option, as we thought it a tricky proposition, given that tickets are only valid for specific times and seats. With the state of air travel these days—we don’t need to rehash how bad delays have been, do we?—we thought it best to wait until we arrived at the station.

Turns out, not such a great idea. As previously mentioned, We arrived at Madrid’s Atocha Station a half hour before the 2 p.m. departure to Seville, which, in our minds is more than enough time to say, “Hola, que tal? Un billete de ida Seville, por favor. [Euros are exchanged; teller hands over ticket.] Gracias.” We now know that prompt service is not a high priority here. Plus, Atocha Station is pretty secluded from Madrid’s city center and is oddly designed with its own rainforest, helpfully adding humidity to irritability.

Lesson learned: buy Avé tickets on Renfe's web site. Note that when buying online, tickets must be purchased at least five days in advance of your trip. Just be sure to leave yourself enough time to get to the train station from the airport, which is about a 15 to 20 minute taxi ride, and don’t forget to account for possible flight delays. Overestimating in this case is a good thing—if your flight arrives on time and it’s two hours before your train departs, at least you know you can explore Madrid, go shopping or grab something to eat. The ride to Seville is a wonderfully scenic two-and-a-half hours.

That is all. Though should you feel so inclined, we've started a wish list of magazines: The Economist or Wired, for Jay; Vanity Fair, Real Simple or any celebrity weekly, para me. (God my list reads like some housewife's, doesn't it?)

More reason to move to Europe

On Yahoo!:

Tourists, theatergoers, shoppers and pub patrons in London's West End can now text the word "toilet" — and receive a text back with the address of the nearest public facility.

Leave it to our friends across the pond--where public toilets abound (albeit for a small fee)--to come up with loo-finding technology.

If you've ever spent more than an hour with me, you know how small my bladder is. The absence of public restrooms across cities in the U.S. always shocks me, especially in New York, which is such a heavily traffiked tourist destination. Goodness knows I've been driven to desperation. I'm surprised we don't see more people pissing in alleyways and on subway tracks.

Though apparently here in the U.S., a company called Vindigo offers a service similar to that of SatLav, but coupled with mapping, shopping, movie times and other info, because, you know, Americans are such tight wads no one except me would ever admit to using a service that solely exists to meet excreting needs.

Image: Peters

Signs of Aging

Driving in the slow lane, five miles under the speed limit, on a highway you used to do 85 mph on just a few years ago; cringing the entirety of the hour’s drive, not just because it’s been a few months since you’ve driven—let alone on a major highway filled with raging New Jerseyians—but also because your driving skills now resemble that of your mother.

Also; buying eye cream.

It's happened again

Another equally boring writer lands a coveted (at least by me) gig at an online media gossip rag. This is a girl who once earnestly blogged about why she joined one bank over another. Seriously.

Meanwhile, I can’t score a call back no matter how much I tailor my cover letter, and am left to languish at a job that values plagiarism over original reporting. Not that I’m the next big thing, but I like to think I can at least construct a few interesting sentences. I guess I just need to follow my 21-year-old, still-in-college sister’s arrogant advice and just “put [myself] out there.”

As I told Corrie, who relayed this latest news, I’m either going to kill myself or quit journalism altogether. I’ll decide later. It's all just too much right now.

The self-pity of summer

What you see there is a picture of my computer screen. As Dashboard helpfully tells you, it was a gorgeous evening: 78 degrees and sunny, no humidity and--at only ten 'til eight--the night was still young; no doubt the perfect evening to round up some friends for an outdoor happy hour at Luna Park or Bull McCabes--which is exactly what everyone was doing--except me--who, for the last two weeks has been/continues to be chained to my desk because I'm so miserly that I'm incapable of saying no when someone waves a freelance check in my face, which accounts for why I was the sole person on IM that balmy evening last Thursday, July 12, at 7:50 p.m., a.k.a., the most depressing moment of my life in the last two weeks.*

(*Quite possibly the longest run-on sentence ever written.)

See Jane fold

The reason I do what I do is no more: Condé Nast is shuttering Jane magazine. Unlike other fallen mags, Jane won’t even see a life online.

The writers at Jane are the reason I got myself into this underpaid mess known as journalism. (Although granted, it's a far cry from where I am now--and now I'll never be able to recoup that loss. Sniff.) I wanted to possess their wit, frankness and penchant for snark (which, yes, actually existed before Gawker).

Even as a youngin' completely unknowledgeable of media dynamics, I was well aware of Jane's digressions the from mainstream: I subscribed to Jane because rather than badgering my impressionable teenage mind with 10 Ways To Lose Weight Fast!, Jane hosted columns called “Eat” and, unlike other women’s magazines, didn’t spew the usual drivel in their celebrity profiles (I particularly recall the Britney interview as a killer). You just can’t find that today—even in the magazine’s reincarnation under Brandon Holley, who replaced founding editor Jane Pratt after she left in 2005. (In fact, during my last mani/pedi, I read the issue with Zooey Deschenal on the cover, and while I appreciated the effort, the overall feeling was bleh.)

Which is why I’m ambivalent about Jane folding. Its glory days were over a long time ago, having succumbed to that wily devil otherwise known as Corporate America. I’m just a little sad at having lost the one magazine I once aspired to, as well as having one less semi-decent non-Cosmo-ish magazine on the rack to read. (Nylon, here I come.)

Once I win the lottery, I’ll be sure to restore Jane—and maybe even Sassy—to all its former radness. Until then, RIP.

Duh

I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but one of the web sites I occasionally freelance for comes up with some of the most ridiculously obvious articles:

• How to make salad in a snap (What, like it’s hard?)
• 10 Surprisingly Sexy Dates: Play hooky, see R-rated art, try tapas (Why, it’s as if they tracked mine and Jay’s last three outings!)
• Anti-American Sentiment: Residents of the rest of the world are taking an increasingly dim view of the U.S., its foreign policy and its president in particular, a new poll shows. (Hasn’t everyone been saying this for the last three years?)

Breaking: Cabo's Airport to Be Less Scary

If you want a true test of friendship, take a vacation to Cabo San Lucas with a flight that departs from San Jose Del Cabo Airport.

I specify “departing” because upon arrival at the airport, you might be inclined to think it’s quite quaint. For instance, instead of disembarking into a tunnel that leads you into the airport, you instead step off the plane and onto a flight of stairs that leads you directly to the tarmac. Not only do get to feel like a celebrity disembarking a private jet, you’re also automatically greeted by Cabo’s fresh, warm air, a welcome respite from the freezing and likely germ-infested airplane air you’ve been inhaling for the last six hours.

That cuteness fades when you arrive for your departure, as Ilyse and I found on our trip back in March. Ready to get the fuck out of Mexico, our eager spirit was dampened when we saw the long—and I mean wrap-around-the-block loooooong—lines at check in. Turns out, the wait was due to the fact that the electronic check in systems were down, so employees had to name-check passengers on computer paper I swear was printed by a Commodore 64 and then hand-write tickets for boarding and baggage claim.

Well, stuff happens, we calmly told ourselves. Ilyse even went out of her way to joke with Ricardo at check in, “So, when was the last time you had to hand write a ticket—1982?” “Nope,” Ricardo somberly replied. “Just last week. This happens a lot.” Oh.

Handwritten tickets in hand, we passed through security and into the claustrophobia inducing waiting area, where 600 or so passengers were crammed in, waiting to board their long-delayed flights, which were seemingly delayed just for fun, as the weather in Cabo only gets as bad as partly cloudy. Food choices were limited to Burger King, nachos or personal pizzas; we opted for the latter, which I later discovered was an egregious mistake of which I’ll spare you the details.

Feeling ill makes me very cranky and poor Ilyse, already at the end of her rapidly fraying rope, had to put up with my whininess. Because of the mysterious delay, we missed our connection (although we only found this out after running the marathon through DFW), forcing us to spend the night in Dallas and thus swear off Mexico for the rest of our lives.

Thankfully, I’ve just got word that the Los Cabos Tourism Board has planned to upgrade its shotty airport, adding a new terminal and parallel landing strips for quicker departures, among other things (hopefully larger bathrooms with toilets that actually flush are also part of the plan). The hope is that these enhancements will “ensure visitors’ comfort and ease of safe travel upon arrival and/or departure in keeping with the destination’s upscale appeal.”

All I can say is, Los Cabos Tourism Board, you’ve got a lot of work to do.

My favorite airline becomes my Fear Factor

Ew, ew, ew, dear God, ew:

Reports the AP: "Continental Airlines Inc. is apologizing to its customers for 'poor conditions' aboard a transatlantic flight where one passenger described sewage spilling down the aisle from a lavatory."

Apparently, the flight crew still served meals in the dutch-ovened cabin during the seven-hour transatlantic (aka, no-where-to-land-because-we're-flying-over-water) flight from Amsterdam to Newark, NJ, advising customers "not to eat too much." All these poor people got in return for their extended bout of nausea were $500 flight vouchers.

Meanwhile, over at Continental, the top press release reads, "For the second consecutive year, Continental Airlines has ranked the highest in customer satisfaction among traditional network carriers in North America in the J.D. Power and Associates 2007 North America Airline Satisfaction Study."

If I were Continental, I'd expect 2008 results to be a teensy bit different.

Enough already

Lots to catch up on here, people. Get ready.

I've always likened myself a deep person, but considering my understanding of the philosophical meaning of "deep" came from "Pump Up the Volume" (thanks to a severe pre-teen crush on Christian Slater), I'm not so sure that's the case. Further evidence to wit: The following rambling post about Death and What It Means To Me. Sort of like, "What I Did On My Summer Vacation: The Morbid Version."

Right before I left for my trip to Opio, the Grim Reaper decided to level a few blows (four in the last two weeks; with one more impending; thankfully some have been peripheral). Oftentimes, these things make sense (my great uncle: in his eighties; suffering from throat cancer) and sometimes, they don't (as in my 21-year-old sister's friend). The obvious point here is that you never know when your minute's up; so carpe diem, as the cliché saying goes. But never has death been so much on my mind than when I was in France, trying my damnedest to relax. I'm not sure whether it's due to dramatics or a result of the mindful awareness I've been trying to practice lately.

"The present is the only time we have to perceive; to learn; to act; to change; to heal."

So lately I've urged myself to do things I'd otherwise let segue into laziness: apologize when bumping into someone on the subway; spend 30 euros on a cab to a tiny, medieval village; occasionally stop what I'm doing and remember to breathe. It's this new mindset that's helping me learn that I am largely responsible for what happens to me (it sounds so simple, but its taken me 27 years to grasp this concept) and also what I think is causing death to bother me so much (probably because I'm not necessarily in control of it).

As much as I enjoy the slightly more relaxed and "present" me, I sometimes wish for the old gal to appear who can't manage to see two feet in front of her face. At least she was ignorant of such things as time. This more mindful version is only more aware of it, which means there is still more work to do. Any of this making sense? No? Good. Moving on...

In order to end on a happier note, here are some photos of me practicing the art of carpe diem that resulted in my abdominals being sore for days:




Normally I wouldn't seek out a trapeze (trapezing?), but while in France the opportunity presented itself and off I went. Wrapping your legs around that bar is harder than it looks and I've thus realized I need to step up the abdominal core work in my yoga practice. It only took two minutes to swing, but my abs ached for a full two days afterward. Cie la vie.

More Opio photos here, which tell the full tale of the trip quite well. You can also check out an awesome video from a fellow journalist on the trip here. I make the occasional appearance (usually eating), including an inadvertently bitchy send off at the end.

Sometimes God has a strange sense of humor

I'm a bit of a closeted hypochondriac. It's not something I readily admit, but I've been known to cancel plans if a friend is coughing heavily or avoid them altogether should they have contracted the flu in the last six months. Now that the weather is too warm for gloves—meaning I actually have to touch things like door handles and subway poles—my hands are cracked and dry from using too much Purell. So naturally, I've been fascinated by this honeymooning jerk off with a deadly strain of TB who eschewed his doctor's advice against flying and jetsetted around the world, thanking the powers that be that I did not fly Air France on my recent trip to Marseilles.

Fast forward to this morning, where I'm avoiding work by running out for a bagel and then eating said bagel while reading Gridskipper, which tells me that Patient X spent an undisclosed 72 hours in Manhattan. Intrigued, I click on the link where Chris Mohney helpfully tells me, "So if you stood in line at Essa Bagel in Murray Hill on May 25 with some other guy who was coughing a lot, you might want to, you know, get yourself checked out."

I'll give you one guess where my freakin' bagel came from this morning.

UPDATE: Patient X now has an identity and CNN has a good roundup of all the infuriating details, including insight into this dude's sense-of-entitlement douchebaggery.

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.