Friday's sightings

I've lived here, in America's celebrity playground, for two years. I have seen very few celebrities. I am told that they are everywhere, but whatever; I don't see them very often. Andy Samberg once walked in front of me and hailed a cab. Kelly Cutrone passed me on the street sometime back, chastising a young assistant. Josh Charles stared at me once in a FedEx-type store - I tell people he was checking me out, but I think he was actually looking at me with a little bit of disdain. Otherwise, nada.

That is, until Friday. I was working in the Village that day, and as I turned up Lafayette Street I was lost in thoughts of the day and weekend ahead. Alongside me, a man and his young son were running down the street with their dog. They were laughing and playing some sort of "hide and seek" game - I smiled at the sight, then suddenly realized I was smiling at the sight of Liev Schreiber. I felt my face turn bright red and all I could think was "do not let him know that you know who he is! Play it cool..." I'm not sure why I thought this. Maybe I wanted to seem like a real New Yorker? In any event, I walked past him, my heart thumping in my chest. He was so tall! And handsome!

Fast forward to the end of the day. Oliver and I had plans to meet for dinner in the East Village, and I went to Tompkins Square Park to wait for him. It was a beautiful Friday evening - sunny and warm but not too warm. I sat on a park bench with my book, loving the fact that it was finally warm enough to pass the time in a park, rather than a coffee house. "Excuse me," I heard. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I like, love you..." Hm, that sounded like someone talking to a celebrity. I looked up oh-so-casually and saw Justin Long. The Mac guy! He was walking right past me, and I would have had no idea if someone else hadn't called out to him! Again trying to (perhaps) look like a real New Yorker, I looked back down at my book. 

So yeah, I played it cool. But squueeeeal! Two celebrity sightings in one day. I've got to pay more attention to my surroundings. Who else is walking past me?

Looking at the calendar

I've been running around making different plans for different weekends this spring / summer. I sat down today, put it all together, and was a little taken aback. Did I really schedule all these things?

Coming up soon: A friend in town for the weekend. We've got more plans than we know what to do with - it promises to be a spectacular, jam-packed time.

The next weekend: a visit from my parents. I'm trying to craft the perfect itinerary, one that inspires them but does not exhaust them. Two Broadway shows will be involved. Also a tour of the Federal Reserve (that one's for my dad). A tour of Chelsea art galleries perhaps. Possibly a day trip somewhere outside the city. Definitely lots of walking.

The weekend after that: Jersey Shore beach weekend with friends. Promises to be amazing in that way that time with old friends is - nothing special has to happen. You just have to be together.

The weekend following: a road trip to Detroit with husband and brother. Give the good people of Detroit a little of our money, see some of the sights. I rarely see my brother too, so it'll be nice to spend time together.

The weekend after that: family wedding in North Dakota. A chance to see some relatives for the first time in nearly three years. Can't wait to catch up.

Dang! I didn't realize I had it in me to be so awesome! 

Washington was here (he's not here now, though)

Oh, Brooklyn. The love I have for you just keeps getting stronger.

I like walking, and my definition of "walking distance" is probably different than some people's. (When I lived in Chicago, for example, my apartment was walking distance from downtown - it only took me an hour and a half to get there.) With this mindset, I continue to be amazed at how many different things I can walk to here in Brooklyn. My newest point of interest: Greenwood Cemetery.

I know, a cemetery, right? You think maybe I'm stretching it to call it a point of interest? You'll just have to trust me on this one. Or maybe I can explain it to you somehow.

 

 Okay, so it's a cemetery. But it's beautiful. And enormous. If you were "anyone" in the 19th century, you were buried here. Your family members were too, right alongside you. If you had money, you had some sort of elaborate memorial built. A mausoleum perhaps. Or an obelisk. Or a pyramid. Yes, a pyramid. I saw one.

If you couldn't afford a pyramid (or had too much good taste to want one), you could simply have an elaborately-carved memorial pillar, like the one pictured above. All of posterity would know that you had been here, and that you had been someone who mattered while you were alive.

Greenwood is littered with the earthly remains of notable people. Leonard Bernstein, for example. I loved the fact that someone had left him a note. Did his music change that person's life? And the rocks - a Jewish tradition, right? What about the Ricola? He apparently battled emphysema for many years; an in joke? What an intimate setting! You can come so close to him, say or do something so personal. Give him a small gift.

Beyond the famous, Greenwood is full of the graves of regular people. This one (above) really caught my attention. Her name was Freelove! And she lived to be only 18. "But who can help to grieve to lose a gift like this"? I hope she and her parents were reunited.

One of the best parts of Greenwood is this spot, up on Battle Hill. The view is spectacular. Manhattan, Jersey, the Statue of Liberty, New York Harbor, Brooklyn brownstones - everything is spread out before you. The history behind Battle Hill is pretty spectacular as well; George Washington and his troops fought part of the first battle of the Revolutionary War on this very spot. It's funny to sit there then, and look out at the 19th century grave stones, early 20th century houses, shiny modern skyscrapers in the distance. Everything is just layers, isn't it. We add and add, sometimes tear down.

All it took was a broken shoulder

My mother-in-law came to town this weekend. She arrived at our apartment, looked around for a couple minutes, then slipped on our floor and broke her shoulder. Good times!

As she lay on the floor, writhing in pain, Oliver and I sort of stood there and gaped at each other. What just happened? What are we supposed to do? I don't have any experience with unexpected injuries / illnesses; are we supposed to call an ambulance? 911? Do we need to call an emergency room in advance? Can we just walk in?

Her nine-day trip became a 2 1/2-day trip. Insanity. I brought her to the airport today, wincing every time our cab drove over a pothole. She walked slowly, careful not to bump her not-yet-fixed-in-any-way shoulder. She  apologized several times for inconveniencing me, for making me take the afternoon off work.

Day to day, I live a very selfish life. I come home from work and think, "what do I want to do tonight?" I wake up Saturdays and wonder, "what do I feel like doing this weekend?" I have heard that some people regularly factor in things like spending an afternoon with a grandparent, helping a parent with some sort of home improvement project, assisting a sibling in some way. I don't do any of these things. I fly home once a year and spend that time enjoying the company of my family, not helping them. Sometimes I wonder if I'm still a child - taking, taking, rarely giving in return.

It was really nice then, to adjust my schedule today. I talked with the ticket attendant at JFK and tried to get my mother-in-law a better seat. I carried her suitcase. I double checked that she had Oliver's phone number and told her to call us if any problems arose. I rode the subway home, hoping she would make it back in one piece. It felt wonderful to be the giver.

I should call my parents. Maybe mail them something useful.

The Ride

It's officialy spring here. One whole week in the 60 degree range. I think the danger of snow is officially behind us. This past weekend was the first non-rainy springlike weekend, and we celebrated with what is becoming an annual tradition  - a long bike ride. Last year's was up to the George Washington Bridge, and this year's was a loop around the island of Manhattan (plus the distance from our apartment to the Brooklyn Bridge). 37 miles. Gruelling enough to be rewarding, but not too gruelling to take the fun out of it.

We've been in this strange place for two years now, and I still don't know how I feel. I love it here, I'm not so thrilled, etc. Fitting, I guess. A complex, nuanced place deserves a complex, nuanced reaction. Sometimes I feel as though I'm flitting around on the edges, observing but not taking part in the scenes that surround me. I feel a little disconnected - it's strange.

Walking to work this past week though, passing by all those people out in the sunshine, I've felt excited to be here with them. I love seeing the construction guys, the pretty girls in their expensive clothes, the older business types. I've felt my "New York" scale tipping more definitely toward the positive. And this past Saturday, at the start of our big ride around the city, I biked behind Oliver as we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge over to Manhattan. I watched him, some 10 feet ahead of me, against the backdrop of elegant bridge and impressive skyline. I heard the traffic noise, saw the cars moving along FDR Drive. This island of chaos and noise was waiting patiently for us. It was beautiful.

I just recently finished an interesting book on Buddhism. It makes a lot of points (as books tend to do), but one of my favorites is the concept of 83 problems. Everyone has "83" problems. When you desire to get rid of them all, the only thing you are doing is adding problem #84: the desire to be rid of all problems. Life will never be perfect. My relationship with New York will never be perfect. Instead of trying to figure out what my ideal is, maybe I should just be here, and appreciate it for what it is.

Fear

This past weekend I went skiing for the third and final time this winter. The weather was great, the snow was great, I made progress. It was great, all of it. I like the thought of picking up a new hobby - and one that takes a bit of work to pick up - at the "late" age of 30. I hope I keep collecting new interests for the rest of my life.

I went up to the mountain with people who are much better skiers than I am, and this ended up forcing me to try things I hadn't thought I would dare to. I went down new trails and had moments of real terror. I would ski off to the side of the run to collect my bearings, then look down and realize how steep the path in front of me was. It's one thing to ski down a steep hill, and another entirely to look down it and anticipate. You've got time to think, to picture yourself losing control or getting hurt. It's better not to stop, really.

In the end though, I came to appreciate the fear. The fear told me that I was trying something more challenging. The fear went away after a couple runs and told me that I had learned something new. I learned to take measure of my fear and use it as a guide. Too much of it was a clear indication that I wasn't ready for Difficulty Level X. A healthy amount flipped a switch somewhere and told me to go and attack.

And while I was mastering my fear, I couldn't help but draw a parallel to my everyday life. Do I scare myself enough? How important is it to scare yourself? What is the ideal ratio of comfort to risk? Or more accurately, what is my idea ratio of comfort to risk? What's the focus? Is it success? Is it kindness, love, and calm? Are the two mutually exclusive?

Oh yeah, and how soon until Winter 2011?

Give and take and give back: German children's book edition

In an ideal world, I would be more graceful. The tactful kind of graceful. I would always say the right things, say them softly, etc. I live in the real world though, and in that real world I can be sort of sarcastic. I always mean that sarcasm in the best possible way, and only use with those I'm close to - those who I think know that love and respect underlie the caustic humor.

Oliver is my main target. Forgive me Lord; I mock him mercilessly. I can't help it - he just gives me so much fodder! I admire the fact that he speaks every day in a language that is not his own. I respect him so much for that... think it takes such brain power... but man he says the funniest things. Some of my favorites:

*Occasional references to former presidential candidate "Mike Huckleberry"
*Concern that a small wound would leave a "scarf"
*Heartfelt insistence that, were he an artist, I would be his "moose"
*Confusion between beloved '80s sitcom and "White Christmas" crooner = "The Crosby Show"

What goes around comes around though, and he's having the time of his life with the sad little German sentences that dribble out of my mouth. He points and laughs at the children's books I bring home and struggle to read. It's all good. I best be taking it, after all the dishing out I've done. And honestly, it is funny.

So yes, I am reading books with two sentences per page. And it's hard! The books are really cute though, so I don't mind the struggle. And I'm no expert in German children's books, but I've noticed a few things in them that are, um, a little different. Coincidence? Culture? Let me know what you think.

Here, for example, is an image from a really sweet story about a boy, his grandpa, and the grandpa's guardian angel. In this picture the boy is visiting his grandpa at the hospital :

Do you see anything different in this picture? Something you don't remember seeing in your own childhood books?

 

...Like a pisspot? And it apparently wasn't enough just to draw the pisspot. No, the pisspot had to be full of urine. Because... um, because... um, you know, I actually have no idea why. I'm so confused.

 

Then there's this image. This is from an adorable story about a cowboy who is afraid to ride horses. Here you see the cowboy falling out of the hole in his wall (long story) onto the back of a horse. This is sort of a central, crucial page in the book. Again, notice anything that sort of surprises you?

...Like a naked woman? With carpet that doesn't match the drapes, if you know what I mean? I'm no prude. If I were reading this book to my child I like to think that I wouldn't even cover the picture up. Nudity. Nothing wrong with that. It's just... really? Is that level of realism really necessary here? "Yes sweetie, cowboys like to look at pictures of naked ladies. Just because, that's why."

In the end, I've got a healthy amount of respect for a culture that adds these sorts of details to its children's books. When I showed the pictures to Oliver (snickering like a child), his response was along the lines of "well, of course. My grandparents had one of those pots under their bed. Why wouldn't you put one in the book?" Children are going to live in the real world someday; why gloss over these sorts of things now?

So Germany, I love you and respect you. That's why I hope you don't mind if I tease you mercilessly about things like this.